Oh, no. No. No. This cannot be. They're tearing down 22 Jermyn Street in London. The whole block is going. Bates' Hat Shop, Trumper's the Barber, Getti the Italian restaurant, the Jermyn Street Theater, Sergio's Cafe, the lot. Jermyn Street was my street in London. My neighborhood.
There, on a corner near the Lower Regent Street end, I found a time capsule within which the eccentricity and charm of an earlier time was still preserved. It was called the Eyrie Mansion. When I stayed there I considered myself to be living there. I always wanted to live in London, and this was the closest I ever got.
Many years ago I was in London and unhappily staying in a hotel room so small they had to store my empty luggage elsewhere on the premises. I could sit on the bed and rest my forehead against the wall opposite. Fed up, I walked out one fine Sunday morning to find a better hotel, but not an expensive one.
Nostalgically I returned to Russell Square, where I had gone on my first visit to the great city in 1961, steered by Europe on $5 a Day. At that time I found a room and full English breakfast for £2.50 a night. You might think it a shabby hovel. I was deliriously happy. I stayed up half the night writing a letter to Edna O'Brien, an Irish novelist I had a crush on. '"Here I am in a cheap hotel near Russell Square," I wrote, "writing this letter in the middle of the night." Those words alone would convince her of my romantic genius. Alas, that long-ago hotel had been replaced by a monstrosity. At a loss about where to look next, I recalled that Suzanne Craig, a Chicago friend of mine, once informed me, "If you like London so much, you should stay at the Eyrie Mansion in Jermyn Street.""A haunted house?"
"No, stupid. Spelled like an eagle's nest. And Jermyn isn't spelled like the country, either."
I took the tube from Russell Square to Piccadilly, and surfaced to find back-packers sprawled on the steps of Eros, still asleep after their Saturday night revels. One block down Regent and right on Jermyn and I found a small sign over the sidewalk above a doorway. It opened upon a marble corridor pointing me to a man who regarded me from eyes in a scarred face. The gatekeeper of the Eyrie. He disappeared and when I drew abreast I found he was now behind a wooden counter protecting an old-fashioned switchboard, a thick Registration ledger, and a wall of pigeon-holes."How may I help you, sir?"
"Is this...a hotel?"
"Since 1685, I believe. And you require a room?" He spoke in a Spanish accent.
"I'd...how much are your rates?"
He consulted a card tacked to the wall.
"For you, sir, £35. That includes full English breakfast, parlor and bedroom, own gas fire and maid. Bath en suite."
The rate was a third of what I was paying. I asked to be shown these quarters. He locked the street door. Then we ascended in an open iron-work elevator to an upper floor and I was let into 3-A. A living room had tall old windows overlooking Jermyn Street. Dark antique furniture: A sideboard, a desk, a chest of drawers, a sofa facing the fireplace, two low easy chairs, tall mirrors above the fire and the sideboard. He used a wooden match to light the gas under artificial logs.
A hall led to a bedroom in which space had been found for two single beds, a bedside table between them, an armoire, a chest, a small vanity table and another gas fireplace. In the bathroom was enthroned the largest bathtub I had ever seen, even in the movies. The fixtures were not modern; the water closet had an overhead tank with a pull-chain.
"This is larger than I expected," I said. "How many rooms do you have in all?"
"Sixteen."
Of course I took it. When I'd moved my luggage in, it was still only 10 and I rang down for the full English breakfast. The Spaniard said he would prepare it himself as soon as possible, "because Bob is indisposed." He appeared with two fried eggs, a rasher of bacon, orange juice, four slices of toast in an upright warmer, butter, strawberry jam, a pot of brewed tea and orange juice. I sat at my table, regarded my fire, poured my tea, turned on Radio 3 and read my Sunday Telegraph.For 25 years I was to come here to Jermyn Street time and again. Now I can never return. Some obscene architectural extrusion will rise upon the sacred land, some eyesore of retail and condos and trendy dining. Piece by piece, this is how a city dies. How many cities can spare a hotel built in 1685, the year James II took the crown?
I will barely be able to bring myself to return Jermyn Street, which is, shop for shop, the finest street in London. When I approach it again I will have to enter from Piccadilly by walking down through the Piccadilly Arcade and not from Lower Regent Street. I can still attend a lunchtime concert at St. James, or call in at Turnbull & Asser the haberdashers, Paxton and Whitfield the cheese mongers, Wilton's the restaurant, and Waterstone's the book store...but I cannot and will not ever again walk past 22 Jermyn Street. The address itself will be dead.
That first morning I walked down Regent to St. James' Park, strolled around the ponds, came up by Prince Charles' residence, climbed St. James Street and returned the full length of Jermyn. I ordered tea. It consisted of tomato, cucumber and butter sandwiches, which the English are unreasonably fond of; ham and butter sandwiches, which I am unreasonably fond of with Colman's English mustard; and cookies -- or, excuse me, biscuits. The tea again was freshly brewed. I never saw a tea bag on the premises. I'd ordered as always Lapsang Souchong, which has the aroma of a freshly-tarred road at 100 yards. I find this aroma indescribably stirring. When I smell it I am walking through the twilight in Cape Town to visit my friend Brigid Erin Bates.
I had just settled in my easy chair when a key turned in the lock and a nattily-dressed man in his 60s let himself in. He held a bottle of Teachers' scotch under his arm. He walked to the sideboard, took a glass, poured a shot, and while filling it with soda from the siphon, asked me, "Fancy a spot?""I'm afraid I don't drink," I said.
"Oh, my."
This man sat on my sofa, lit a cigarette, and said, "I'm Henry."
"Am I...in your room?"
"Oh, no, no, old boy! I'm only the owner. I dropped in to say hello."
This was Henry Togna Sr. He appears in a Dickens novel I haven't yet read. I'm sure of it. He appeared in my room almost every afternoon when I stayed at the Eyrie Mansion. It was not difficult to learn his story.
Henry and his wife Doddy lived in the top-floor flat. He may have been the only man to live all of his life within a block of Piccadilly Circus. The Mansion was originally purchased in 1915 by his parents, who came from Italy, and Doddy's parents, who were English. The two children grew up together, married, and fathered Henry Jr., "who keeps his irons in a lot of fires." He asked me how I learned of the Eyrie Mansion. "Oh, yes! Suzanne! A lovely girl!" He discovered I worked for the Chicago Sun-Times. "You're must be joking. Tom Buck stays here. He's from the Tribune, you know." He told me that the Spaghetti House served a sole meuniere not to be equaled.
I was usually in London three times a year: In midwinter, in May after Cannes, and in summer. Henry was naturally confiding, and cheerfully indiscreet. That first day he lamented that Bob had gone missing when I wanted my breakfast. "Bob is a great trouble to me," he said. "He gets drunk every eighth day. I have implored him to make out a seven-day schedule and stick to it, but no. He will not be content unless he is throwing us off."
"I was well taken care of by the man who checked me in," I said."Poor fellow. He was a famous jockey in Spain. His face was burned in a stable fire while he tried to help his horses. He was one of those handsome Spanish boys. He was in a movie once by Bunuel. A film critic like yourself must have heard of him."
"Oh, I have," I said. "I wonder which film?"
"You'll never get that out of him," Henry said. "Nor will he tell you his real name. He says he's hiding out here, working overnights, when there's so little traffic because we lock the street door at midnight. He doesn't want anyone in Spain to learn where he's gone."
I thought of Jermyn Street as Ampersand Street. On Jermyn Street you will find Turnbull & Asser, where Saul Bellow bought his shirts and Gene Siskel bought his boxer shorts. You will find Paxton & Whitfield, with its window stacked high with cheeses. Ian Nairn, in his Nairn's London, lists only one shop in London -- and this is the shop. You will find Fortnum & Mason's, where you can lunch in the soda fountain or plunge into the food hall, stacked to the ceiling with anchovies, rare coffees, Oxford marmalade, Scottish shortbreads, caviar, Westphalian ham, and tins of inedible imported biscuits. Down the street a bit are Sims, Reed & Fogg, the antiquarian booksellers. and of course Hilditch & Key, Harvie & Hudson, Russell & Bromley, Crockett & Jones, New & Lingwood -- all shirt sellers. In the UK the street is synonymous with shirts.
There are shops without ampersands as well. Until it was replaced by Waterstone's the Booksellers, there was Simpson's Piccadilly, where they held a sale every January and marked down everything but the umbrellas. Dunhill's, where they never have a sale on anything. Church's English Shoes. Daks, the Burberry store, which always has its impeccably restored 1920s delivery truck parked at the curb. Floris the perfumers. Davidoff the tobacconist, where Churchill and James Bond stored their Cubans in the locked humidor.
Next door to the hotel, there is Bates the Hatters, with a big top hat hanging over the sidewalk. This was one place where you knew for sure you could find a bowler, a deerstalker or a collapsible opera topper. They have had the same cat for 50 years (although it has been stuffed and with a cigar in its mouth for most of that time). Next to Bates, Trumper's the Men's Hairdressers. I make it a practice to get my hair cut in every city where possible. Near the Eyrie I went first to Georgio's, a one-chair Greek barbershop in a mews off Duke Street. One day I followed the Archbishop of Canterbury into his chair. In the basement of Simpson's, I had my hair cut next to the former prime minister Edward Heath. Jermyn is that kind of street.
Finally I graduated to Trumpers, a magnificent shop of brass and leather, wood and mirrors, and the aroma of hair tonics with exotic spices. An aged retainer knelt at my feet unbidden to shine my shoes. He discovered I was from Chicago."Chicago!" he said. "Do you know Barbra Streisand, sir?"
I said I did not.
"Do you like the way she sings? I do!"
I said I did as well.
"Can you sing like her? Could you? Do you think you would? "
A few steps down from Jermyn on St. James is D. R. Harris the Chemist, the oldest pharmacy in London, by appointment to H. R. H. Charles. Miss Brown has been there for some years, and I have always wanted to ask her for tea. There I always buy a pot of their Arlington shaving cream, Wiberg's Pine Bath Essence, Eucryl Strong Mint Tooth Powder, and a big transparent bar of Pear's soap. I remain suspicious of D. R. Harris' famous Pick-Me-Up, an elixir still stirred up from the 1850 recipe.Long ago I read a book called The Toys of a Lifetime,by Arnold Gingrich, the founder of Esquire. In it he writes of his acquired tastes in clothing, automobiles, furniture, music, books, gloves, ties, aftershaves, and on and on. He spent a great deal of time on the ritual of shaving. All I ever used was lime Barbasol foam from a can and a Gillette blade.
But some old memory came stealing forward in Trumper's and Harris's. In their windows were splendid displays of razors, brushes and creams. Not a foam in sight. They sold traditional hard shaving soaps, which my father always used, favoring Mennen's. And tubes and pots of soft cremes. "You put just a little dab on your hand, wet it and apply it," Miss Brown explained. "All that foam glides the blade too far off the skin."
There were so many flavors to choose from. Rose, lavender, limes, hazelwood, almond, and Harris's signature Arlington. I bought a pot and shaved myself in the bright green pine water in the tub of the Mansion, with Radio 3 floating in from the living room. Now my life had a toy worthy of Arnold Gingrich.Miss Brown had spoken the truth. I'd never in my life had a closer shave. One pot lasted me for months. It also came in tubes for traveling. This was the beginning of my life as a toiletries fetishist. I came home with Harris' Aftershave Milk. A proper styptic pencil. A pot of their shampoo which would do me for weeks. Their Scalp Tonic. Their Arlington bar soaps--large, larger, and OMG. Their bone toothbrushes. Their Mason & Pearson hair brushes.
A block from the Eyrie is the Red Lion, reckoned by Nairn to be the last pub in London he could do without, with the best pub interior, crystal and cut glass everywhere, thrown back on itself by the mirrored walls. If you turn off Jermyn and stroll down Duke or Old Bond Street, you will be in the heart of a district that has harbored art galleries since time immemorial--Spink's are down that way, and Chris Beedles the watercolour and illustration expert, and Peter Nahum, and the Appleby Bros.
I especially liked walking down Jermyn Street during cold and rainy January days. In the early dusk the lights from the shop windows reflected from the pavement. If the weather grew too foul, I could step into the Piccadilly Arcade, which runs from Jermyn St. up to Piccadilly. Nearby there was always a welcome at St. James Piccadilly, a Christopher Wren church which has the classical music concerts and usually has a jumble sale underway in its courtyard. The Wren at St. James was a coffee shop with excellent soups and breads, baked potatoes, and chocolate cake. It is a most wholesome place, almost next door to Tramp's, the infamous private club.
Wilton's was the most elegant place on the street to have lunch. If you were alone, you could sit at the counter and watch them see how thinly they could slice the Parma ham. On my first visit I ordered cold turkey and peaches. Yes. Cheap food and drink were to be found at Sergio's, a hole-in-the-wall in Eagle Court, which served a perfect cappuccino with cinnamon sprinkled on top. Jules' Bar was a popular place for Sloane Rangers and Hooray Henrys, who ordered expensive champagnes with their plates of baked beans on toast or bangers and mash. The bar at the Cavendish Hotel was dark and discreet, as it should be, since the original Cavendish heard the indiscretions of Rosa Lewis, the Duchess of Duke Street."Did you know the Duchess?" I asked Henry one day. Chaz and I had been honored by an invitation to have tea with Henry and Doddy, whose top floor flat had a flowery veranda commanding a view all the way down to Westminster.
"Everyone knew the Duchess," Henry said. "She was to be seen every day in St. James Square, walking her dogs, dressed in exquisite Edwardian fashions. Pity about her old Cavendish.The Germans got it with a bomb. During the war, it was well known that the Cavendish was the one place in London where you could find a girl or a drink any hour of the night."Henry!" Doddy said. "You make it sound like a brothel!"
"Sex for cash, m'dear. That's m'definition."
Henry was an enthusiast on ribald matters. One day when I was single, he poured himself a drink and said, "Roger, my boy, have I got the girl for you! Have you in your comings and goings seen the elegant brunette staying in 1-A, who is usually dressed in red? Rita Hayworth hair? High heels?"
"I don't believe I have," I said.
"Our Countess from Argentina," he said. "I want you to ask her out," he said. "Theater, a nice dinner...she's rich as Croesus, you know. You could do worse."
"Is she...looking for someone?"
"She must be. She comes here twice a year, always alone, never any company. What she needs is a young man to take her out, show her a good time. Never know what it might lead to. She has masses of time on her hands. She hardly leaves 1-A except to go to Harley Street for her shock treatments."
Sometimes in walking about the area I would happen upon Henry, always dressed to befit Jermyn Street, who knew everyone of any interest, from the maitre 'd at Wiltons to the man with the Evening Standard stand behind St. James Piccadilly. I never saw Henry in a pub, however, and despite the bottle of Teachers' under his arm I never saw him the tipsy.
One day he invited me to lunch. We walked over to a cozy, chic French restaurant in a byway near Leicester Square. Customers waiting in line were ignored as we were seated immediately. We were shown to our banquette by a handsome French woman of a certain age, whose hand, I observed, lingered longer on his shoulder than one might have expected.
Henry saw me noticing, and his eyes twinkled. He said nothing, but his eyebrows lifted in the most minute degree and if you hadn't been looking for it, you would have missed the almost imperceptible nod of his head.
"Henry!" I said.
"My dear boy" he said, "if you don't flush out the pipes, they'll run brown."
Henry was much concerned about the future of the Mansion. "Our landlady is the Queen," he told me. "The Crown Estate agents have always tried to keep the lease terms reasonable, but the price of property is making the most alarming advances. I've raised my prices as much as I dare. Henry Junior wants to take over and make this a luxury hotel. Well, it's in the blood. But it frightens me. What kinds of loans will he have to take out? How will he make the payments?"He brought Henry Junior around to meet me. This was a handsome, pleasant man, friendly, confiding. He said he hoped to keep the charm of the Eyrie Mansion. "But at the prices I'll be forced to charge the public won't stand for this," he said, regarding the carpets frayed at the edges and the furniture somewhat nicked, and staring balefully at the gas fireplace.
As it happened, the gas fire was one of my favorite features at the Eyrie. In jet-lagged winter mornings before dawn I'd awaken to a flat chilly as I liked it, pull on warm clothes, and venture out into the crisp night to walk up to the newsagent on Piccadilly. I'd buy the Telegraph, Independent, Guardian and Times, and a large cup of hot coffee from an all-night shop around the corner. With these I would return to the mansion, tune in Radio 3, sit in my low easy chair before the fire, and dream wistfully that such was my life.The fire was never left to burn when unneeded; the maids saw to that. But it held promise of warmth after a brisk walk. Fires, I decided, were a source of heat, not merely, like central heating, its presence. There must be something deep within our racial memory that is pleased by being able to look at what is making us warm.
One winter's day I set out to walk across Hyde Park from Kensington Gardens to Hyde Park Corner. It was raining, but that was fine with me; I had my Simpson's umbrella. What I didn't know was that the gates to the park were locked at dusk. This I discovered on a notice inside the gate I'd intended to use. I could see the traffic hurrying past up Serpentine road from the direction of the Royal Albert Memorial. There were a lot of taxis.Unfortunately, an iron fence topped with spikes stood between me and the road. It began raining harder. I scouted and found a low tree branch that might just allow me to stand atop the railing. That meant climbing a hill slippery with wet grass. I failed twice, and became smeared with mud. Digging in the point of my umbrella, I finally made my way up the hill and onto the limb and balanced on the fence, but it was a good leap down to the sidewalk and I could easily imagine myself with a sprained ankle. Or worse: Impaled on the fence.
Pedestrians hurried past, apparently not seeing me. I tried calling for help. I was ignored. Well, if you were hurrying through the park in the rain and saw a fat man with a soaked coat, smeared with mud, balanced on a fence with a filthy umbrella, what would you do?
"Hey, look, it's Roger Ebert!" an American kid said. He was with a group of friends. "No way! Is that really you?"
"Yes it is," I said. If I had been Prince Charles I would have answered to "Roger Ebert."
"Far out dude! What are you doing up there?"
"Trying to get down," I observed.
They helped me down and asked for my autograph, which was gladly supplied. I opened my umbrella, hailed a cab, and was at 22 Jermyn Street in ten minutes. That was one of the occasions when I lighted the gas fire and treasured it beyond all reason. After warming up, I filled the big tub for a bath. It was deep, and as long as I was tall. I tinted it a bright green with Wilberg's Pine Bath Essence, and inhaled warm pine and reflected that you are never warmer than when you have been cold.
Word came in 1990 that Henry Junior had taken over operations and closed the hotel for renovations. In his announcement, he wrote, "I agreed to buy the hotel from my father, famous for his wonderful eccentricity." Chaz and I stopped in to inspect. He was filled with enthusiasm. He was fitting it out elegantly with new rugs and draperies, sofas and chairs, beds, the lot. Of course he discontinued the gas fires. I was pleased to see he was keeping the old furniture, purchased in 1915 by his grandparents. "After we had it refinished," he said, "it turned out to be very good stuff. You couldn't touch it today."Henry Junior said the workmen had sorted through the memories of three generations. In the basement, he said, he discovered a cache of naughty French postcards from the 1930s. Inside a walled-over hall closet on the second floor he found his mother's small hoarded supply of sugar from the days of rationing in World War Two. Writing of the basement just now, I recall that never during all those years did I ever figure out where the hotel's kitchen was.
The Eyrie Mansion was renamed 22 Jermyn Street. Well, "Eyrie Mansion" was possibly not an ideal name for a hotel. Chaz and I stayed there many times. I liked it, she adored it. When I said I missed the gas fire that you lit with a match, she gave me one of those looks I got when I said I would rather drive a 1957 Studebaker than any newer car. Or eat in a diner than a trendy restaurant. Or wear jeans. You know those looks.
As the luxurious 22 Jermyn Street, the hotel prospered. Croissants and cappuccino were now served as an alternative to Full English Breakfast. There'd be a flower on the tray. Clients included movie stars and politicians, who valued its privacy and its absence of a lobby. Doddy and Henry Senior would have been proud. But in Autumn 2009 Henry Junior wrote to us: "Sadly the lease has expired and the greater part of the city block in which the hotel is located is to be redeveloped by the Crown Estate as a project named St James's Gateway, over the next 2 or 3 years. Like much else in London, it is planned that this very comprehensive and handsome project will be completed in time for the Olympic Games in 2012." Just what Olympic guests will be looking for in London. One more god-damned comprehensive and handsome project.
In the mid-1990s, after Cannes, Chaz and I were staying at Champney's health farm in Tring. One morning the Telegraph carried news of Henry Senior's death. I took an early train to London and arrived in time for the funeral at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Soho Square, where Henry had served as an usher for decades. So much was made of Henry Senior's devotion to the Church that I could imagine his eyes twinkling. In Catholic churches they don't customarily ask friends of the departed to come forward and share a few words. It's just as well. Had I been called upon, I have no idea how I would have begun, or how long it would have taken me to finish. And I didn't really even know Henry that well.Just now I went looking for a quote by Charles Dickens to close with. Nothing would do. I think perhaps only an entire character will do. Perhaps Mr. Pickwick, with a touch of Mr. Micawber and a dash of David Copperfield's jolly friend Mr. Dick.
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The hotel's web site remains online, and Henry Junior says he will continue the newsletter which keeps the regulars informed.
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Peter Owen's set of Jermyn Street shops on flickr.
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A shaky-cam walk down Jermyn Street guided by Kwai Chi, who seems absorbed by the prices of shirts. Bates' Hat Shop and 22 Jermyn Street are at 4:08. If I could talk on this video, you wouldn't be able to shut me up.
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The market in the courtyard of St. James' Piccadilly
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I wave from the window of 3-A.
A letter from Henry Togna, JuniorDearest Chaz,
You and Roger are often on my mind, never more so than today which is the final day in the life of 22 Jermyn Street. As you know, starting in 1915, my parents and grandparents lived and worked there. I took over from them and re-opened 22 on 1 June 1990. I will never forget Roger arriving at the hotel during renovation when it was a building site so that he could check out the
bathtubs to make sure that they would be up-to-standard!
I knew when I took over that the hotel's horizon was not unlimited and that the lease ended in 2008. For some years, I negotiated with the freeholder, The Crown Estate, in the hope of achieving an extension and even sought to redevelop the property myself, sadly to no avail. The whole city block is to be torn down, although some facades will be retained, to provide shops and offices with luxury apartments on the top floor. The truth is that the fabric of all the buildings in the block is tired and in many cases does not match current safety standards. The other truth is that the size of 22 was never really viable and what with one thing and another we have had a difficult time in recent years, as have hotels worldwide. Nevertheless, we continued to receive many awards and accolades and I know that mother and father would have been, and
indeed were, so proud of what we achieved.
I have to say that The Crown Estate dealt with the whole thing in gentlemanly style allowing us the last year rent free and providing some financial compensation.
My staff, many of whom have been with me for over 15 years, have remained faithful to the end and we have managed to place all of them in good positions in other hotels. As for me, I shall restock, and move on to other things. I have a substantial interest in a vintage couture company, and play around with a restaurant and some real estate so I will always be busy - and need to be, I have a very expensive life style!
I send you both my warmest wishes,
Henry (the junior one!)
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A wonderful post, Roger. The hotel sounds a lot like a small one I stayed in Quebec City several years ago. So sad to see old, good things replaced by newer ones.
Ah, London! City of part of my boyhood. City, indeed, of very long bath tubs. City my dreams still take me back to.
I felt much the same when our friends' hotel in Cheshire closed. Parts had been standing for centuries. The first time I stayed there I was nine. Wing after wing for a boy to explore. I remember the phone box in the lobby, the loud comfortable laughter around the bar, the garden in back. The family who lived in the hotel and ran it are still dear friends. But now it's gone! Part of me gone now, too.
Even though I've never really been out of the country I love your posts like this and find myself tearing up at the loss.
Thanks, Roger. From now on, whenever I ask myself, "Why is it that you, a half-Sicilian, half-Cuban guy from New Jersey, so deeply love a city you've never visited?" I will have this piece to remind me.
Ebert: As Dr. Johnson said: "Every man has two cities -- his own, and London."
Thanks for sharing these fragrant slices of your life.Your prose is like an intricate tapestry and your memory clear as crystal. Your life has been a crowded one.
my daughter, 15-years old (all of them in new jersey), calls her mother "mum" and says "happy christmas." she wants to live in england after college. she wants to adopt an asian boy, name him "sosuke," and raise him in london.
when she told me this, i said, "kate, i'll tell you two things. first, i don't want you to go. second, what can i do to help?"
Nice drawings. Ebert, I presume.
I LOVED this piece! It doesn't matter if the posts are short or long- please keep this blog going. Much love from Ottawa.
Thank you. Bittersweet, but I will sleep well tonight.
While I enjoy the comfort of modern conveniences, the sight of modern architecture leaves my spirit feeling bruised, more often than not; such is its assault upon my senses. For I have an old soul and it aches easily for want of the familiar.
And it ached for you Roger, out of empathy upon reading the fate of your beloved Jermyn Street in London. There was anger too, moreover, and because of the connection to the 2012 Olympics.
I didn't want them. I didn't think we could afford it. There were so many other things needing our attention. I didn't want to see the homeless pushed out. I didn't want to see the "gentrification" of old neighborhoods - ie: the sight of Vancouver cleaned-up so we'd look like a good place for the rich to spend their money and maybe invest it.
Vancouver is a modern boomtown of real estate developers and former Hong Kong dollars. And it's now the most expensive city in Canada to live in. The Winter Olympics are about to start and you'll no doubt see some of what I'm talking about - a bright, shiny metropolis set against a backdrop of mountains and overlooking the sea, with gleaming office buildings and clean city streets (so much has been painted over or moved out of sight.)
I just want it to be over and done with and then forget it ever happened. For imo whenever the Olympics roll into town, you lose whatever real culture you had. It's replaced by "official" and "Government approved" and everything else that squeaks like Republican soap. Note: city workers have been painting over ALL the graffiti, even the really good stuff akin to art. Basterds.
Yes - old buildings need and require costly maintenance. But when you save the past, you invest in the future. I mean, what's the point of travel if you end-up staring at what you left?
The Irish Heather Pub (sniffle!) had "structural issues" after it was announced that Vancouver would host the Winter Olympics.
London's hosting the Summer Games in 2012 and oh, hey! Jermyn Street in London, not safe, whole block's gotta go.
That's why I'm angry. It happened to us, now it's starting to happen to London. Instead of investing in what you have, it gets torn down so something uglier can replace it.
My heart is so heavy after reading your entry, I needed to cheer myself up Roger. And so I Googled The Sherlock Holmes Pub - which I adored - because it was akin to a time capsule.
Imagine you go see a spooky theatrical version "Jane Eyre" at the Playhouse Theatre on Northumberland Ave, a few blocks from the Charing Cross Hotel where you're staying. And afterward walk down cobblestones in the dark...
http://farm1.static.flickr.com/67/215537853_4e168092ac_o.jpg
...to the nearby Sherlock Holmes Pub for dinner in the restaurant upstairs :
http://www.sherlockholmespub.com/
For I have done that - and continue to dine on the memory of it even now over a decade later. It's just one of many cherished memories of London. I'm glad I got to see it before 9/11 and before they installed that stupid Millennium wheel.
Ebert: This sign from another great London pub could have been posted on the wall of 22 Jermyn Street:
http://static.panoramio.com/photos/original/3624291.jpg
Oh...Roger.
The photos, precious. The words, delicious. Together, invaluable.
So this is what it's like to swim in someone's memories, to sink into another time, another place, sample tastes and smells that can't be retraced. That photo of you typing in the room is my favorite.
I am particularly intrigued by that pine bath essence. I received as a gift a small box of pine incense from Japan, and three years later I can't live without them. It seems bottomless too, and I'm ridiculously trying to ration them. There is something about the smell of pine, fresh and nostalgic at the same time.
I don't think I can live in London - the weather would make me too melancholy. But I do so enjoy the tea. Oh the tea! And all those little sandwiches and biscuits and scones, oh the scones, and the jam.
Put out that memoir already.
"Why then," replied the other, "the good in this existence preponderates over the bad, let the mis-called philosophers tell us what they will.If our affections be tried, our affections are our consolation and comfort; and memory, however sad, is the best and purest link between this world and a better."
Charles Dickens
Nicholas Nickleby Chapter 6
Please, please, please write a travelogue. I could read this all day.
As we grow older and learn to accept the inevitability of death, what always manages to give our hearts a squeeze no matter how much inner peace we may have found is the impermanence of things we had some measure of fondness for, and thought would outlive us for at least a generation or two. I'm barely finished with my thirties, still pretty young, but I can certainly relate to losing a place with a lot of memories buried in it's walls.
From the time I was born until I was 21, I lived in three houses: One on Rosedale street from birth to age 8, one on Church Street from 8 to 14, and on St-Joseph's Street from 14 to 21.
The house on Rosedale has been modified so badly that I can now recognize it only because of it's placement and the fact that the cement foundation for the front porch is still the same. I remember that specific part really well because I got trapped underneath it when I was a baby. I managed to fit in there pretty good, but had to be dug out. I still get a thrill of fear thinking about it; lying in the dark, waiting to be rescued, the air starting to feel thin. However, it's nostalgic sort of dread if you can imagine. There's good memories too. I remember learning to read in english for the first time (A Richie Rich comic book) in my crib/playroom on the second floor and puzzling over the word "laugh", trying to pronounce it like "log". The first movie I ever remember watching played on the big wooden cabinet type TV in the living room. It was Killdozer, an ABC movie of the week. Some quick math shows that I was around 8 months old. Next door, there used to be a general store who advertised itself by having an old Ferrari Kit Car on it's roof. There was a local league baseball field behind the block, so it got people's attention to the fact that they could get soda or beer. I read my first Fangoria and Starlog there, watched Doctor Who (with Tom Baker) religiously there, got my first kiss while I lived there. Luckily, the neighbourhood hasn't changed, just my house. So there's still a little bit of my early childhood that hasn't been touched by time. This summer I was delighted almost to tears by the fact that the biggest and oldest, creakingly ancient, tree in the forest beyond the baseball field was still there. For years I had been certain that it had been cut down after getting hit by lightning, but I had simply forgotten where it was and had seen the result of another tree being felled. Somehow, that made me feel like all was right in world. I had played countless hours as a little kid under it's shadow and seeing that it was still alive was like finding a long lost friend again.
The house on Church street is likewise unrecognizable. The new owners have replaced the entire roof with a new differently shaped one and have changed every door and window. They've rebuilt all the porches and cut down every tree in the yard. I think they even landscaped the damn yard. They also seem to have redesigned the interior of the house because my old bedroom window is gone. Which means that the place where I used to haunt and read magazines in, during the summer days when it was just too hot to go running outside, has ceased to exist. Heck, I even remember watching your show in that house, when it was called "Sneak Previews". This was a little before we got a VHS player, so that was my only way to "see" theatrical films, clips of them at least. That was also the place where I watched my first "serious" film: Blue Velvet. I know you don't like it, but the film did open my eyes to the fact that there was more to cinema than Friday the 13th and Porkies. I built my first soap box racer in the basement. I read my first novel on the porch, struggling to try and make sense of sentences without images. Two of my childhood pets are buried in it's backyard. When I think of the stereotypical "80's" with the pop music, Madonna, Michael Jackson, video arcades, big walkmen, neon clothes and brat pack films. I think of this house.
Then there's the place on St-Joseph street, it was a big old victorian house that had been converted into a duplex, a wall running right up the central master staircase. We got the dining room and the neighbours got the kitchen. Behind the house, the cement brick "barn" had been coverted into a storage space and two garages. If there's any place that defines me the most, it's this one. The peppy little boy on Rosedale street and the shy, angry teen on Church street sometimes feel like strangers, but the kid who stayed here feels like a younger me. This is where I discovered Lynch's "Twin Peaks" and Alex Cox's "Repo Man". This is where I started writing. This is where I discovered my spiritual and philosophical side. This is where, until the last few years, I had felt the happiest. I remember laying in bed late into the muggy summer nights with the window open (No AC in those days.) and listening for the sound of people; feeling a strange sort of contentment in hearing nothing, knowing that it was possible that I was the only person awake on the street, on the block, maybe even the town. Then segueing into wondering that if someone WAS awake, what kind of person would he/she be? Would we be friends? After, we were both night owls... and so on. It was a wondrous place for me, filled with the sense of freedom and that the whole world was out there for me to discover. It's changed too, the porch has been rebuilt and the two front doors have been replaced, but that seems to be all. I can deal with that.
You know, I've posted in one of your earlier blogs about how remembering my childhood requires a lot of effort and that for years I didn't bother with it. This is true, but lately I've been trying to sort it all out, and am amazed at what I've found. There was a lot of sadness there, but a lot of beauty too.
Maybe that's what we need to keep in mind. That even though every place we loved may dissapear forever, that the memories and joys we had there will live on as long as we do. Maybe that's all that matters.
Ebert: The house I lived in for my first 20 years is still there, and not greatly changed.
http://j.mp/bH3xaJ
Ten years ago, I went to London as part of my university's Semester in London Program. Last fall, the program celebrated its 30th anniversary, which makes it slightly younger than me. Unfortunately, I was not able to go to the reunion (moving from the East Coast to the West Coast will do that to your plans), but I did receive the commemorative booklet, which I have been reading recently.
And then you write this post, and between the book and the blog, I am transported back to when I was there. The Spaghetti House (in Bloomsbury--not sure where the one was that Henry Senior told you about) was where I celebrated my 21st birthday with my friends (a few days before the fact because we flew back the day before my birthday). The second day I was in London, I wasn't able to find our lodgings on Gower Street, and kept bouncing between Trafalgar Square and Leceister Square (and, at that time, there were still pigeons to feed in Trafalgar Square). I went to the Red Lion after a tour of Parliament (I think; I'll have to check my diaries, which are still on the East Coast). Russell Square, Piccadilly Circus, St. James (Square), Hyde Park, Christopher Wren, Kensington Gardens--all familiar names to me.
It's too bad to see that the Eyrie Mansion has gone the way of the Old Curiosity Shop (yes, saw that, too--though closed, the building remained). I only hope that London holds on to most of its winding alleyways and by-streets, its old pubs, ancient houses, and homey cottages (well, those are more out in the countryside than in the city).
Thank you for sharing such wonderful memories of your time there, and for reminding me of such wonderful memories from my own trip to that great city across the pond. And just as you can't believe that 22 Jermyn Street won't be there anymore, I can't belief that no one else will be able to go to Dionysus to buy great big chips (French fries) drowned in vinegar, as the place closed last year.
What a beautiful story. If this movie reviewing thing doesn't pan out you should consider travel writing.
Well hell, I didn't see that coming.
An amazing tale that, as a Londoner now living on the other side of the world, has made me rather homesick. Jermyn Street is truly it's centre and its gentrification dismays me. Stone's throw away from the Ritz, the Wolseley and as much posh nosh as you can daintly place in your mouth.
One of my earliest childhood memories is seeing a drunk couple sat kissing very passionately on the little fence outside Paxton & Whitfield Cheesemongers. The stink was unbearable for a little chap such as me. Clearly, love knows no smell.
On a cinematic note, Jermyn Street should be used as a location for films more. I wonder why it doesn't.
Really marvelous writing and storytelling, Roger. I'm sorry that you're losing something so meaningful.
I get a lot of appreciation for Chicago when I'm in London and tell people that I'm from Chicago.
London; what a singular, superb city. I can't wait to return.
Another wonderful piece of writing Roger.
I completely understand the disappointment of losing something so familiar and beautiful to new and hidious. I myself live in Europe, in an old hansatown, built in the middle ages. It is a gorgeous place now starting to get ruined by new buildings built by childarchitects. It is a painful sight. Walking in the Old Town of Tallinn is my favourite things but the new buildings are coming more and more closer and sometimes inside the Old Town and it is a very sad sight for me.
If only people would be able to value old beauty and traditions more. The world would be a much better place.
Really marvelous writing and storytelling, Roger. I'm sorry that you're losing something so meaningful.
I get a lot of appreciation for Chicago when I'm in London and tell people that I'm from Chicago.
London; what a singular, superb city. I can't wait to return.
Have a journal--kept it for over thirteen years; twenty-one now. Pencil led is fading, third grade vanishing; can't rewrite entries, though--can't write over old led: seems a sin, like renovating a childhood tree house.
As an Englishman I can categorically state I have never had a cucumber and butter sandwich. Must be a Southern thing.
It's weird when a foreigner knows so much more about the capital city of your country than yourself. I like London for the occasional visit but not sure I'd enjoy living there.
Have you travelled much through the rest of our fair country?
Ebert: I have indeed. Once I drove from London to Edinburgh staying in b&bs I found in an Automobile Association guide. And soon after our wedding. Twice more to Edinburgh for the festival. Three times as host of "Focus on Britain," an American TV show produced in the 1980s by the British Tourist Board.
A nice nice story. I have a couple of questions:
What happened to the countess from Argentina?
Why do you read the Telegraph when you are in the UK?
'Bangers and mashed'?
Thank you for serving up this little bit of magic.
Ebert: Damn! You're right! Bangers and mashed is a corruption. The correct form is bangers and mash. I'll change that.
The countess? Afraid I can't help you. The Telegraph? One of the best-written papers in the world, and it is so refreshing to find the leading Tory paper is sane, literate and reasonable, believes Darwin was correct, Bush was wrong, and stem cells should be cloned. True conservatives over here have been drowned out by ignorance.
Regards
I'm not sure it will be all that bad- when I read your post I was a little shocked, but I asked my brother, who is a member of a club on St James Square and takes an active interest in that kind of thing, and looked at the development plans. They aren't actually knocking down any buildings that are listed, and the facades will all be reconstructed/recreated. I know its sad, Roger, but the crown estates and the mayor don't want to destroy the character of Jermyn street. If you have a look at the development pdf:
http://www.london.gov.uk/mayor/planning_decisions/strategic_dev/2009/20090513/st_james's_gateway_report.pdf
Its clear they are going to keep everything very in keeping. Its just a shame such a great hotel had to go. But if you like that sort of thing, I really recommend joining a Gentleman's club; maybe you can find an american one with a reciprocal arrangement? They are a real step back in time: smoking rooms for gentlemen only, ring a bell and a man will come and bring you toast and relish, snacks, drinks, papers. A drawing room men can only enter if accompanied with a lady. Fantastic stuff.
Ebert: I do note these paragraphs of the Lord Mayor's Report:
Victorian Society: object to the demolition of 212-214 Piccadilly and 2-3 Eagle Place/21A-23 Jermyn Street, and to the demolition and reconstruction of 210-211 Piccadilly.
St James’s Conservation Trust: support some aspects of the scheme, but object to the demolition of 2-3 Eagle Place/21A-23 Jermyn Street.
London and Middlesex Archaeological Society: object to the excessive demolition and alterations to the listed building.
Loss of Sergio’s Cafe, Eagle Place, and small retail units on Jermyn Street.
Loss of existing buildings, the design of the proposed new-build element and the resultant damage to the view from Piccadilly Circus.
...about one's own club, I quite agree. I'm a member of the University Club of Chicago, which has all e amenities you mention: Rooms, pool, handball, restaurants, bars, its Cathedral Hall...http://j.mp/9jqYv2
Its library...http://j.mp/dsxvJx
And most especially, its Gothic-style building on Michigan Avenue facing Millenium Park and the Art Institute: http://j.mp/bPleRo
I go on like this because it's an oasis. And because it's not snobby; a member needs simply to hold a university degree and be vouched for by three other members. Nor does it cost an arm and a leg.
I vouchsafe someone reading this will end up a member.
Vouchsafe. A good clubbable word.
Am incredibly savioury post. Reading this this quiet afternoon felt like having tea and biscuits. And sandwiches.
Wait...there's something missing. Let me just reach for my bottle of brandy. Then I'm going to read this again.
Roger, a lovely story. Though I will never walk English streets I was chilled enough by the weather in your walk that I poured a coffee quickly and turned up the pellet stove. All of this a long way (New Mexico) from the quaintness you write of so beautifully. I pray that the "Nil by mouth" time has, or will, pass and even, my prayer goes on, that you will speak again. I believe in miracles you see and that is one I wish and hope will come your way soon. love from my Oz to yours. dp
Mr Ebert, you simply must write your memoirs. This was delightful.
I do miss the gas fire I had in the living room of 73 Egerton Gardens where I would sleep on the over-sized down-filled sofa when I visited my two uncles in London over the years. There was something old-fashioned about it, comforting. We gathered around it on Christmas Eve to warm up before heading across the street to wait outside the Brompton Oratory gates until they let us in for the Christmas Eve Mass. And seeing the blue flames dance in the darkness as I nodded off to sleep afterwards, careful to leave the window cracked to let in some fresh air. Thank you, so much, for the reminder.
So many wonderful locations destroyed for progress... or is that regress? Or maybe just an irrelevant political gathering disguised as a global sporting event?? It's becoming more difficult to find charm in our steel, glass, and plastic world. Nice to know the Olympics are still re-landscaping cities that don't require it.
Sadly, I get those same feelings when I visit certain blocks in Chicago that once exploded with charm and now host parking garages.
Roger, thank you for so eloquently describing your experience. It keeps those places alive...
Wow, what a beautifully evocative piece. I was only in London once, for two days, and I walked the entire city. Can't say I ran into any Dickens characters, but I had a wonderful time.
I was in London in 1981, the one big trip of my life. Always wanted to go back, but knew I never would be able to. On the one day I had to roam before going with my tour group to the countryside, I set out to look for the Floris shop to load up on fragrances for myself and my Mother. Well, it was closed, and just looking in the shop was not much of a consolation. I walked on hoping to find something, and hit paydirt at 88 Jermyn St. - Czech & Speake. The proprietor explained that the shop sold bath fixtures, but had now expanded into bath products, body fragrances and men's toiletries. Every one of the products were super - of the highest quality. I dropped a whopping 85 pounds sterling on various items. The afternoon spent in that quiet and elegant shop will stay with me always. I still have the business card after all these years, but have not had the heart to contact the store or look for it on the Internet. Perhaps its gone, and that would break my heart. Also, from what I hear, Piccadilly Circus is a mass of neon and not the wide open clear vista space I remember, so its true - you can't go home again. Sorry to go on for so long a post, but recalling warm memories does that to you, I guess...
Ebert: Czech & Speake is very much in business at: http://j.mp/bX36yl
So is Floris, at: http://j.mp/abedPU
And not to forget the immortal D. R. Harris: http://j.mp/aquRP4
But I have bad news for you. Piccadilly Circus was not a wide open clear vista space in 1981, the year this photo was taken: http://j.mp/cqyRpp
I think you should go back.
In 1989 I was in high school when my father's job transferred us to London for a year. As a voracious reader with a soft spot for books about British children, I was beside myself with happiness. I was sure we'd live in an old, tall house with narrow stairs, gas fireplaces, odd nooks and crannies, and, if I was lucky, the odd wardrobe to Narnia. We did, in fact, *look* at several houses like this. And then my parents chose to rent a boxy, new, furnished townhome with cream colored walls and carpets, and deadly dull illustrations of a floral nature on the walls. Despite being able to look out the window of my large, commodious bedroom right onto the Thames at Kew Bridge, I never have quite forgiven my parents that I didn't spend that year in a tiny room at the top of creaking stairs, which, despite its size, would have had vastly more room for imagination.
All this to say, I feel your loss.
Ebert: Yeah. Does anyone prefer modern architecture to buildings that look like buildings?
roger, thank you for this. it is lovely to read your words on my absolute favorite city.
Ah yes, another redevelopment project possibly taking away charm.
I looked at the redevelopment specs, and while it seems that they are trying to preserve the history of the place, the fact that the Olympics is a major push may mean it will be a bit touristy. Which does mean high prices that citizens won't be want to pay. Some projects do bring renewed live and economic growth to these areas, but from your description it seems the neighborhood was doing just well as it was. Oh well, progress and all that. Just don't get me started on the redone facades that are just imitations of an older style even though they are all shiny and new.
A great read; makes me want to check it out. Also makes me glad I moved back into the city to get a little of this culture.
Ive never liked the English style. It seems too old fashion. But the way you talked about this street made me wanna visit London one day soon.
The tea, the stories, the street walks are something id like to have.
I don't think there's a city that Google Earth users have plastered with more personal photos than London, yet Jermyn St. shows only a couple of them (one of them is the cheese shop so that tells you how much they think of it).
Sad to say but on my couple of visits there I walked all over the city but I doubt I ever passed Jermyn St. and, at current currency exchanges and the price of things there, I don't know if I'll ever get the chance again.
Dear Roger, Thank you for the splendid walk along Jermyn Street. Your words carried me away to a cozy reverie, and brought back fond memories. I introduced my son quite unexpectedly to the magic of old London a few years ago. After spending a fortnight around and in the Old Forest with a proper British family we traveled by train to give my son his first glimpse of London. As we departed the rail and walked through the archway to the grand hall of Waterloo lo and behold our mouths dropped in delirious astonishment. Not only did our train transport us to London proper, but back to a time and place that we had only read in books. Before us the grand hall was filled to overflowing with handsome men in top hat and tails and their ladies dressed in the finest of summer dresses and hats. The marvelous sounds of loud chatter and laughter from those expecting a marvelous day rang like wedding bells in a great church. I would have not been surprised if I turned back and all of the trains had magically became steam locomotives and before us through the doors a carriage waited for us and not a cab. Later we would learn that all those Dickensian characters were on their way to the Royal Ascot.
Roger, This is quite simply one of the best essays I've ever read! I have no plans any time soon, or possibly ever, to visit England, but your vivid descriptions made me want to grab my passport and make plane reservations today! And not to see glitzy new hotels or visit crappy tourist enclaves. I can't wait to hear more about your travels: the intriguing peoples, atmospheres, and Old World charm you seek out guarantees us more wonderful details (I hope).
Molly, please tell us you've had a chance to go back to London as an adult and find that tiny room at the top of those creaking stairs, even just to let for a night or two.
Ebert: Jennifer, be sure your passport is in order before reading this:
http://j.mp/c468pj
Ebert: Yeah. Does anyone prefer modern architecture to buildings that look like buildings?
On my first visit to San Francisco a friend showed me what she claimed were the:
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
For all I know, she spoke sooth.
When it comes to sheer ugliness, they are not a patch on more recent architectural atrocities. But as Stalin—or somebody—said, “Mediocrity has a quality all its own.”
There is much I treasure about San Francisco. The ticky-tacky boxes are not included.
Well, you're probably right. I try my best to feel that things have to be developed sometime, and be rational about it, but it can be heartbreaking. When you are next in London, make sure you walk down the part of Queen Anne's Gate that runs parallel to St James Park. Absolutely my favourite street in London, and when I am showing people the city it is high on the list. Its completely untouched as far as I can tell, and all the houses have bay windows looking onto St James Park and the mall. Which, as I guess you know, is the best view in London, while we are doing 'bests.' I'd probably cry if someone 'developed' that before I got a chance to live there. Hey, it's only 3 or 4 million pounds..
Ebert: Or you can stay in the very reasonable Royal Overseas League, and command the same view.
As some of your readers mention above, I would certainly pay to read your memoirs even though these blogs do the same function rather well.
Heck, I would pay just to read a book full of your stories meeting fans in unusual places, like the pricesless one you mention in this blog.
Wonderful, bittersweet post, Roger. When you write your travelogue posts, I can actually "see" the places, people and situations you describe. Please, please write your memoirs before someone publishes an unauthorized bio...please??
Dear Mr. Ebert,
your entry brought me back to my gap year in London. This city was my first international destination was I was 16 and my first choice for my break before starting college. Now, finishing college, I want to go back again.
I love Fortnam and Mason; I had a pint there a couple of times and felt like I could hear Churchill talking at the next table. My friend had an interview to work at D. R. Harris the Chemis, but did not get hired. We lived in East Ham and Greenwich (the W is silent, very important), traveled from zone 1 to 6.
To everybody: the weather is not that dreadful. The number of parks make it possible to have a piquenique everywhere everyday. When it's rainy, nothing is better than a museum followed by a pint of ale.
London, London, London.
I miss you so much,
Lisa
I love reading about these everyday incidents and I love meeting new original people in life. I also love London beyond what any words could describe. This post makes me miss it and the times I spent there. I should probably go there again soon...probably during the summer.
London is the city where I took my very first breath of air...unfortunately, if you were born after January 1983 you are only entitled to British citizenship if your parent(s) were Irish, British or considered to be legally settled before you were born.
As much as I love Egypt, I wish I could call England my home country too. Such a beautiful place. Your words made me smell London for some odd reason. You know that wet smell of London after it rains? I love that smell.
My favorite line:
Piece by piece, this is how a city dies. How many cities can spare a hotel built in 1685, the year James II took the crown?
I don't happen to think any city which has, can; and yet, they all think they can.
You are a thoughtful and beautiful writer. And an American treasure.
Hi Roger, excellent post. I emigrated from London 10 years ago. Even back then the heart and soul of the city I love dearly was being ripped out, to be replaced by faceless, money grabbing commercialism. I'm all in favour of progress, but not to the detriment of the very things that define London.
In the 10 years since I left, London, and indeed the UK seems to be losing its identity. I dread returning, as each more and more of the City I love, fades into history.
Colin in Ottawa
Thanks for sharing your story, Roger! I always enjoy your blogs (I read them everyday), but rarely comment. This post, however, really connected with me because it was so nostalgic, almost as if it was really the story of your development from youth to adult. I felt your attraction to this place, and am sorry to know that it is to go. Thank you again for sharing, and all the best.
Hey Roger, I used to wait on you at Scoozi. It was terrible that the hosts would seat you back by the kitchen entrance. The only consolation was that the red banquette you sat on was favored by one Stephen Colbert during wait staff meetings in the morning and late afternoon. And if memory serves me correct, Elvis Costello's buns warmed the very seat you were fond of. The Scoozi dining room had a magnificent view from that banquette table.
On to London: My Irish aunt and uncle had a place on Guilford Street right down from Russell Square. Their huge flat was Greater London Council (GLC) government housing, and they had a fifty year lease that only recently expired, much to everyone's chagrin.
When my cousins, the twins, moved out, I got the use of their upstairs flat for my summer forays into London. I could get by in London on ten pounds a day, saved up from servitude in Rich Melman Lettuce Entertain You restaurants back in Chicago. It was a nifty trade off.
As I grew older, my tastes got refined, and I found myself going to haircut and shaving salons in the West End. I became a fan of shaving brushes and almond scented shaving soaps. Then I discovered Cuban Cohiba cigars which the English allowed to be imported whereas, Americas...well, everyone knows that story.
I loved the cigar shop on High Holborn Street with a gas jet flame to light up a freshly moyled cigar, and to head out on the street with it. I was in my element. Those were lovely times. I don't much like the times we're now,living in. They're harsher, not quite as nice. Was it Carly Simon who sang, "These are the good old days!" (I think she meant the 70's.)
Ebert: I'm in favor of anything that can make shaving even slightly amusing.
Ebert: The house I lived in for my first 20 years is still there, and not greatly changed.
That's amazing. One of the saplings has grown into a behemot and the windows have changed, but apart from that it might as well be 1962 again. Take a look for yourself http://alturl.com/cw83
Beautiful writing on that blog about your childhood home. I used to feel the same about the Rosedale house, that it was the center of the Universe. I always thought that the 90 degree curve at the end of the street was also the end of the world, that there was nothing beyond it but forest. This being Canada it isn't far from the thruth actually...
So the lady who lived/lives there now let you keep one of the E's from E-B-E-R-T in the basement? That is awesome. Am glad you were able to go back. Those smells like green onions must have been almost too much to bear.
After I'd "grown up" I used to think of my youth as a horrible, unspeakably ugly, time. Something not worth remembering, or even thinking about, but now I know better. When I was fourteen and had moved into the St-Joseph's house, I often went back to Rosedale to look around, remember and relive a lot of that early life. Am glad I did, am glad you got to do it too.
Ebert: Does anyone prefer modern architecture to buildings that look like buildings?
Remember the '70s, when They wanted to tear down every grand old structure in every city? I was in college in Philadelphia, when no building was taller than Wm. Penn's hat up there on the top of City Hall (Rocky faces it after he climbs the art museum's stairs), and my poverty-stricken friends and I would walk and walk and walk those free sidewalks, and looked up at every little filigree'd detail, every gargoyle and wrought-iron facade, catching last glimpses.
"Shake hands with your best friend, for you may never see them again."
Ah, a fine badger brush, a mug of fine shaving soap, a leather strop and a straight razor.
Corrado's Cutlery (on South Clark Street downtown?) used to have some fine stuff years ago, but of course it's gone now.
Another wonderful piece of writing, Sir.
Thank you for writing such a delightful personal account. I cannot imagine the vault of memories you keep below the ground floor of films you review and have reviewed. I want to read more of this and hope for a published journal of your travels.
I have lived in such diverse places as Madrid, Ankara and Kosrae, and visited many more including parts of England. My recollection of the English was that they exemplified civility, something we in America sorely lack. Perhaps our divergent roots are no roots at all and without a connection to the past, we really don't know who we are. Your writing about 22 Jermyn Street sounds a bit like one of your roots grabbing hold.
It's nice to read about the Pandoras you have been to.
Dear Mr. Ebert:
I am aware that what I'm typing right now has nothing to do with Eyrie Mansion or London, but there's been something on my mind that has been bothering me lately, and you are the only person that I think could provide me the right answer.
When the Academy Awards nominations were announced earlier this week, I, as most film lovers do, got excited about seeing all those great films, directors, actors, etc, compete against one another.And even though I have come to realize the award does not actually go to the best of the best, i still enjoy sitting down to watch the hearfelt speeches and witty one liners. For the past 3 years, we have been making small bets with my family over who´s gonna take home some of the awards, and whoever has the most correct guesses wins a hamburger from Wendy's or some Pringles.
But last Tuesday, i read that the Oscars are just a formality and most people in the business already know who is going to win before hand. There was even an example there, about the movie Gladiator and that even before the votes were sent in they knew Gladiator was going to take home the big prize.
For some reason that might seem ridiculous but its real, i felt deeply upset, and in a way betrayed. I felt as though everything I thought was a celebration to art was in fact a charade.
Since that day, I havent thought about the Oscars because I feel like it wont make a difference. Being from a country in which movies open 6 to even 12 months after their big premiere in the States, there's nobody here I can ask but you, since I've always admired your work and knowledge.
I know this has become a rant,but please, can you give me an answer?
I think I know what you're going to say( or not say) but I hope otherwise.
Regards all the way from El Salvador--Ricardo Hernandez
Ebert: Don't believe that. They may "think" they know, but the voting truly is secret.
This year "everyone" thinks Mo'Nique and Chistoph Waltz will win in the supporting categories. I do, too. But I don't really KNOW.
Thanks for sharing the experience Roger! I don't know when,and I don't know why,then that I was been in London,it was a sunny day,I kept walking around,even my nike outlet shoes being bad for the review was shocking at me,I had never seen such beautiful city.Most people say that London is a wet city,but I think,when you'er there, you will forget all the rainy weather brings you unhappiness.Clean streets, elegant cafes, friendly persons,graffiti walls,happy kids...Perhaps my experience could not compare to yous Roger,but also be very exciting for me,though I just spent three days in London, but I was satisfied, I saw a civilized city.
I have been to Southeast Asia with other people in group twice when I was a teenager. I saw lots of things while having fantastic time, but hotel rooms were not the most favourite thing in those trips. They were just convenient rooms for travelers in modern buildings.
During three weeks of February 2004, as I mentioned before, I was in New York with my little brother and we lodged in Hi-New York hostel on Amsterdam Ave. It was not an enviable situation. We had to share the room look like shadowy stock room with some people, and we had to sleep in two-story bed after locking our locker beside the bed.
Morning. Unlocking, brushing teeth and washing at common bathroom/shower room,
wearing winter clothes, locking, coming down stairs, drinking tap water with nutrition powder(my mom gave us) or eating warm bagel bought at the first floor, and going to subway station(line 1, 103th Street) for tour sites of the day. And then we came back at sunset or night, and prepared to sleep.
The facility was not pretty but practical, and I liked being with other people at lounge although I was reticent. I shared the room with a Japanese horse upbringing center manager, a Chinese computer company representative, and a devoted Muslim student(Too bad I was too shy to ask about his nationality). And then I met a middle-aged Korean in laundry room, but he courteously told me he did not want to involve with his fellow countrymen. There must have been reason for that, but I respected his privacy and said nothing while annoyed a bit.
Thank you for sharing wonderful memories of London. I hope I will such rich experience like that someday. While reading the paragraphs describing that wonderful Eyrie Mansion, I was promptly reminded of some old-fashioned hotel in London from Agatha Christie's novel.
“Miss Marple ordered her breakfast. Tea, poached eggs, fresh rolls. So adept was the chambermaid that she did not mention cereals or orange juice.
Five minutes later breakfast came. A comfortable tray with a big pot-bellied teapot, creamy-looking milk, a silver hot water jug. Two beautifully poached eggs on toast, poached in the proper way, not little round hard bullets shaped in tin cups, a good-size round of butter stamped with a thistle. Marmalade, honey and strawberry jam. Deliciously looking rolls, not the hard kind of papery interiors- they smell of fresh bread(the most delicious smell in the world!). There were also an apple, an pear, and a banana.
Miss Marple inserted a knife gingerly but with confidence. She was not disappointed. Rich deep yellow yolk oozed out, thick and creamy. Proper eggs!
Everything piping hot. A real breakfast. She could have cooked it heself but she hadn't had to! It was brought to her as if - no, not as though she were a queen - as though she were a middle-aged lady staying in a good but not unduly expensive hotel. In fact - back to 1909."
From "At Bertram's Hotel" by Agatha Christie.
Adaptations of Christie's novels are mostly dull, but I think this has some potential for a movie like "A Murder on Orient Express". The mystery is quite simple unlike that one, so all you have to do is creating vivid, nostalgic atmosphere for this marvelous hotel. And also casting talented old actress as the lead.
By the way, maybe you know, Bertram's hotel in the book has problem similar to Eyrie mansion. How do they make it fiscal while looking old-fashioned with low price? In the end, after having joyous time at this hotel, Miss Marple realized the life is sort of one-way trip. And she sensed that something was *quite* wrong. So when you meet Eyrie mansion with same old price and looks again, don't trust it easily. Things are not supposed to last forever.
But it is too sad even to me, who have never been to London, that this fabulous hotel and its surroundings will exist only in the memories of you and others.
P.S.
I googled to find hostels in Chicago. Quite cheap, but my mother's friend offers me some place(I will ask her) 30 minutes from Chicago by subway with nice rental fee.
Ebert: This is said to be a nice place, and is very close to downtown ("the Loop") by bus. It's in a quiet, safe neighborhood.
http://www.getawayhostel.com/
You seem to have a talent for finding just the right places to stay, to dine, or simply to pass through on your way to other places. Part of your Buddha-nature, I should think.
Two things. Thing the First: The business about 'not being up to safety standards' is, of course, flummery. The developer mentality demands that every hotel be made over as high profit margin tourist containers, easily maintained and completely fungible. The safety standards card is just an easy one to play to rid yourself of an inefficient money maker.
Thing the Second: You know why they call modern architecture The International Style? It's because you can put one of these buildings up in any city, in any country in the world, and when people look up at it they will say it should have been built in some other country.
Ebert: Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art was described as looking like Mussolini ordered it over the telephone.
http://www.planet99.com/pix/65_1.jpg
...and if you do write that memoir, can you please please please include more of your sketches?
I think your breakfast tray drawings might be my favorite thing about this entry!
Also, there's just something about bathtubs with feet that - even if they're old and dirty and suspect - make me have to take a bath instead of a shower. I love old hotels with a history and it's depressing when they're sacrificed in the name of urban renewal and etc. It's like when they turned the Plaza in NYC into luxury apartments. Poor Eloise.
"Does anyone prefer modern architecture to buildings that look like buildings?"
Depends. There is nothing like a century-old house with quirks and odd little staircases, the smell of fixtures and basements untouched since the fifties. But I do have to put in a word for good modern architecture. If done right, it can be as deep and multifaceted as the traditional stuff. I live in New Haven, CT, and two of my favorite architectural works are a pair of hyper-stylized, odd-angled residential colleges at Yale by Eero Saarinen, and the Art&Architecture building by Paul Rudolph. Both were built in the 50s-60s, and have endless surprises in store - the multi-leveled roof of the latter, which is a great find for an art student or scenery lover; the many vertical layers of mottled concrete of the former that unfold and frame themselves differently depending on the viewing angle. I don't know what was demolished to build them, but my town is a much more interesting place for having those buildings.
Postscript: I was delighted to find out that you share my love for Lapsang Souchong, though IIruefully confess to using teabags.
Mr. Ebert, I had already checked that website from google. For 17 days in April, $508 for dorm or $1278 for private not including taxes. But thanks anyway.
Ebert: Private $75 a night. Repectable, good neighborhood, close in. You won't find much cheaper. Best to take up your friends on that offer. Where did you say they lived?
@ Jeremy Knox
That was a beautiful evocation of your childhood homes. Please tell me that you're at least thinking of starting a blog, or at least keep a diary.
I took pictures of my room before I left for Seattle, giving my parents permission to do with it what they wanted (mainly take my posters off the wall and repaint it). Unlike you, however, I only grew up in one house (unless you count the first three months of my life).
I guess when iconic parts of a city are torn down to make way for "progress," it is akin to driving by a house that you used to live in that has been altered by all the owners that came after you. But, at least in those cases, the structure of the house remains more or less the same.
Reply to: The whole city block is to be torn down, although some facades will be retained, to provide shops and offices with luxury apartments on the top floor. The truth is that the fabric of all the buildings in the block is tired and in many cases does not match current safety standards
I'm sure they would love your input on how these luxury apartments should be designed.
Some provision for a retractable home theater screen is essential, and the wiring to hook up a projector. Soundproofing, especially in the floors. Glass with UV protection.
There are so many electrical components that modern tenants consider essential, that pre-code wiring just won't support.
The urban density of London means, if you want to create something spectacular, you either have to tear down an existing structure, or go 50 miles outside the city limits.
I've been in London several times, and the hotel suites were always provided as part of a travel package. Always wished I could go back to a private apartment in a section of the city that I chose myself. I know you're sad at losing the historical value, but there's an enormous opportunity here. This type of urban renewal, done right, and not just slapped together by people who will never have to live there, are the only way that London will still be a nice city for future generations.
I'm in Paris and running out of things to see and do. Any suggestions, (anyone)?
Ebert: Why, go to Les Puces, of course!
http://j.mp/bzrv5j
Monday, 10:30 - 17:30. Only open Fri- Sat - Sun.
And poke around on the Isle St. Louis, over the bridge from Cite (Notre Dame).
And of course you know about
http://j.mp/ap8xvO
...where there's a reading at 19:00 Monday.
I was in London last year on a short holiday and how I now rue not visiting this wonderful place you describe! I love the way you've written about the street & the mansion because through this post alone I feel sad about what is to happen.
I've been feeling really nostalgic of London these past few days, and this entry doesn't help! It's a pity that in the entire year I spent in London I never walked down Jermyn Street, and now obviously I'll never get to stay in that hotel, but through this entry I almost feel like I had!
At least I do have a place to go back to -mine is Goodenough College, the student residence where I lived a stone's throw away from the British Museum and Sir John Soane's house. My favourite memory is sitting in the garden there on a Sunday morning, reading a book and listening to the musician students practising for the weekly opera recital.
How to resign oneself to a chain hotel after that? You just think of the chance to get frequent flyer miles out of it, à la Up in the Air?
Dear Mr. Ebert,
This is not how cities die- it's how they change. Right now take comfort; some where in London, Chicago, and other places young people are opening shabby little restaurants, hotels, and shops. They are not on established streets, and later some will go out of business and some will upgrade a bit and continue forward. These bohemian areas will become popular, and established. And for a time, they will be the most original, authentic, and unique places in the city. You will not see them. I will not see them. But young writers, musicians, actors, and artists will. They will write about them, recommend them to trusted friends, and later pass on regrets that such places pass. Your message s heard loud and clear, but it is not death for the city. Not yet.
Lovely. Thanks for the glimpse.
Yes, a beautiful, delightful, sad story. Now am wistful for London, the English, antique things, and a cappuccino with cinnamon sprinkled on top.
Thank you, Mister Ebert.
I too have a place in my heart for Jermyn Street. And I have always made a point of dropping by St.James, my favorite of all churches. As for Turnbull & Asser, I am probably the only customer who, when asked why he was returning a shirt he had bought the day before, replied that "it was just too expensive." The look on the clerk's face was priceless, a mixture of astonishment and disdain.
"Forgive me. I don't mean to get upset. But you are taking my world away from me, piece by little piece, and sometimes it just pisses me off."
When I was in London with my mother, many and many a year ago, I remember being just agog at the beauty of the old buildings, and how casually the Londoners lived in them--they were real, used, filled with life, not museum exhibits behind ropes. We attended an actual service at St James Cathedral! How many times have you gone into a famous church and seen it being used for its original, intended purpose? I was swamped with envy for people who lived in such beautiful, created surroundings. Why in God's name would anyone want to change them for eyesores of architecture that vanish from the mind as you look at them??
I suppose it's a universal human trait to be tired of what you're used to, no matter how lovely or well treated.
Roger,
Thanks for this, I was getting all misty and nostalgic for my own journeys as a young man.
In 1987 I was 24 and staggering through life, having been dumped by my lover for some guy with a parrot, when I met a tall, slender female archaeologist and she invited me to travel Europe with her, all in an afternoon.
Of course I immediately hocked my car, quit my job, and bought my airline tickets.
In the O'Hare airport I met Jesse Jackson. In London I shook hands with Tom "Dr. Who" Baker. In Dover Castle I was run over by the queen mother:
http://albatross.org/images/misc/queenmum.JPG
(Okay, her car brushed slowly past my leg as it pushed through the crowd - in America I would have won a multimillion dollar injury suit.)
In Lewes, where she was working a dig, we stayed at a closed B&B that only opened because they knew my companion (but insisted we stay in separate rooms). For ten pounds a day stout old gray-haired Mrs. Jones and her dog Humphrey ("DOWN Hum-phrey! Humphrey you naughty dog! SIT Humphrey!") gave us garret rooms and a huge all-you-can-eat breakfast of eggs and kippers and sausages and bacon and black pudding and coffee and juice and fried tomatoes and endless upright racks of toast: it was the only meal I'd eat all day long.
While my companion brushed dirt off castle ruins, I took the train to London and wandered the metro, emerging once at random to catch the changing of the guard (twenty years later the same thing would happen to me on a one-day visit).
I treasure those memories - I can only imagine how much more dear the Eyrie was for you given your long association and deep friendships. Losses like these remind us of the Zen-like nature of our experiences: that we have to appreciate them when they're happening, because we don't know when they'll end.
Ebert: One way to get to know London is to buy a travel pass and sit on the top decks of buses to anywhere, getting off, and poking around.
Henry James: "The best seat in any theater in the world is the front seat on the upper deck of a London Omnibus."
In our autumn years, will the pleasures we've gathered, through travel or otherwise, shield us well from fear? "I've had a full life! I am satisfied!"
There are a lot of homes I can't return to again, Roger, but none built in 1685. Welcome to the future, blossoming with god damned improvements. No more needs said than you already have and well done old shoe.
Loved your article. I felt I was walking down Jermyn St. In 1980 I was privileged to work in London for a few months and fell in love with the city. For the past ten years when visiting we have stayed near Sloane Square and love the area. We stay in a "self-catering" apartment. We have our special little restaurants, walk to Partridges for food and feel at home in the area. To my dismay, this past October during a two week stay, we learned that the lease on the building is up in 8 years and its fate after that is unknown. A building a few doors down is being "renovated" into very expensive (2,000,00 pounds or more) flats to be sold. At least the exterior remains unchanged.
I rarely venture out of my own village but you made me sentimental for a place I've never been.
Thanks Roger.
I felt the same sense of loss years ago when the wonderful toy department at Marshall Fields was transformed into a place where stuffed animals and bicycles where sold. Though I was a child, I knew my world was changing and I didn't like it.
Having spent much time in London and much of that on Jermyn street, I'm sad to say that I've never noticed this hotel at 22. I've bought a hat at Bates, had my hair done at Ivan's (before being taken over by Trumpers) bought my cheese at Paxon & Whitfield and shoes, shirts and other acoutrement at the other noted establishments.
London has been changing in this area in the past 15 years in a way that is very upsetting to me. My favorite lunch place - Torino - became a Starbucks and sadly, left me no place to get my favourite green lasagna. And my heart sank when Fortnum & Mason took out the soda fountain and I've not enjoyed their dining experience since.
The simple truth is that things change and we call it progress. Unfortunately, progress doesn't have to mean better. I'm afraid my London is getting smaller and I'm powerless to stop it.
The saddest sentence in your beautiful tribute: "How many cities can spare a hotel built in 1685, the year James II took the crown?"
My English husband, who becomes more eccentric with every year older and every decade away from England, would always return to Jermyn Street for his shoes (at Churches) and shirts (at Turnbull & Asser). How did we never discover this wonderful hotel? Probably because we usually stayed in the Cadogan Hotel, infamous as the former home of Lily Langtry (it still sported her special wallpaper with discreet references to the Prince of Wales' crest). It was also the place where Oscar Wilde was arrested on the orders of the Marquess of Queensbury. A few years ago, it was redesigned to be a "smart, trendy, boutique hotel."
My husband nearly cried. We never stayed there again.
Ebert: I stayed at the Cadogan several times in the late 1960s--before it revised its prices upwards. Yes, it was once cheap! I once returned and was sadly disillusioned. Have they no idea?
Of course you know this:
http://j.mp/9AS5bs
What a life you've lived! How far you've travelled from Urbana. And what a great article.
Nice writing. I just saw Avatar and your story evoked a vision of snarling bulldozers and wrecking crews heading into London (for some reason men wearing mechanized suits with machine guns accompanied them in my mind).
But would anyone stand in front of the dozers to stop them today for any reason? I see the current youth self obsessed with Ambien and the internet. Adults are overworked and underwater on their mortgages. I have the gut feeling that no one (in the US anyway) cares to defend any right or any place or any vision for the future (with the strange exception of guns). Britain seems to have collapsed into a post-apocalyptic police state reminiscent of 1984. They’ve given up their privacy and rights for what?
I see the destruction of your street as a metaphor for a greater carelessness and apathy consuming the world. People seem to have accepted the fact that paid off politicians brokering destructive deals in hidden back rooms is the only way the world can work.
Perhaps we need to hire some Navi with poison tipped arrows to protect us? Or anyone who cares about anything for that matter.
I'm currently studying in Leeds and just got back from a weekend in London about an hour ago when I came across this piece. I have to say I was rather disappointed by London, the view that I had of it, that you seemed to have experienced, I couldn't find. It was my first visit to London and honestly as I was leaving, I was wondering if I would ever really want to come back to the city. Maybe three days just isn't enough time.
Ebert: Depends on where you go and what you do. Next time take the Northern Line to Hampstead and poke around. This looks like a nice inexpensive play to stay:
http://j.mp/btUZij
Exiting from the tube, turn left, walk down on block, and look in the alley for:
http://www.britishtours.com/360/hampsteadbook.html
Retrace your steps, walk up Heath Street, and ask directions to the Holly Bush Pub.
Or, in London, find yoor way to Sir John Soane's Museum in Lincoln Inn's Fields:
http://j.mp/3bZyDO
Ebert wrote: Yeah. Does anyone prefer modern architecture to buildings that look like buildings?"
And with that, an open invitational to rant! :)
First, I love glass. I have a translucency fetish dating back to childhood wherein the sight of sunlight pouring a jar of orange marmalade, held all manner of fascination for me.
I mention this out of deep respect for the Arts & Crafts. Entire walls of stained glass in a Cathedral for example, do not suck. Nor do lofty solariums, conservatories or large bay windows. Glass is good. It's made of humble sand transformed into something wondrous - like Murano glass in Venice or Lalique in France.
And why glass in and of itself, is therefore not to be confused with "modern". For it's not the material: it's how you apply it.
Canary Wharf, London: 360 degree panorama shot -
http://www.virtualtourpro.com/tours/August/Canary-Wharf/Wharf-London360.html
If you didn't know that was Canary Wharf, would have known you were in London, England? And when you look at the buildings, does anything catch and hold you gaze? Or like water does it slip off the surface of the architecture for want of anything else to grip onto? That's my main grumble when it comes to modern architecture.
Glass covered shapes. Sometimes they'll toss in a curve but for the most part, you're inside a box without a soul - and isn't that a coffin?
Modern architecture is a slave to ego looking to make a name for itself. Which invariably means doing something new and thus ignoring tried and true principles of good design. Yes, yes, I know - a subjective call that, as what's good, eh?
Good Design:
“Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful” - William Morris
And I think architecture works the same way. At its best, a great building is a marriage of function and form and I believe architecture which incorporates traditional or classical aspects, simply feels better visually compared to an intellectual concept - and for that being more obtuse and esoteric in nature.
I don't want to be surrounded by steel and glass cubes. They reflect themselves like vanity in a mirror. I want to be surrounded by buildings which instead "absorb" their surroundings - and organic materials tend to do that better and because like people they show their age, too. Old buildings are more comfortable to look at because they "feel good" like a pair of shoes you've broken in.
Newer buildings pinch my toes by comparison, and feel cold to the visual touch. And when they get dirty, look like trash; a dirty plastic spoon.
Steel is cold. Concrete, marble, sheets of glass. COLD.
Bricks, stones, wood, arches and wrought iron, individual paned glass windows - WARM.
Note: the Bilbao museum is a rare exception to all this. Why? It was build with stone, glass, and titanium. Yes. Titanium! That's what covers the exterior and it's a warm metal. It changes color throughout the day and reacts to the light. Each and every panel on the Bilbao was hand-fitted into place, for ALL the pieces are ever-so-slight curved. Craftsmen were hired to work with it and you can feel that when you look at the end result.
And I think that's what it comes down to.
A want of real "craftsmanship" and Arts & Crafts. I think that's what missing from Modern Architecture.
The sight of having been touch by a human hand.
In Chicago, they have numerous tall buildings. But if you look at what's on top of many of them, you'll see what I mean - an artist was there.
And in London, you can see the carvers, the masons and the bricklayers. You can see the trades employed. You can see what people who cared, have left behind.
And now?
I see coffins.
I see we share a love of London. I've only been 3 times, but always, always, I want to stay longer and see/do more. I have also stayed at a b&b in Russell Square--what a lovely part of the city, and one near King's Cross as well. I've never stayed in Jermyn St, more's the pity. I could wander through London for days at a time (and have) w/o ever being bored or at a loss. I've never been met with anything less than civility and warmth by Londoners, eager to hear about Chicago and share about their city. I'm smiling just thinking about my trips.
I have to agree with Bill Bryson, who in one of his books about UK said that the British might just have too many treasures and too much history to truly appreciate it all (I'm paraphrasing). No country or culture should be frozen in amber, but surely some things should be inviolate? How can one replace handcrafted workmanship with modern shoeboxes? It boggles my mind. I am sad for the passing of your Eyrie House (great name), but glad to see that TPTB did it with some grace and compassion (how likely would that be here in the USA?). Sometimes I think I should raid my IRA/401k and just see the world before it's all bulldozed and rebuilt to some bureaucrat's satisfaction!
Roger, you're a treasure and your memoirs are a joy!
Roger, how you decorate your life with treasures large and small, polished bright with memory. I guess that's all we can rely on sometimes. London seems to struggle with it's architectural history. I never walked fifty feet without running into another little plaque that read 'Here resided...." or "On this site....". Just down the road from my (now) preferred hotel in London is the former home of Ian Fleming, his blue sign discretely displayed by the door of a cozy flat. How many nights did he sit up late in his little study to write out the next adventure of James Bond? They're everywhere in London, those little blue ovals. Now perhaps, they'll add another plaque on another street, "Here stood the Eyrie Mansion". A charming old hotel is hard to come by, now they've made it harder still.
Full English Breakfast - should come with it's own cardiologist, which only adds to it's charm I suppose. Of course the great mystery of the English breakfast is how they manage to extract toast from a toaster, and bring it immediately to your plate, at room temperature. Another trick is the table nick-nack ballet, wherein one must continually juggle little bowls and plates, utensils and serviettes in a game of culinary tetras until everything is settled in some semblance of a convenient place. No easy task when you've also chosen to read the Times with your coffee. But this is all part of the charm. Last year when I was in London, the hotel owner himself would be bringing people breakfast. He would invariably stop and chat for a short while, or a long while if he reckoned you were so inclined. He was a wonderful young man, a former office dweller in some modern edifice dedicated to the financial sector. Enough of all that, he said one day, and together with his young bride purchased this little hotel on a nice little street a stones throw from Victoria Station on Ebury Street. This is where I'll be building my own memory palace, as you Roger have so often inspired me to do.
You had Edna O'Brien and I'll take Elizabeth Hurley, who is supposed to reside in the area. I confess I kept a weather eye on the dog walkers during my early morning strolls. You never know, I could bump into her and start a conversation. No it's true, it could happen.
You remember in your attached Kwai Chi video, where he says that people have been bugging him to mention some good places to eat instead of just the tourist traps? I'm going to take credit for starting that trend because I remember imploring him to do that very thing.
The wine bar down the road was a wonderful little place. I'm so glad I found it. The French chef was a fellow who took his food seriously, don't they all? Well, truth be told, not really. But this guy did! I still have the hunger pangs when I think of a great meal I had there. I'm resisting the urge to go into minute details which would only be of interest to myself and my memories. After dinner a glass of wine at the bar, with it's Spanish bartender, or Brazilian waitress. In a short while a new friend or two comes to sit with you and tell you about their day, or week or life. The Hotel Owner comes in for a nightcap, the Chef is done his service and relaxing with a drink, the lawyer turned tour guide is making suggestions for tomorrows wanderings and you find yourself in the heart of friendly London. Surrounded by it's warm conversation.
But the architecture. My god, the architecture. There is a trend, it seems, to modernize these ancient capitals. But who is making the decisions about all this? Who saw the plans for the glass pyramid in the courtyard of the Louvre and thought 'now that's a great idea'? London, it seems, has it's share of these 'ideas'. There is something a little off about climbing those unending steps at St.Paul's Cathedral to be greeted by an unobstructed view of the Great Gherkin or the London Eye. Give me old brick and mortar London please. Give me fire stained London. Give me cobblestones and oak and dark low ceiling pubs. Give it to me now before it's all taken away. A great deal of my country's history (Canada) is worn into the streets of London. I had a mind once to pay it a visit, and so with my little map in hand I went out in search of The Company of Adventurers Trading into Hudsons' Bay. Which has to be the greatest name for a company ever invented. It's old offices and archives moved around London during the centuries, but they, along with so many other great old places both grand and intimate are gone for good. Replaced with troweled concrete, moulded aluminum, and little blue plaques.
Ebert: By the way...you seem like a nice enough young chap. Mind if I put you to a spot of bother? Your mentioning Ebury Street put me in mind of Ken Lo. You know, Kenneth H. C. Lo? Cookbook chap. Used to see him on telly. Doesn't he have a restaurant somewhere in Ebury Street?
My god, memory. What a beautiful post.
Mr. Ebert, I stumbled upon your journal while searching the web for the author Sebald (the subject of an earlier post). When I read this I was floored. It is wonderful. It made me long for a past that doesn't belong to me - reminded me of Sebald's writing.
Thank you.
Kenneth Lo does indeed have his restaurant on Ebury street. I haven't yet had the chance to give it a try, but his daughter's restaurant is right around the corner at 14 Eccleston Street. Actually, it's Ken Lo's old cooking school, converted. She has an excellent menu and a quant little decor. Perfect for grabbing a delicious bite while planning out your afternoon.
Attention London visitors, I would highly recommend Jenny Lo's Teahouse for lunch and the Ebury Wine Bar for dinner.
In between you can catch the bus to Jermyn Street (I will certainly do this next time I'm there). And then, it's just a short walk to Savile Row, which is 'bespoke' heaven.
hmmm...I'm afraid I'll have to play devil's advocate here and say a little something in favor of contemporary architecture.
I would argue that yes, its incredibly sad when beautiful old structures are torn down only to be replaced with blobitecture made of glass and money. At the same time, I'm against over-preserving everything, of making things look like they were built during a previous time, of trying to keep everything exactly how it once was. Otherwise, the city will become stuck in time, and will just be a artificial mirror of its past. Plus, doesn't seeing the tall glass office building next to an old gothic church only make you appreciate the later even more?
There is a spot in Venice near the school of architecture where, if you look in the right direction, you see a modern building in the foreground. Next to that some 19th century apartment buildings. Columns of a renaissance facade rise up behind that. Then finally a tower from a medieval church peeks out in the distance. In one view, you have centuries of history compressed into a single frame. That is why I love Venice more than Florence. In Florence, everything has to look like the Renaissance. Even newer buildings must be done in a Renaissance style. It's almost like a film set or a theme park, with fake facades facing the street for people or tourists to see, and who knows what behind. Don't get me wrong, I love Florence too, but oh Venice! I love cities that are complex and have depth. Cities that are constantly changing, uncensored in their growth. Where you can see all it's layers of history, the sacred and the ugly.
Sorry for the rant! I may be the only one here who thinks this, but perhaps I'm just biased because I graduated with an architecture degree, and if no one builds any new buildings then I'm out of a job :-) Maybe the problem isn't with new architecture, but with the architects that are being hired to make them.
[ @Marie Haws I totally agree your comments about craftsmanship. I love this statement you made: "The sight of having been touch by a human hand. " So true. I would only add that if used skillfully, concrete can also make some beautifully warm buildings. Check these out:
http://architecturewiki.editme.com/files/LeCorbusier/Ron4small.jpg
http://13.media.tumblr.com/rdI4dCBFkp3kk3g5HSrrbO94o1_500.jpg
http://media.photobucket.com/image/tadao%20ando%20church%20of%20light/atelier29/0005.jpg ]
Googled for Kenneth H. C. Lo, ebury
This was first of many.
Ken Lo's Memories of China Restaurant
Rated 4.0 out of 5.0
18 reviews - Price range: £££
Feb 2, 2010 ... Ken Lo's Memories of China. 65-69 Ebury Street London, SW1W 0NZ. Ratings and Reviews; Restaurant Profile. Make a reservation now ...
uk.opentable.com/rest_profile.aspx?rid=4873 - Cached - Similar -
Ebert: Best to take up your friends on that offer. Where did you say they lived?
It is one of those vague offers, so she will probably give me the address after next week. I will tell you later.
Roger said: "I do note these paragraphs of the Lord Mayor's Report.."
Roger, the Lord Mayor, Boris Johnson is perhaps the biggest tory flywheel, but he is one of the most lovable idiots in the whole world. A few quotes from him -
"Unlike the current occupant of the White House, he has no difficulty in orally extemporising a series of grammatical English sentences, each containing a main verb."
endorsing Barack Obama.
"..Chinese cultural influence is virtually nil, and unlikely to increase… Indeed, high Chinese culture and art are almost all imitative of western forms: Chinese concert pianists are technically brilliant, but brilliant at Schubert and Rachmaninov. Chinese ballerinas dance to the scores of Diaghilev. The number of Chinese Nobel prizes won on home turf is zero, although there are of course legions of bright Chinese trying to escape to Stanford and Caltech… It is hard to think of a single Chinese sport at the Olympics, compared with umpteen invented by Britain, including ping-pong, I’ll have you know, which originated at upper-class dinner tables and was first called whiff-whaff. The Chinese have a script so fiendishly complicated that they cannot produce a proper keyboard for it."
"Nor do I propose to defend the right to talk on a mobile while driving a car, though I don't believe that is necessarily any more dangerous than the many other risky things that people do with their free hands while driving - nose-picking, reading the paper, studying the A-Z, beating the children, and so on."
"I have as much chance of becoming Prime Minister as of being decapitated by a frisbee or of finding Elvis."
"The President is a cross-eyed Texan warmonger, unelected, inarticulate, who epitomises the arrogance of American foreign policy."
"I can't remember what my line on drugs is. What's my line on drugs?"
"Voting Tory will cause your wife to have bigger breasts and increase your chances of owning a BMW M3."
"I think I was once given cocaine but I sneezed so it didn't go up my nose. In fact, it may have been icing sugar."
"Yes, cannabis is dangerous, but no more than other perfectly legal drugs. It's time for a rethink, and the Tory party - the funkiest, most jiving party on Earth - is where it's happening."
For my money (if I had any, which I don't) Boris could tear down anything, as it is, he slays me both intentionally and unintentionally, besides the 2012 Olympics aren't his fault anyway, they're Ken Livingstone's.
Happy days
or, as Boris would say -
"My friends, as I have discovered myself, there are no disasters, only opportunities. And, indeed, opportunities for fresh disasters."
:D
What an absolute pleasure and delight to read your blog. My family and I are all so flattered that you wrote at such length and so very warmly about our beloved Eyrie Mansion/22 Jermyn Street.
I too have not walked by the hotel again although my loyal staff have a monthly reunion in the pub in Babmaes Street (named, of course after Baptist May, royal pimp!)
Henry (Junior)
I was going to complain about them tearing down the Dr. Scholl's building and replacing it with a glass and steel monstrosity (the condos inwhich they apparently can't sell), but that pales compared to this. And this is owned by the CROWN? There's no excuse.
A wonderful article, Mr. Ebert. I am an admirer of remnants of bygone eras, be they streets or buildings or various other artifacts that evoke a sense of history.
Might I interest you in an online community devoted to the timeless art of shaving? You'll find reviews of various creams, brushes, blades and aftershaves, as well as conversation about shaving and various other topics. If you have an opportunity, you should check it out. The link is above.
Jennifer M., I've been back to visit London a number of times, including this past December, but never again as a resident, unfortunately.
Once I got to decide where to live on my own, I did get to live in a variety of old, quirky apartments, though. First in New York, where I spent a few years on Bleecker St., and then for the last eight years in Roger's own home town of Champaign-Urbana. I do admit that for my next apartment, though, I have to find someplace where the quirk also comes with a dishwasher and washer/dryer IN the apartment. Charm can only take a place so far when you have to haul laundry to the car in 20 degree weather.
Quote...Cat;Sorry for the rant! I may be the only one here who thinks this, but perhaps I'm just biased because I graduated with an architecture degree, and if no one builds any new buildings then I'm out of a job :-) Maybe the problem isn't with new architecture, but with the architects that are being hired to make them.
Oh I definitely agree with you. I would even go further and excuse the architect and blame the owners. I work on many new buildings in my trade and oft-times the initial design gets reduced and reduced to make it less expensive. Of course the first thing to go is the soul of the structure. That's just the way it is in a modern economy. One of my best friends is an architect and she has no end of budget horror stories.
There is plenty of modern architecture that I hate and plenty that I love.
In the love category, I have some of the work of Louis Kahn.
Kimbell Art Museum - Fort Worth, TX. - With it's natural light domes.
http://www.mimoa.eu/images/6065_l.jpg
http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2094/2269863921_50c7e6d1ed_o.jpg
I was introduced to him through a film made by his son, entitled 'My Architect'.
www.myarchitectfilm.com/
A touching documentary that I would like to recommend to you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2wyXJiIwjk
I found this today, of course via Twitter, and wanted to share it here -
http://www.howtobearetronaut.com/2010/02/stunning-colour-film-of-1920s-london/
It's a beautiful 1927 color film of London, with captions and everything.
Ebert: That's so recent, I can almost reach out and touch it, only 15 years before my birth. Now so much is gone, or changed, or spoiled. (Improved, too, I suppose.)
You have one of the best blogs I've ever seen. The thinking and writing for sure, but also the design :)
This clunky blog of mine is the online equivalent of a balloon-wheel Schwinn. I've tweaked Movable Type as much as I can. No choice of type faces. The editors say, yes, but it's storing 50,000 published comments for you.
Nice story, Roger.
I’ve stayed at so many Hotels in London, and all of Great Britain for that matter, that I may hold some kind of record. I not only went to University there but traveled across the pond every other Month for over a decade for work. Indeed, many of my most cherished memories come from that period of my life. To share one...
As a young lad on a tour of London we made our way past Buckingham Palace and I was awestruck at the amount of tourists surrounding the gates. I wondered, were they there to see the building or perhaps catch a glimpse of the Charles, Diana or the Queen? Our couch driver muttered that people had a better chance of seeing the Royal family when they left the U.K.
Three days later, I, along with my fellow group of students, found ourselves in Edinburgh staying the night at the Princess Street Hotel. A ‘Scottish Evening' had been provided for us, which, for those who don’t know includes Haggis (don’t ask) and a lot of drinking – mostly Scotch. So, about midnight, five of us decided we need some air and began walking around the city. When we got to Charlotte Street I noticed a maroon colored Rolls Royce parked in front of a gorgeous building. Being the drunken American I was, I naturally kicked the tire and loudly asked...
“How much?”
No sooner had I laughed at my own joke when a very strong hand grabbed my shoulder from behind and led me to the curd.
“Keep your bloody foot off the Queen’s car”, he sternly said to me.
With all the Single Malt swirling in my brain, I didn’t have the capacity to digest what he had just said, so I pointed to a bicycle on the street and blurted out...
”Ya, right. And that’s Winston Churchill’s bike.”
Believe it or not, he laughed. Then he summed up the situation, I guess, and realized we were far from any kind of threat and for about a half hour we had a nice conversation with him. We told him we were Americans studying in England and were on a tour of the Britain before classes started. We traded stories for a while and I guess we developed a bond because he then told us that he was the Queen’s driver in Scotland. And if we waited a bit longer the Queen of England was going to emerge, as he pointed at the magnificent building, from that door before us. He then informed us that if we stood at the edge of the red carpet we could get a view of her. He also told us that under no circumstances to speak to her. Protocol is that she addresses you, not the other way around.
We all looked at each other as our jaws collectively dropped.
Well, we all sobered up quickly pretty quickly. Or as best we could. Security was called over, we were frisked (thank god we all had our passports with us), and in no time at all a flood of brilliant light hit the street. What I remember most is that white gown she wore and all those diamonds. So many diamonds. Her Scottish escort (I guess he was some kind of military guy) had on a Kilt and so many medals on his chest he must have won some battle all by himself. But the most astounding thing is that she caught the eye of my girlfriend (future, not then). She curtseyed and the Queen held out her hand and greeted her. I couldn’t believe it.
“Good evening, young lady.” The Queen said.
“Good evening, your Majesty.” My friend replied.
“You’re American. I see.” The Queen observed.
“We all are.” She said as she pointed to me and my friends. “We’re students.”
Then, for lack of anything better coming into our brains, we all said in unison...
“Good evening, your Majesty”.
“Best of luck with your studies.” She said.
And with that she then turned her attention to few other people milling around. After a few minutes, she was led to her car and got in.
After the Queen the drove away we ran like the blazes back to our hotel and told everyone on our tour we had just met the Queen of England. Now, mind you, when we left the hotel we were all stinking drunk so I guess I don’t blame them for not believing us. But the next day, when all the Papers had the news on the front page of the Queen’s visit and the Ball she was attending, disbelief was quickly replaced by jealousy.
One footnote...
Six years after this event I was telling this story to my British colleague at my company over dinner at a French restaurant in Windsor. She listened to my entire tale and when I was finished she politely shook her head and said:
“You know, Jeff, I’ve lived my entire life in this country and I’ve never seen the Royal family except on the Telly. So, you’ll pardon me if I...”
She abruptly stopped in mid sentence, looked over my shoulder, took a large swig of her drink and said:
“Princess Diana just walked into the restaurant.”
For about two hours my co-worker and I sat about ten feet from Princess Diana having dinner. The only thing I’ll say about this night is that I found the time to call my Mother from the payphone in the lobby and tell her.
True story. Both of em’.
Ebert: True, and fabulous.
When he was living in England, Paul Theroux once saw the Queen appear in a doorway, and when he saw that famous silhouette, he thought, "I need to buy postage stamps."
SO SAD! My husband and I have stayed at Henry's wonderful 22 Jermyn St many times over the past 15 years. What a treat (even without the match-lit fireplaces)it was for us. The incredible service and amenities and gorgeous furniture on the one hand and the cheerful hospitality of their office where you could go up and have a cuppa and a chat anytime you wanted. Thanks, Roger, for writing it down. Kit Bakke
Roger writes so well, it makes me sad...a dull ache behind the sternum...with a burning tingle at the end of my nose...
At least the tears travel straight down and don't detour all over my face.
Yes...at least there's that.
As self deprecating as you may be about your blog- I have found them to raise the bar of my web browsing. I check your site about three times a week and am always thrilled to find out what you have written about- Current events, life stories, or random musings, whatever it may be I feel better for having read it.
A very sincere thank you from a long time consumer of your work.
Roger,
I am a Canadian and have, for the last 5 years, made my home in Taiwan.
Recently, I decided to move out of my modern apartment complex into a traditional Taiwanese-style home. Sadly, there are now very few of these types of houses left standing in my city of Tainan. These graceful buildings are being demolished in order to make room for more luxurious and "modern" homes.
I suppose arguments could be made that these new buildings are an improvement upon the traditional style of home in many ways. It was, after all, not so long ago that water pumps, outdoor toilets and thatched roofs were commonplace. However, these new places are not built for people, for living. They are instead a manifestation of the idea of prosperity.
A traditional Chinese home is a reflection of the importance of family and community. There is an organic quality to communities comprised of homes of this type, and to see it disappear in favour of concrete chicken coops saddens me.
Fortunately for me, I was lucky enough to discover one small home, tucked away in an alley that has been restored to its original condition. The landlady is a woman who still appreciates the importance of preserving the past, and recognizes that these homes are not just places to hang our hats, but a points from which to develop the relationships and connections with the other people in our communities.
@Karl-Heinz - I watched that documentary in an arch. history class during my freshman year of school. Afterwards, we were all incredibly depressed because we realized we'd never be as good of architects as Kahn. I feel sorry for his kids, but maybe that's the price you have to pay for genius...?
@Roger - Thank you for your kind words! I don't know if you realize how much power your tweets and comments have. You could do a lot of damage :)
The design is just one of the free Wordpress themes that you can pick! I like it b/c I like all the white space. I don't think anyone here cares much about the design of your blog though...it's the content we all love!
Ebert: Whew.
You have such a beautiful way with words, Mr Ebert. I'm a young expat Brit living in Australia, and havent felt quite as nostalgic about leaving London until reading this blog. Have you ever had tea at Fortnum and Masons? An evening drink at the RAC club in Pall Mall? London truly is the most beautiful city on earth.
As for the 2012 Olympics, to me London will not be ruined. Most of the Games will be held in the East End, much of which was broken and impoverished, and the only impact they will have shall be the wave of British patriotism which will reignite interest in the wonderful buildings of old.
I understand that you read a lot. I'm sure you have already done so, but perhaps you should read Evelyn Waugh's Scoop, Vile Bodies or Brideshead Revisited. These books all provide a wonderful account of the beautiful buildings around London.
I count myself lucky to have discovered the joys of fine shaving products and toiletries while still in my twenties, giving me a lifetime to enjoy them. Roger, are you familiar with websites such as Badger & Blade and The Shave Den? There is a small but very passionate on-line community dedicated to luxuries that have been all but rendered obsolete by King Gillette et al.
@ Cat wrote:
"I would argue that yes, its incredibly sad when beautiful old structures are torn down only to be replaced with blobitecture made of glass and money. At the same time, I'm against over-preserving everything, of making things look like they were built during a previous time, of trying to keep everything exactly how it once was. Otherwise, the city will become stuck in time, and will just be a artificial mirror of its past. Plus, doesn't seeing the tall glass office building next to an old gothic church only make you appreciate the later even more?"
Absolutely, yes. We're in total agreement. And moreover I love the energy created in a space by the juxtaposition of the old and the new. It's just that what tends to replace the old is whatever's "cheaper and faster" to build; aka boxes.
Remember Gaudi in Barcelona? Very modern! But it was also very old - and for incorporating organic shapes and curves. And so I don't dislike modern, per say.
Rather, I think there's too much of this:
http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3284/3056471309_07a48c979b.jpg
And not enough individuality. Case in point; take a look at the downtown Vancouver Public Library:
http://glacialjade.ca/ESW/Images/librarybc.jpg
It's one of my favorite places in Vancouver; hell of spot.
@ Cat wrote:
"Marie Haws I totally agree your comments about craftsmanship. I love this statement you made: "The sight of having been touched by a human hand. " So true. I would only add that if used skillfully, concrete can also make some beautifully warm buildings. Check these out.."
I applaud the idea but it's too minimal for me, when concrete is the building material. I grew up in the 1970's, chuckle, and concrete was quick, cheap and easy and a lot of bad architecture was born as a result. Consequently, I've got a bias against it, I confess.
I don't know if concrete was used into these forms, but I like if it's concrete...
Gaudi:
http://www.freewebs.com/alindeo/gaudi-lg.jpg
I guess if it's new, I want to see curves? And if it's old, I want more classical lines.
That's why I love the Bilbao; is moves like a liquid, its lines are so fluid. Nothing soulless about that! :)
This is my first visit to your blog and what an amazing one it is. Great post and superbly written; I have to say I'm not a huge fan of London, I think you either love it or hate it; I'm the latter. Still, the post brings back the whole atmosphere of the city.
Thanks for the tip. The reading by Wendell Stevenson at Shakespeare & Co. was well worth the trek. Les Puces seemed to devolve quickly from a flea market into a junkyard, and it had an overriding sense of poverty; full of people trying to sell me things I don't want. Alas, I've looked all over Paris to buy what I do want - something as practical as a sleeping bag - but have had no luck. The closest I could find was a small blanket, or a large quilt, impractical for travel. And now it's snowing just to spite me.
Roger, thank you for a lovely evocation of the charm and fascination that was Jermyn St. It was always a stop on my London walking tours and I became familiar with many of the shops and pubs. The window shopping was always first rate, and it could take me several hours to make it through the few blocks with the most commercial enterprises.
But, I wonder if you can recall one or two rare instances when a shop on the street appeared in a film. Do you recall for instance Coral Browne
on her assigned rounds visiting John Lobb and Turnbull's in "An Englishman Abroad?" Although they're very cordial and accommodating at Lobb's, she encounters difficulty at (I think it was) Turnbull's. Do you recall the line "we don't sell pyjamas to traitors?" (Alan Bennett at his finest).
We love that film, and we try to watch it at least once a year. Dundee fills in for Moscow, and oh that lovely closing shot!
London is my favorite city overseas and Chicago is my favorite in the U.S. Both are very walkable, and the neighborhoods change delightfully as you explore. I have been in both cities several times and learned where to find an affordable breakfast or internet cafe. Sadly many of my favorite London shops are no longer in existence. I have stayed in a variety of hotels in London and only once had a bad experience. I prefer the older hotels with "atmosphere". Friends belong to the Sloane Club near Sloane Square and it sounds a lot like the Eyrie in personality. Your lovely article makes me homesick for London and I think I need a Brit-fix soon!
When my wife and I moved to London in 1970 we initially stayed at The Cavendish, convenient to my office at 87 Jermyn Street. In 1977 we moved to Devon, 200 miles southwest of London, and started a small country hotel and restaurant which became quite celebrated. At some time, we started to stay at 22 Jermyn Street, and we remain good friends with Henry, though we don't see him often enough.
Though we live in Devon, we have a flat in Marylebone and we spend about ten weeks there every year. Marylebone High Street is one of the nicest neighbourhood streets in London, and most people would rate La Fromagerie as the best cheese store in town now. I still buy shirts on Jermyn Street, but most everything else in Marylebone. There is an old fashioned hotel, atmospheric if slightly shabby, Durrants, on George Street off the High Street. Regents Park is just north of Marylebone, and it's a nice walk from our flat to Lords Cricket Ground in St Johns Wood.
One other fine hotel, not inexpensive but still family run for more than a hundred years, is The Goring behind Buckingham Palace.
What a beautiful and appropriately long (like a rainy London day not like the clipped newspaper stories we must write today) Eyrie Mansion remembrance.
Thanks to Roger, the Eyrie Mansion was my first ever landing place in London when he took our family on vacation to Europe in the mid-80s. My sister and I would visit him there while we attended University College London in early 90s.
But most memorably it was where my pal and I took refuge when we missed our flight back to Chicago in the late 80s. We were two high school girls who had no idea what we were going to do. Roger just happened to be in town. We called him weeping from Heathrow and he said, "come back into the city, we'll go to the theater and I'll put you up for the night at the Eyrie Mansion."
It was like a home after the budget package deal hotel we'd been staying in.
I'll never forget stopping into Roger's room one rainy afternoon on one of the trips to find him in front of the fire with a book, a steaming pot of tea and provisions from Paxton & Whitfield. He was smearing pungent Stilton on McVitie's digestive biscuits and topping them with a dollop of black currant jam, all washed down with hot milky tea. As a foodie neophyte I was initially skeptical about the combo, but today it still remains one of the most delicious and vivid food memories I've ever collected.
And Mr. Tonya...Roger said it best and I can't add anything more.
Thank you for allowing this poor student and kid to have experienced a special place that--even at its modest prices--was always out of her league. And for allowing me to experience it all over again in your prose.
Ebert: Ah, yes. I am amazed by your recall:
...pungent Stilton on McVitie's digestive biscuits and topping them with a dollop of black currant jam, all washed down with hot milky tea.
Exactly correct. And the Stilton of course came in the little crock pots from Paxton & Whtfield. And something tells me you're about buy yourself some Stilton, McVitie's digestive biscuits and black currant jam today. A superb treat.
I also liked their sausages sliced, with a dollop of Colman's English Mustard.
Dollop. I've always favored that word.
Lapsang Souchong... this is my father's favourite tea. A few years ago he decided to explore afternoon tea at various places in england when he visited (and elsewhere since then). At The Royal Crescent Hotel in Bath he discovered lapsang souchong, which he described as peaty and smoky-flavoured. (He claims that discovery was the one positive aspect of afternoon tea there.) He now always orders it when he can, and apparently anyone with him is turned off by the smell (I'm not sure if anyone has actually tried it while with him). I have not had a chance to try it myself, but my interest has definitely been peaked.
Roger, I echo the praise of others. Your anglophilic ramblings are marvelous. And you're right. "Modernization" sucks. I have been a bored, nicked user of lime Barbasol too. You move me to read beyond Great Expectations which is all I know. Thanks again. Splendid.
This clunky blog of mine is the online equivalent of a balloon-wheel Schwinn. I've tweaked Movable Type as much as I can. No choice of type faces. The editors say, yes, but it's storing 50,000 published comments for you.
Quantity over quality?
Roger: I've had the privilege of visiting London on three occasions. Each time, I am awed by the history, the architectural glory, and the wonderful randomness. And yet, each time, the experience is lessened somewhat, by the addition of the latest modernization or constructed monstrosity (Eye, anyone?).
The variety of shops is a joy, and walking London is one of life's great pleasures.
During my first visit to London, I remember the joy of visiting locations I had only seen in movies, or read descriptions of: Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly Circus, the Tower Bridge. Everywhere I looked, a new feast for the eyes. Harrod's for the first time, adorned in full Christmas regalia. To my young Midwestern mind, the eighth wonder of the world.
I can't wait to take my children.
I have no interest in fancy soaps. I've never much cared for tea or rainy days. There's really nothing in particular I can think of about London that appeals to me. So why do I want to go there so badly?
There's an intangible, hard to describe mystique to London that your piece captures beautifully. It's sad to think that some of that quality may be lost to pointless, cash-motivated modernization. Especially before some people even have a chance to see it (like me).
Personally, I've never had to watch a beloved memory torn down. Where I live, I've seen plenty of businesses come and go; restaurants, arcades, clothing stores. But it's never been anything I've felt a personal connection to, so it's hard for me to completely grasp that feeling of nostalgia you have for Jermyn Street. I understand it, but I've never been through it. The feeling I did get from your entry, however, was that of going to an unknown, foreign place and being able to discover the quirks and mysteries of it for the first time. It's an experience I've only had a couple times, but I hope to have more.
This past summer, I went on a cruise with three friends of mine. It was the first vacation I ever went on without my parents, and it was an experience completely new to me. It didn't take very long to realize that my friends and I were looking for different things out of the trip. They were mostly concerned with getting drunk and looking for girls; I wasn't too interested in spending my vacation bent over a toilet bowl, so I kept my drinking light. As far as the girls went, I was mostly too nervous to even try. So I kind of ended up doing my own thing.
I remember one of the first nights, I was searching for my friends and found them in a dance club. I had discovered a piano lounge earlier that night, with a terrific, witty woman who sang songs and talked to everyone who came in. I asked them if thay wanted to come. They didn't. They asked me to stay and hang out there. I didn't.
They understood that the club wasn't exactly my thing, so they didn't mind when I went off on my own. What I didn't understand was how it was theirs, because none of them danced or listened to that type of music. Either way, I was glad of the opportunity to wander the boat. I had my camcorder with me, so I took quite a bit of footage (trying my best not to film the girls in bikinis - not because I'm a gentleman, but because I didn't want someone getting pissed and throwing my camera in the Atlantic). I found a ten dollar bill and used it for my first casino experience, where I won fifty-four dollars. I went to a movie trivia contest in the showroom, where I thought I'd easily trump the other passengers with my expansive knowledge (I lost horribly). Each day I'd discover something new. And each night, I'd return to the piano lounge.
It was a really great experience. One of the reasons I bring it up is that your entry immediately brought it to mind. The other reason is that I think I may be finally having it again, in April when I go to Ebertfest. My friend that was supposed to come with me just switched jobs and won't be able to get the time off from work, so I may be going solo. I'm excited, but scared. At least on the cruise I always had my friends to fall back on when my wanderings were through. I won't this time. And it doesn't help that I have an absolutely atrocious sense of direction (the cruise left from Miami; I flew down a day later then my friends on what was supposed to be a direct flight from Hartford, Connecticutt. I ended up lost in a Baltimore airport). But I'm more excited then scared. I'll have my camcorder with me again (without having to worry about pointing it at something and getting decked), and I'll have my wits. And this time, I don't think I care if I get lost.
Ebert: You will become a great traveler. You approached the cruise as one should approach a city. You won't get lost at Ebertfest. We give you a pass to hang around yoor neck, and just ask a friendly policeman. :)
But, did Henry's old place have Spectravision? I doubt it. Luddites, all of you. (Insert smiley face.)
Great piece. I've only been to London once, and found it overwhelming and constantly had my head down because, without the instruction painted on the street, I would invariable look left instead of right.
Roger quotes Henry James: "The best seat in any theater in the world is the front seat on the upper deck of the London Omnibus."
But if only I could envision that?
Lo and behold I find a plethora of them in "Old London Street Scenes(1903)"-at the site most kindly shared by Cat(Feb.8).
Various scenes, culminating in a veritable traffic jam of London Omnibuses and other horse drawn contraptions on a dusty, bustling 1903 London thoroughfare. Only a single intrusion by the newfangled horseless carriage. Swear I spotted Mr. James his-self looking about, seated in the front of one, on the upper deck, just above the Nestle's Milk sign.
I know this is not the appropriate blog article for this comment BUT isn't this, http://photo.newsweek.com/oscar-roundtable/2010/index.html?GT1=43002, what originally Siskel and now you always refer to?
Dear Roger;
My travels are primarily vicarious. Every trip I've taken with you has been extraordinary. They are always full of sounds, tastes and especially enticing aromas. And always those marvelous characters!
"My dear boy" he said, "if you don't flush out the pipes, they'll run brown." Truer words have never been spoken.
Cheerio.
Roger,
NO previous entry has made me sadder than the Jermyn Street one. I never
stayed at the Eyrie, but at a name long forgotten transient flat place a few doors west. This is 26 and more years ago, in my callow youth. I would walk down York Street to the corner to do business with Spink's. Have an aperitif at the Red Lion while waiting for a stool at Wheeler's immediately across the street. John, the major domo, would venture into the Lion to rescue his patrons, often taking a pint back with him. (Wheeler's York Street never had room for brews. They served white Chateau de Plonk and hock by the glass.) I banked at the NatWest branch on the corner.
My fondest wish in my dotage, was to return, but your entry has removed one of the main reasons for doing so. No matter what they intend, the resulting modifications will adversely affect the ambiance of one of the most delightful neighborhoods in the Western World.
Thanks for the warning.
@ Cat
I've been browsing the articles on your blog. Very good writing indeed. We could have a long conversation on the book 'Remains of the Day', which I consider to be perfectly written.
I see that you like all things Italy. You'll have to check out Marie Haws's website and view her Italian landscape paintings. Beautiful work, I'm sure you'll enjoy.
i suddenly got a tremendous urge to shave.thank you roger,great post.
Ah, one more place I will never get to see if I am ever lucky enough to get to London. What a wonderful post - I could feel the gas fire!
I have been an Anglophile since 1964, when I first heard the Beatles. I've been to Britain twice: once after I graduated college in 1985, and on my honeymoon in 1989, the week the Berlin Wall came down. I miss it so. We got to Liverpool (of course) and Oxford and the Guernsey islands, including Hern, the smallest island I've ever set foot upon. You can drown in British bathtubs. Cucumber sandwiches epitomize everything about their character. Everyone we met was absolutely charming, even the street punks at Trafalgar Square.
Thanks for the memories. Beautifully written.
I had to blink away tears before plucking away on my computer to say how many memories this brought to mind and spirit. Thank you for keeping the doors to the past open and making the Eyrie Mansion come alive once more.
Ebert: You looked at me covered with mud and said, What happened to you?
There was something about that address, or location, that had to ferment in my brain for awhile, and it finaly bubbled up to the surface: Dorothy L. Sayers' fictional detective Lord Peter Wimsey lived not far, at 110 Piccadilly. Google maps says that's about a mile away.
Ian Carmichael, who just recently passed away, was my indrouction to the character and Sayers writing, and the BBC productions have set my expectation of what London was like between the Wars. Not that they are documentaries, but in the same way that Lady from Shanghai, Vertigo, and Bullett show a San Francisco that sort-of was (some of which I can still find).
Do you have some movies that inhabit the London of Eyrie Mansion?
Wow, the differences in tone between the comments here and the comments on your "quiz" is very striking!
I'd rather hang out with this crowd, thank you very much.
Great blog entry, as usual.
I can still hear the late Jim Valvano's voice exhorting me, exhorting all of us: "Don't give up. Don't ever give up."
I have never given up my dreams of travel, although I will admit I gave up the practicalities a decade or more ago.
Earlier in my life practical concerns never bothered me a whit. I traveled constantly for almost 20 years. I have been to 49 states, most of them several times, and some of them many times. I have visited every province in Canada at least twice, and spent many wonderful days and nights in in four of my favorite cities there: Montreal, Toronto, Quebec City, and my personal favorite, Vancouver, BC. (Hi Marie! Nice place you have there!) I have also been just across the border in Mexico a handful of times, so I have covered most of the continent of North America quite thoroughly.
I've seen a Broadway play in New York, buried my face in deep dish pizza in Chicago, traveled every inch of Hwy. 101 on the Pacific coast, been covered in sand flies on a tiny island just off the Atlantic coast of Florida, watched a College World Series game in Omaha, stayed in an empty mansion in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, listened to my footsteps echo hollowly in the nearly deserted Love Field in Dallas (after DFW opened), wandered the streets of Hamtramck, MI, sticking my head into dozens of Polish bakeries where the delicious aromas could not be ignored; so many such journeys that I could go on for hours. (I won't.)
I was at the 1964 World's Fair in New York, and Expo '67 in Montreal, thanks to my parents, who took a peculiar delight in traveling our country with four boys in tow.
But I have never been off this continent, and so my travel dreams persist. I want to visit Europe, London (where my father's family comes from), Switzerland, all the Scandinavian countries (especially Sweden, where my mother's family originates), France, Italy, Australia & New Zealand...and I'm just getting warmed up.
I've never given up my dreams, even though Life got in the way.
During the course of a decade I got married (twice), divorced (also twice), and carried on a long affair with drugs and alcohol. During these years my travels limped to a halt. Even worse, I barely noticed.
A dozen years ago now, things changed even more dramatically. I quit drugs. (no intervention, no support groups, no 12 step plans... I just stopped. I am an extremely lucky man.) I got married again, and this time it worked. (Since this was the first marriage I entered as a responsible, thinking adult, this is not a surprise.) At the age of 45 I discovered I was to become a father for the first time, followed 13 months later by our 2nd child, so that suddenly I was part of a real family - just like I had when I was growing up.
I gave up running the small company I had owned for 11 years, a job that had kept me on the road for weeks at a time and that I devoted 80-100hrs a week to. I took a job with a small privately owned company in the Northwest that I still enjoy, even though I will never grow rich.
The kids kept growing, the budget got tighter, then cancer happened (to my wife) and heart disease struck (me), and Life grew even more complicated. But the dreams of travel, which my darling wife shares just as passionately, have never died.
We took a few simple trips: To Michigan to visit my father (who turns 90 in a few weeks, bless his soul), and to Florida to visit my mother-in-law before she passed away (even though, just as the stereotype demands, she NEVER liked me; I was never good enough for her baby girl).
But we both knew that economics, health concerns and other considerations (our son has Aspergers Syndrome, so child care for such a 10yr old is difficult to arrange & requires an understanding, empathetic and capable adult) would prevent us from our flights of fancy that would take us here and there across oceans and dreams. We resigned ourselves to fate, but we refused to stop dreaming.
Two months ago we made the annual trip a couple of hours up the highway to my employer's headquarters for the annual Christmas Party. Every year the Owner/CEO has a drawing for gifts he purchased. This year was no different, as he had 6 gifts for us to draw for, amongst the 25 employees of the company. (Those who can't be present know to be available via telephone in case their name is drawn.)
To make a long story shorter, my wife and I visited the party for a few hours, then headed back to the hotel we were staying at, as we were both exhausted and ready for bed. I was almost asleep when the phone rang, and stumbled across the room, picked up the phone, and heard my CEO announce (with more than a small amount of glee in his voice) "Congratulations, Greg. You won the Grand Prize. You are going to Italy!"
It turns out the prize is 10days/9nights on a Rick Steves tour to central Italy, all expenses paid, including airfare. This is not your typical tour, as Rick Steves is an activist who believes in travel as a necessity of life. No "grand" hotels are included, only locally owned hotels, restaurants etc. are on the itinerary. (Just google Rick Steves for a look at his company, his philosophy and his tours).
Holy (expletive deleted)!!!
So now my wife and I find ourselves getting passports, trying to learn Italian, studying the cities and places we'll be visiting, and even two months into the process (& six months before we leave) we are still breathless with excitement.
Are we incredibly, unbelievably lucky? Absolutely! But this just shows that Jimmy V was right:
"Don't give up. Don't ever give up."
P.S.--> Roger: We promise to remember that memories are created, not given. We hope to create memories as lush and meaningful as those you cherish from London & Jermyn Street. With your lovely example, we will surely trod the right path. Thank you, as always, for your wonderful blog. Without it, our lives would not be nearly as rich.
Ebert: Greg, this made me very, very happy! Not just the tour, but the kind
of tour. You will enjoy Italy twice as much. Tour groups usually mass-book into anonymous massive hotels.
Italy. Yes. Italy. Just the gelato will make your visit.
The first time I visited the UK was in 1997 on a Trafalgar tour. My mom had saved up for it, being her dream to travel around Europe. We were there for about a week, there will never be in another place like it.
I have been extremely fortunate that my work allowed me to be stationed in the UK (Surrey) for about two months. For several weekends I took the train to London, and I will be forever an Anglophile because of the experience. Walking around London during that time was my personal watershed. I kept on telling myself, "Do you realize where you are?" I remember walking into Westminster Abbey agape at seeing who was buried there.
And it's not just London. Taking train rides all over the UK is something someone should do at least once in their life if they can afford to do so. I long to go back. The last PRIDE AND PREJUDICE compels me to do so (Chatham House! Wait for me!)
Waving at Greg Howard and giving a "mille grazie" to Karl-Heinz; smile.
All this talk of London put me in the mood last night to watch a film I haven't seen in a while:
"Match Point" (2005) by Woody Allen, with Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Scarlett Johansson.
Shot entirely in and around London, locations included some of the city's most famous landmarks as well as lesser-known sites in Belgravia, Marylebone, Notting Hill, Chelsea and Covent Garden.
However what I remember most was a luxury apartment inside "Parliament View Apartments", Lambeth, London SE1 and it served to prompt my interest in seeing it again:
http://janedark.com/doc-1433.jpg
Here are all Woody's locations "with" pictures:
http://www.movie-locations.com/movies/m/matchpoint_01.html
I love the view of Parliament and Big Ben from that apartment; it must be spectacular at night with the city all lit up and lights reflecting off the water. I love the natural light spilling in through those tall windows, too.
And why it's so sad.
As the apartment leaves me cold; like the Tate Modern. And I hate the large columns blocking where my eye wants to gaze - and isn't that always the way of it? They always need to put a pole right where you want to look out. And the building itself hardly endears itself to me. I'd much rather plop down and have a drink inside The Audley, on Mount Street in Mayfair. Or, and murder aside, live at Clarence Gate Gardens, on Glentworth Street in Marylebone.
I felt the same, walking around London through Woody's camera and following his characters here and there. Whenever I saw a modern building I wanted to move away and closer to something older. I wanted to sit on the bench with actor Rupert Penry-Jones and just let the age of the city wash gently over me so as to erase all that annoying modernity; sorry Cat. :)
Note: "The Tate Modern has another identity imaginatively bestowed on it in Richard Loncraine’s Thirties-set Richard III, where it becomes the ‘Tower of London’, a massively intimidating Eastern European-style prison." - moivelocations
And with that parting shot, I shall leave you now, as I've got "The Draughtsman's Contract" by Peter Greenaway to watch.
Smile.
Oh dear. I've stayed at 22 Jermyn a few times, and loved it. I much preferred it in the 80s before it was redone and consequently moved to another little (it will remain undisclosed because I love it too) place across town. Now I feel guilty.
I saw your Valentine's Day review. I recently saw Ushpizin and the best part of the movie was the actors created real characters with genuine emotion on the screen, and I think it's interesting that most Hollywood 'romantic comedies' lack anything resembling real romance. (This comment is offtopic but too long for twitter probably :P)
Many years ago a very severe lady of “the old school” I knew used to regale her friends with the following clerihew.
When Emmeline became a tart
She gave her family quite a start.
But blood is blood, and race is race,
And so to save the family face
They hired the most expensive beat:
The floodlit side of Jermyn Street.
ps from Chichester, Sussex. Your reviews, Mr Ebert, are vital. Thank you.
You have captured the London of my first youthful visit during the Carnaby Street days. At 19, I was a culture sponge, but girly enough to adore all the toiletry shoppes and the jumble sales. I visited many times after that, mostly to see my best friend who married an English solicitor and now lives in a Chelsea row house (she is obviously living MY fantasy!). My strongest memories are of quirky things -- an ancient Cockney in a pub who insisted he looked like Rock Hoodsun, helping my friend bring home a huge coffee table in the back of a cab (try that in a NYC taxi), finding my first fizzy bombs in a trendy soap shoppe, buying a large Staffordshire dog on Bermondsey Road and holding it in my lap during the plane flight home, and spending a week there during a terrible heat wave, when the hotel windows only opened half way. London is the only city I've visited where I have a certainty of what lies around each corner, even in districts I've never seen before. It convinced me that this Polish girl from NJ has an Old English soul.
Beautiful piece. Reminds me of my first-ever trip abroad to Ireland a few years ago, as a graduate student older than most. I wasn't involved with anyone at the time, so it was truly frightening to step off the plane alone, manage a taxi to the college dorms and find sustenance (in the form of an apple, Dubliner cheese and Bewley's tea). I'd traveled alone to New York City and in Canada for years but being so far from home shook me a bit. I've also had type 1 (juvenile) diabetes since age 12 and travel makes for an interesting experience at times.
Of course after a few days of realizing it wasn't nearly as scary as I thought (except for a small diabetes-related emergency or two!), I got bored quickly with the quiet neighborhood of the college and ventured off. I walked for miles and learned not to look for street signs. I saw, heard and smelled curious new things and set out to explore. I saw a play at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin and looked at James Joyce's typewriter in the Irish Writers Museum; I held my breath over the Book of Kells at Trinity College and learned the words to "Molly Malone".
I ventured off on my own to Wales, Scotland and western England for a couple of days, and marveled at my own ability to adapt and thrive so quickly. Surely it was easier than learning a new language, but there's equal truth in the old saw about American and British English (not to mention Scots, Welsh, and Gaelic). I loved being alone with my thoughts and fully embracing each new thing as if on fire with knowledge; I loved walking the old streets of Dublin and feeling the wash of humanity that must have moved through all those old Georgians long before my time.
And I shall never have a cup of tea anywhere that can equal that Bewley's, freshly steeped with a spot of cream and lemon, and a soft, bright Irish damp outside my window on a Saturday morning.
Great memories, well written.
I lived at the end of Jermyn Street, in Arlington House overlooking Green Park, in the early 1970s. The head doorman told a great story about Harold Wilson, who, when he unexpectedly lost the prime ministership and had to move out of 10 Downing, was given temporary digs by a friend in a penthouse in Arlington House (the one we then inhabited). He was so concerned to spoil his image that he would enter and exit via the garage roadway so that, should someone spot him, he could claim he was merely parking there. [Originally I am from Oak Park, now living in Evanston}
I smiled when I read your response to my comment. That is definitely the first time anyone has ever predicted I will become a great traveler (I'm glad I have it in writing). I can picture my friends' response when I tell them: Sean, you get lost in the mall.
I wasn't all that worried about getting lost at Ebertfest; it was more the whole "getting there" thing that concerned me. But I think I'm going to be flying down, so unless something incredibly tragic occurs on the plane, I don't think I'll have any involvement in the navigation process. And once I'm down there, like you said, I can just ask a friendly policeman.
Also, I just wanted to bring up an article I read in the March 2010 issue of Esquire you might be familiar with, called "The Last Words of Roger Ebert." Despite the slightly morbid sound of the title, the article was actually more hopeful than anything else. And any readers of this blog will recognize more than a handful of the topics brought up. I think it would be a great read even if you come across the article casually, but for anyone who's devoted time to this blog - or is just a fan of yours in general - it will hold twice the meaning. I don't want to cheapen it by tossing a bunch of meaningless adjectives at it, but it truly was funny, sad, insightful, and like I already said, a great read. I strongly urge everyone to check it out.
Ebert: Chris Jones is a good man who spent a fair amount of time with us. The article is fair and accurate. To paraphrase Mark Twain, there was some stretchers, but he told the truth mostly.
Oh no! That was my neighborhood, too! I never lived there, but in the early nineties I went to Notre Dame's London law program when it was housed on Albemarle Street (I lived in a little bed-sit in Hampstead, with a shared bath). You brought back lots of memories for me.
Every time I go back to London, it seems a little more sleek, modern, and less like London and more like everywhere else. I shudder at what the Olympics will do to what's left.
Lovely, lovely article. The only time I ever stayed in London was in a hotel similar to the first you mentioned - head could touch the wall.
Nice to know that a better place and street existed then.
i thought this might interest you
http://shorterwater.blogspot.com/2009/08/victorian-architecture-commercial.html
Hi Roger,
I loved reading this piece and seeing the photos. It brought back some of my own wonderful memories of other London neighborhoods. Getting locked in at Kensington Gardens at night--it almost happened to me on my first trip to London on a Girl Scout trip in 1964! A friend and I had to run like mad (wearing our Girl Scout uniforms, of course) to get to the gate, and we were quite a distance from it at the time. Being American kids, we couldn't fathom the idea of locking a park at night.
Hmm, now you've got me wondering which passages involved the stretchers. I have a couple guesses, but to be honest I'm not really sure. There was some powerful stuff in the article, but it was really the more mundane things that caught my eye. Your habits and little quirks while viewing a film at a screening, your walks with Chaz, the fact that Jones was able to be present when you began writing your review for "Broken Embraces." It was the moments in between the life-changing events that fascinated me the most. But then again, maybe those were the stretchers? I'm going to have to re-read the article now.
Roger - a thorough and engrossing entry, today's.
I'm living up in my University's House in Hampstead for the spring semester and certainly hear and notice many changes going on in the city of London. Those nooks and crannies are becoming more and more rare, it seems.
Jermyn street is the latest casualty, but had it not been for your article, I would have bypassed seeing the street but one or two more times before heading back home to the states.
Now, it's on the top of my agenda for Saturday's "to do list."
Cheers! And thanks for providing such a rich taste of life and culture.
I don't know what was more wonderful--the hotel and it surroundings or your moving, wonderfully written memories of it.
This lovely, lovely essay took away a chocolate craving. One thing I love about your reminiscence of London, Jermyn Street, and Eyrie Mansion is its fond yearning, but also its delicious, chewy details. The names of merchants and streets and foods and toiletries. Words such as haberdashers and mongers, bangers and mash. Ampersands galore. The word “deliriously” matched up with happy, then chiming with “Eyrie” of Eyrie Mansion a few lines down. The story of getting trapped, muddied, and coldly rained upon inside the iron gates of a city park; your fan-assisted escape; your recuperation in a big warm bath, tinted green with Wilberg's Pine Bath Essence. The pictures, snapshots, drawings, especially – as someone else already said – the photo of you typing in your room. And Lapsang Souchong, which I've enjoyed most at Dobra in Burlington, Vermont; I can smell the burnt steam lifting from the hot cup. Mmm and aaah - thank you.
I have a great curiosity about Great Britain, in part because some of my ancestors hailed from there. Denise Levertov wrote a poem about “sombre Durgan,” a beach and old fishing village where "no strangers come" and “waves are black as cypresses/clear as the water of a wishing well.” This added Durgan (and neighboring Glendurgan Gardens) to my fantasy list of places in the world I'm curious to see, a list which includes London. But there are so many places on the list. I think that's one reason I love foreign movies.
And it's a reason I love Montreal. It's the closest big city to me, and it's an international one. The few times I've visited there, I've stayed in old beds-and-breakfasts, comfortable row homes that are solid enough to keep out the sounds of traffic and late night revelers. I love the old, buttery rich wood stairs with their right-angled edges gently worn into curves, and the simple yet comforting furnishings. One place has a deep bathtub big enough for two, with brass faucets in the middle on the side by the wall, instead of at the end, so neither person has to have knobs in his or her back.
Maybe it's strange to mention this here, but a couple of weeks ago, I dreamed I had come into ownership of an inn and was exploring it for the first time. It was a weird mix of elegant and shabby, of large open spaces and dark tunnel passages. It had a sunlit, cafeteria-sized library with a very high ceiling, the back left corner of which was dripping, but not onto any of the many shelves of books. Another floor held a full-scale movie theater. Etc. Most amazing of all, as the dream unfolded, it was made known to me that my inn was G. Fox's, the defunct Hartford, Connecticut department store, famous in part for its art deco lobby. I came across the old lunch counter but looked in vain for the portrait studio, where as a toddler in waking life my picture had been taken in velvet and lace – cradling a Batman doll from the toy department. My maternal aunt loved that store, as did my grandmother. In the dream, I thought happily of telling my aunt that now she could come to G. Fox's any time she wished.
Sad that 22 Jermyn Street couldn't stay.
You're the best. Just simply the best. This was such a wonderful read. I sometimes think the worst thing about this life just may be goodbyes, and you have captured the essence of a lovely, lovely thing, and time, and place, and the searing pain of the ending. Once in a while, I do not agree with a movie review you print, (rarely!!!) but I have always ALWAYS loved your writing. Bless you for this beautiful piece.
I NEED YOUR HELP ROGER - See below.
Great Memories. Again - I visit your blog and spend wayyyy too much time here. I travel all over the US and Canada for business. I have not traveled enough internationally. I really need to change that. I keep putting it off. It should be easier now that my wife finally got her passport.
Since you are a marvelous tour guide - I am going to Chicago in mid to late March. I am staying downtown. I am in town for business, but what are the "Must Do" things to do in Chicago? Not necessarily the touristy stuff - but what is great?
I have been downtown Chicago once before, it was memorable, but I did not make good memories. I have been to 2 mtgs by the midway airport - but they were just scheduled for meeting convenience.
If you do not have the time to provide any tips, I understand. But I would appreciate it. And trust me I will do my best to visit what you tell me to check out!
Recently I was in Salt Lake during the Sundance film festival. Unfortunately it was a quick trip, and I could not take the time to run up to check out ANY of the festival. The story of my life - quick trips.
Ebert: If it's a decent day, take an architectural boat tour from Navy Pier. If not, you could do a lot worse than the Art Institure.
It's cold. In nicer weather I'd have different ideas. Anybody else?
I know that nothing is constant except change, but this is sad. So much of London is becoming interchangeable with other metropoli. (Is that a word? It is now.)
My first visit to London was in 1968. We stayed in a B&B in Russell Square, one of dozens in the area. Last trip, a couple of years ago, we went to the British Museum and I looked in vain around the Russell Square neighborhood for the funky B&Bs of old. (For that matter, the British Museum has been slicked up. Is there some international body that makes all such places adopt the same style?)
Worse, I went back to Foyles Books. I wanted to rummage through the ill-sorted shelves for treasures. No such luck. It's a clone of Borders or Barnes and Noble. And they're proud of this--here's a graf from their website:
"Though founded in 1903, Foyles didn’t arrive on the Charing Cross Road until 1906, from where we quickly became the most celebrated bookshop in the world, famed for our breadth of range and in later years for the complexity of the Foyles experience, from trouble finding the book you wanted amongst our vast stockholding, to the legendary chit payment system. Following the death in 1999 of the indomitable Christina Foyle, we underwent a full refurbishment completed in 2004, which re-established us as London’s leading bookshop."
Well, screw that. I had more fun, and spent more time and money, in the various hole-in-the-wall bookshops down Charing Cross Road from Foyles. I doubt this undermined Foyles's balance sheet, but one must do one's part.
Roger - Your great post on this great little hotel. And reading so many of the great comments got me thinking of something that is annoying - at least in the USA. How so many cities look the same and if I go to a shopping Mall in Atlanta they are nearly the same shops as the ones I live near in Seattle.
I took the family on a Spring Break to New York City. We stayed in Manhattan. On one of the tours we took (Gray Line I believe) the guide really talked about how NYC had changed and the stores and restaurants we were driving by were now chain stores.
After the first day, every night (6 straight) we would go to the Concierge and ask for a restaurant recommendation based on cuisine and casual dining. We went to many off the beaten path places and never had a single bad meal. In fact they were fantastic.
Since I travel for business I now try to eat at local places if I have the time to look them up. Or to ask local coworkers for good recommendations that are not chain restaurants.
I have nothing against a chain of restaurants, however like our NYC trip; I did not fly all the way to NYC to eat at TGI Fridays or Mortons. We have them in Seattle. We did eat a lunch at Subway, but most of the time we found local deli's that was better.
You reminded me of this, thought I would share.
Goodbye fashion genius Alexander McQueen.
Among numerous other achievements, this proud son of the East End created the now ubiquitous low waistband.
I know this is WAY off "topic" but I'm wondering is you're OK at this point since there's been no new post for some time, save the "Wolfman" review.
Ebert: Jes' fine, new entry Saturday, and hey, I had five new reviews on Friday, and a "Metropolis" piece.
Roger, I came to know from you of Irina Bragin's critique of the film “An Education” and would with your kind permission, like to address one particular issue which particularly rankled me, with a letter to her. I somehow feel that this belongs on this thread also. Thanks.
Dear “Dr” Bragin,
firstly and mainly, I wish for you to rectify your stance on the great bard, from whose play “The Merchant of Venice” you reference the character Shylock, who is portrayed as a caricatured Jewish businessman, as an anti-semitic depiction. This is patently false and for this grievance against one of the greatest contributors to world literature, I suggest you go back to study at the college at which you reputedly “teach” and desist from using the title some flywheel thought appropriate to confer upon you.
Here's why –
an excerpt from the King James Bible, Exodus: 32 –
“7 And the LORD said unto Moses, Go, get thee down; for thy people, which thou broughtest out of the land of Egypt, have corrupted themselves:
8 They have turned aside quickly out of the way which I commanded them: they have made them a molten calf, and have worshipped it, and have sacrificed thereunto, and said, These be thy gods, O Israel, which have brought thee up out of the land of Egypt.
9 And the LORD said unto Moses, I have seen this people, and, behold, it is a stiffnecked people:
10 Now therefore let me alone, that my wrath may wax hot against them, and that I may consume them: and I will make of thee a great nation.
11 And Moses besought the LORD his God, and said, LORD, why doth thy wrath wax hot against thy people, which thou hast brought forth out of the land of Egypt with great power, and with a mighty hand?
12 Wherefore should the Egyptians speak, and say, For mischief did he bring them out, to slay them in the mountains, and to consume them from the face of the earth? Turn from thy fierce wrath, and repent of this evil against thy people.
13 Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, thy servants, to whom thou swarest by thine own self, and saidst unto them, I will multiply your seed as the stars of heaven, and all this land that I have spoken of will I give unto your seed, and they shall inherit it for ever.
14 And the LORD repented of the evil which he thought to do unto his people.
15 And Moses turned, and went down from the mount, and the two tables of the testimony were in his hand: the tables were written on both their sides; on the one side and on the other were they written.
16 And the tables were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, graven upon the tables.”
Shylock the caricatured Jewish businessman antagonist, is defeated by the most celebrated prophet of Judaism – Moses, by that most celebrated Jewish act – argumentation, with which god himself was defeated.
This is the same great bard who also wrote the following, in one of the most renowned plays of the world, demonstrating that his view of god probably corresponded with the Jewish view that god is fallible and prone to err –
“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
On your critique of the film “An Education” –
if I can watch the film “Jesus Camp” and know that not all Christians are like that, or if I can watch “Death of a Princess” and know that not all Arab nations are like that, I think that I can watch the antagonist in “An Education” and know that not all Jews are like that.
Besides, you ask for the anti-semitism to be “exposed” what would you have liked, for the character “Jenny” to be stood outside a synagogue, converted to Judaism, repenting for the sins of the society around her, with a banner or placard reading in big boldface “FIGHT HATRED”?
Should you belong to the majority of the population, who possess an attention span of longer than two seconds, you would have realised that Jenny, who is the narrator of the film, does in fact, despite the efforts of her bigoted headmistress who thinks her “spoiled” by a Jew, end up going to Oxford University to study. Can you name one Oxford University alumnus, who is a recognised anti-semite, or even promotes bigotry? Her character, who can speak Latin and French and is consistently top of her class, is clever enough at the age of seventeen to know that anti-semitism is wrong, will not I somehow suspect let her experience with one bad Jew, colour her view of the entire Jewish race and perhaps if you weren't such a reactionary flywheel, you could realise this yourself. Until then, I suggest you pipe down and go back to study.
Yours faithfully,
Indian Idiot (H.W.)
P.S. I am not a religious person and I abhor bigotry, which most often happens to be second nature to simple minded reactionaries. I am also an artist who likes to think, not something I suspect you are too familiar with.
P.P.S. Great review of "An Education" Rog. I wholeheartedly agree with your assessment of it and I too think highly of the young Mulligan, hers was truly a remarkable performance.
MY NAME IS KHAN is a landmark in the world of cinema.that would set a role model for future movies.SHAHRUKH is stupendous..Not once does he lose his grip on the distinct character who has a distinct body language and a completely unchartered emotional graph..the real KING is back vid a bang..Don't miss it..!! “The firs......t superhero with only one superpower — HUMANITY”
Ebert: Have you seen this, new on this site?
http://j.mp/9gKU6P
Life can be weird and sometimes in a good way. I like to think it's a sign the Universe is keeping tabs on folks, and waiting for just the right moment to surprise us with what we'll later attribute to happenstance.
Indeed, it's just happened to me and it all starts in here...
"Oh, no. No. No. This cannot be. They're tearing down 22 Jermyn Street in London..." Roger cried. For he'd received word that a beloved kindred-spirit in the guise of street posing as a time capsule within which the eccentricity and charm of an earlier time had been preserved, was not long for this world.
Too costly to repair, too worn out to keep, those empowered to make such decisions had decided that it all had to go. And thus another patch of old London will soon be lost to the ongoing blind evolution of that city.
I naturally empathized for being able to relate and it got me thinking in here, as you've seen, about Architecture; the old and the new.
At the same time this was happening, however, I was discovering a hitherto unknown series called "Sanctuary" - which began as webisodes over at the SciFi Channel. It did so well they decided to turn it into an actual TV series; it's ironically a Canadian production and shot 8 miles from where I live at a local Studio.
Synopsis:
"Sanctuary follows the adventures of Dr. Helen Magnus, an English scientist who was part of a group of five from the Victorian era and seeking to push the boundaries of science. What they discovered led Magnus to set-up sanctuaries around the world to aid, study, and at times confine what are called "abnormals" - human and non-human entities with extraordinary abilities. Along with her new recruit and fearless daughter Ashley, they together track down the strange and often terrifying creatures that secretly live among us - the stuff of childhood nightmares. Helen recognizes that the world is full of nature’s evolutionary mistakes and triumphs, and has the spectacular proof that they are indeed real." Series trailer:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v4Yzy1TK7YI
The "Sanctuary" she heads lies in what's best described as Chicago meets New York; a massive period building partly modeled after the Natural History Museum in London - itself, a triumph of high Victorian architecture by Alfred Waterhouse and which has been called a cathedral to nature.
It's all CGI and green screen and thus why they can afford to create a onscreen marriage of the arcane meets state of the art technology. Think "Dark City" goes "Hellboy" albeit on a budget.
Now toss in famous figures from history or literature, like Dr. Watson and Jack the Ripper and there ya go.
And here we are.
A post about the Architectural evolution of London, coincides with the discovery of a series about evolution and its failed experiments. And the loss of much loved buildings to stand in sharp contrast to the novelty of finding an extraordinary one, the Sanctuary, which resembles where Darwin's collection was housed. There's also meeting a villain named John Druitt who turns out to be the infamous Jack the Ripper; his murderous tendencies however, the result of a parasitic host.
He's played by actor Christopher Heyerdahl, who appears as "Jim Corbett" in an IMAX film called "India: Kingdom of the Tiger."
And who was Jim Corbett..? Let's go to India for a minute, trailer...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8Jjs_AQa70
And as the Gods would have it, I just watched that very movie, tonight. I watched it without knowing in advance that Christopher Heyerdahl was in it; I heard his voice and immediately recognized it - he's got one of those, you see.
Above me as I type, I can see the thread's most recent post - by "Indian" Idiot (H.W.)
Smile.
And so you see, yes?
Life can be weird and sometimes in a good way.
Roger, London, Architecture, Sanctuary, Evolution, Jack-the-Ripper aka Heyerdahl who plays a different type of killer who redeems himself by also saving what he once hunted and in a place very much like a "time capsule" too - India. (Where the British made their presence felt no less than Jack in London.)
A freaky convergence of countless overlapping things and which I can only call happenstance for having planned none of it and knowing no other term to describe it.
And now I'm going to watch Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes in "The Spider Woman" and eat some ice cream.
"She hardly leaves 1-A except to go to Harley Street for her shock treatments." I laughed myself sick at this, not only because it's such a great punchline, but because it's the one treatment that hasn't been tried to treat my lifelong depression. I wonder if our mutual illness had a mutual cause, failure with the opposite sex.
Before anywhere else, I've always wanted to be in Dublin for Bloomsday, but London has always run a close second. Alas, living on a fixed income, they, along with Paris, Vienna, Venice, Edinburgh and, er, Loch Ness, are no longer in the cards - hell, I can't even afford the hotel rates for Ebertfest.
It's unfortunate that there's no kind-hearted billionaire that would do for the Eyrie what was done for that Thames bridge decades ago.
@ Indian Idiot (H.W.) wrote:
"Goodbye fashion genius Alexander McQueen..."
Yes, yes he was. A genius, that is.
The label "enfant terrible" tended to overshadow his skill and accomplishments, but for all the performance art on display in his runway shows, beneath it was an extremely skilled designer, one who'd cut his teeth with bespoke tailors on Saville Row.
The man knew how to cut a piece of fabric.
The shocking social commentary, cheek and biting wit which often accompanied his work and for literally being sewn into it, is why so many often missed how impeccably they'd been constructed. Look at this yellow dress - and tell me you don't see one of Darwin's butterflies...
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b9/Alexander_McQueen_Resort_10_Yellow.jpg
Not all wearable Art is pretentious crap.
Note: McQueen lost his mother nine days before suddenly being found dead in his apartment. No official cause has yet been released but the British tabloids are reporting he'd handed himself. If so, how profoundly sad; it means his death was an act of unbearable grief.
Dear Roger,
I ran into you - literally - in Princes Arcade when you were deftly avoiding falling plaster during a repair. You had your Nicholson's Guide in hand.
I gently chastised you for your review of Al Brooks' Real Life and you said I liked his next movie - Modern Romance. I wish you would've offered your #22 at that time as I really needed it then and many times since. Oh well...
Having had my shoes made at New & Lingwood - back in the day - and bought my clothes to fit my younger frame, at the stores you've mentioned, I have many memories and your prose kills me as this is the reason I go to London.
What are we to do?
With best wishes,
John
Ebert: New and Lingwood. Your feet feel better just thinking that.
London is the greatest city in the world! One of my favorite quotes about London.
“When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford. “ --Samuel Johnson
"Take us the foxes,
The little foxes that spoil the vines.
For our vines have tender grapes." - Song of Solomon 2:15
Lillian Hellman's play "The Little Foxes" takes its name from that passage. As does the 1941 film version directed by William Wyler. It features Betty Davis in one of her most memorable roles - a sinister Southern aristocrat and back-stabbing villain named Regina Hubbard Giddens, and which I've just now finished watching on DVD in glorious B/W.
I noticed for the first time in the opening credits, that Dorthy Parker actually contributed lines of dialogue to the film. That helps to account for why it still cuts like a razor, all these years later.
That's very interesting, but why mention it in here..?
Because of this speech by Regina's dying husband; a man never loved by his wife and wanted now only for his money, dead or alive...
"I'm sick of your brothers and their dirty tricks to make a dime. There must be better ways of getting rich than building sweatshops and pounding the bones of the town to make dividends for you to spend. You'll wreck the town, you and your brothers. You'll wreck the country, you and your kind, if they let you. But not me, I'll die my own way, and I'll do it without making the world worse. I leave that to you." - Horace
note: Regina and her bothers are plotting an investment scheme to build a cotton mill in their small Southern town and exploit the poverty and cheap labor in the area.
I've seen "The Little Foxes" several times, but it never fails to make an impression upon me. It's such a honest portrait of the issues it speaks to. It's like looking back to where it all began; to the ill at work within a country and which would later give rise to more than one economic crash.
And imo, it's a similar mindset - the lust for profit, greed, which accounts for why old things often give way to new things when they don't have to. Social change for the better is always good; making it easier to make a buck at the expense of others, is not.
No more than changing a street so it looks akin to a thousand just like it and all over the world.
I know, I know; I'm projecting. But darn it, there's a part of me that can't help but think someone like Regina and that ilk, were pulling strings behind closed doors when it came time to seal the fate of Jermyn Street.
Ie: a bunch of foxes.
I lived in Wales for several years while working at Cardiff University. I researched hat shops, and discovered Bates Gentlemen's Hatter. I bought a beautiful hand finished tweed flat-cap for a friend in America who wears hats, and years later he still treasures it. I never knew anybody else had found Bates. I didn't know about the celebrities. I didn't know it was iconic. I just thought it was another British gem, and that I was very clever for having found it!
The real delight in Bates Gentlemen's Hatter is that it was not a surprise, nor unusual for London. It's one-in-a-million uniqueness and tremendous pride in impeccable workmanship and detail quality was oddly typical.
God, I am sorry to see it go. Not because I can'r buy more hats, but because that wonderful way of doing things is being snuffed out in that last bastion of charm, London. Ah well... (Bates has a post on their web site that they are moving up the
street. Hope at least some character remains.)
Ebert: Well, good, but the charm of that store was that it was so old and narrow and incredibly jammed with hats.
http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2077/2073699131_0db34a748b.jpg
Molly, I'm sorry to hear you didn't get to enjoy that wonderfully creaky room anytime then or later. At least you've had your share of "quirkiness" since then, but you're right to avoid the cold!
Roger, Thanks so much for the link. Like most people, I have a million excuses for quitting my travels, and none of them mattered when I read your essay or started reminiscing. I lived in Germany briefly and traveled all over Europe while there. 90% of the time, my German boyfriend and I slept in the back of his station wagon. My favorite city was Prague. Three days didn't begin to allow viewing all of those bridges, cathedrals, statues, cemeteries, and people! (That Old World Charm I mentioned before. People-watching takes on a whole new meaning in other countries.)
My only other travel outside of the US was to Jamaica when I was on an archaeology dig while a student. We lived in a "great house" and worked six days a week. When we got done in the evenings, we showered and went to Ochee (Ocho Rios) almost every night to dance, mingle, drink, and enjoy the island; hell, young people can do that after 10 hours of work, amazingly enough. The only time I went to a tourist spot in the month I was there, I was shocked at how the foreign "guests" treated the local staff. No wonder Americans and Europeans are considered rude! And those rude tourists missed out on so much of the real food, history, and hospitality of our Jamaican hosts.
I don't regret for one moment being poor in Europe or Jamaica because I think you get so much more from the locals than from anything Ritzy. I still treasure the memory of missing a ferry in Germany and being stuck for the night outside an old caboose used as a diner. The locals stayed after closing, and we heard them in there. My German boyfriend knocked and asked if we could buy some food. We were invited in. They weren't very friendly but asked me, through him, to tell a joke. Yep, just one joke. I didn't speak any German and was nervous as hell. They loved the joke! Turns out most of them understood at least some English and were "testing" the American girl, I guess. We had an absolute ball, and they couldn't have been nicer. By the way, once they did finally shut down, we slept in the back of that station wagon with full bellies and lots of German beer and singing to help our slumber.
Thanks for the memory lane.
Marie said: "Above me as I type, I can see the thread's most recent post - by "Indian" Idiot (H.W.)
Smile."
Shush Marie, you might have just given me away, or did you? :)
One of our national parks is named after Jim Corbett, good chap from the sound of things, for having seen the error of his ways and trying to prevent others from making the same horrible mistakes.
I remember an interview of McQueen from what seems like a lifetime ago, in it he was asked some question about how he would tackle the Paris fashion scene, having just been appointed head designer at Givenchy and I remember quite distinctly what he said - "destroy it".
Of course he didn't, but you had to admire the lad for his pluckiness, he was a very good foil to French chic + he knew how to cut a dress like few others did or still do and was perhaps as important if not more so than some of his other rebellious contemporaries like Westwood etc. and like you said he loved having a laugh, that robot paint flinging show in Paris was sheer genius, and very, very bitingly funny also. It's truly sad that he has died, doubly tragic if it was by his own hands, for that would mean that someone who could see it coming could've prevented it.
Roger - thank you very much for the excellent essay, which nicely evoked in me my own warm, foreigner's memories of Jermyn Street.
Before returning to Canada a couple of years ago, I had lived in the UK for 9 years, and off and on in London specifically for about 5 years. I fondly remember when I first went to buy suits and shirts on Jermyn (shortly after I had finished writing my DPhil and shortly before I started a new job working in the City). Like many other young men in London starting out on a new career, I knew that Jermyn was precisely the place to go to get fitted out, but I also knew I was culturally unprepared for the place, and I found the whole experience fascinating. The fact that I had grown up on the Canadian prairies and had first come to London 6 years earlier with nothing but a backpack, a working holidaymaker visa, no plans, no prospects, and certainly no money, added further excitement to the experience as I graduated to the the wacky comfort and eccentric opulence of the shops on Jermyn from the drab, impersonal unkindness of the typical high street shop.
This was such a beautiful post! It makes me really sorry that I never visited 22 Jermyn Street.
Thank you for the ride, because through your writing I have walked Jermyn and stayed at the Eyrie.
@ Indian Idiot (H.W.) wrote:
"Shush Marie, you might have just given me away, or did you? :)"
Not unless you're secretly a Canadian actor named Christopher Heyerdahl from British Columbia, stand 6'4" tall and your parents are Scottish and Norwegian; chuckle!
(He's the dude playing Jim Corbett in the IMAX movie.)
"One of our national parks is named after Jim Corbett, good chap from the sound of things, for having seen the error of his ways and trying to prevent others from making the same horrible mistakes." - Indian Idiot (H.W.)
It's a fascinating story, actually. I'm glad I stumbled upon it and for following the bread crumbs so thoughtfully scattered for me, by the Gods by way of Roger's trip down memory lane. :)
http://www.damninteresting.com/a-large-hearted-gentleman
And I love the irony that the actor who'd played Corbett, currently plays another real life character named Montague John Druitt; one of the suspects police considered for the mantle of "Jack of the Ripper."
As it's all so wonderfully, terribly English. You know; cucumber sandwiches in one hand, small sharp pointy object in the other. :)
Dickens and Edward Gorey. That's London. Chuckle; here's a shot of Edward Gorey with his cats - I don't know why, but I immediately thought of Roger...
http://www.thestandingroom.com/blog/images/gorey.jpg
Smile.
Ebert: Italy. Yes. Italy. Just the gelato will make your visit.
So I've been told. A co-worker who has been to Italy a handful of times has attested to that on several occasions, so I look forward to experiencing such gustatory delights.
My wife, however, notes a possible caveat: While in downtown Portland, OR with our children some weeks back she found a shop offering gelato - which she described to our winsome twosome as "even better than ice cream!"
Some brief time later the children enthusiastically agreed, but mommy was slightly less enthused; it seems that it cost $9 per scoop!
Please assure both of us that the price in gelato's motherland is not quite so steep. Especially since it seems that buying gelato in quantity is not practical. I am assured by my friend (and via online research) that true gelato is nearly impossible to store, and that no matter how carefully you care for it you will find that it lasts only 72 hours at best.
While I quite agree with the old saw about "the best things in life are free", I've also discovered that many of the best things in life are fleeting --such as laughter-- and must continually be refreshed.
It would seem that gelato may belong in this category as well. So much for my dream of a freezer crammed full of the icy delights.
*sigh*
Oooh, now I wish I'd know about this when I was cheerfully stomping about London.
Paxton & Whitfield, ohthankgod, I've been trying to remember that shop name, in hopes that one day I can return and ask them what was that lovely creamy sort of cheese, but not, you know, spreadable creamy but softish give like gouda but not gouda that was a honeymooner's perfect afternoon snack in 1996. It's been bugging me ever since.
You won a place in my son's heart by declaring his mother "must be a wonderful woman", when all I did was survive Lars von Trier's latest movie!
As for me, you have won a place in my heart by appreciating London so well. I was born and bred there, and you reminded me of so many things I had --- not "forgotten", but let slip into memory's secret caskets...yes, Pear's soap really was transparent!
Thank you, Roger,
Mary W.
Ebert: His report on your reaction was so pleased and affectionate.
My, yes, it;'s transparent. And grows more so the thinner it gets, until finally it's like a shard of golden window glass.
My how you took me back. I have wonderful memories of my old building in Whifflet Coatbridge Scotland. WALLACE STREET" I was brought up there in a n old red brick built in 1889. we had one main street with all the little shops. Thank-you Mr Ebert I will be looking out for more of your wonderful stories.
@ Greg Howard wrote:
"While in downtown Portland..it seems that it cost $9 per scoop! Please assure both of us that the price in gelato's motherland is not quite so steep..."
NINE dollars U.S..?!
Holy stream of profanity! That is wrong, and on so many levels. Seriously, that's evil.
I had two BIG scoops of chocolate and tiramsu flavored gelati for $2.50 at the Gelateria next to the Hotel Da Bruno, located on Salizzada S. Lio...
http://www.superdossier.com/images/hotel/21513.jpg
Which is just 3 minutes away from Piazza San Marco; here's a map dude!
http://www.hoteldabruno.com/EN/IMG/mappahotel%20bruno%20newUK.pdf
IMPORTANT STUFF TO KNOW:
Gelato (plural: gelati) is Italy's regional variant of ice cream. As such, gelato is made with some of the same ingredients as most other frozen dairy desserts. Milk, cream, various sugars, flavoring including fruit and nut purees are the main ingredients.
Gelato differs from ice cream in that it has a lower fat content, typically 3.5% for gelato versus 10-12% for ice-cream. Gelato has a higher sugar content, 24% for gelato versus approximately 14% for ice cream. Non-fat milk is added as a solid. The sugar content in gelato is precisely balanced with the water content to act as an anti-freeze, that is, to prevent the product from freezing solid. The types of sugar used are sucrose and dextrose and invert-sugar to control the apparent sweetness. Typically, gelato and Italian sorbet contain a stabilizing base. Egg yolks are used in yellow custard-based gelato flavors, including zabaione and creme caramel.
The mixture for gelato is typically made using a hot process, which includes pasteurization. White base is heated to 85°C. Heating the mix to 90°C is essential for chocolate gelato, which is traditionally flavored with cocoa powder. Yellow custard base, which contains egg yolks, is heated to 65°C. The gelato mix needs to age for several hours after pasteurization is complete in order for the milk proteins to hydrate or bind with the water in the mix. This hydration reduces the size of the ice crystals making a smoother texture in the final product. A non-traditional cold mix process is popular among some gelato makers in the United States.
Unlike commercial ice cream in the United States which is frozen in a continuous assembly line freezer, gelato is frozen very quickly in individual small batches in a batch freezer. The batch freezer incorporates air or overage into the mix as it freezes. Unlike American-style ice cream which can have an overage of up to 50%, gelato generally has between 20% and 35% overage. This results in a denser product with more intense flavor than U.S. style ice cream. U.S. style ice cream, with a higher fat content, can be stored in a freezer for months. Premium artisan gelato holds its peak flavor and texture (from delicate ice crystals) for only several days, even when it is stored carefully at the proper temperature. - wiki
Food science beats quantum mechanics any day. :)
@Marie Haws wrote: "NINE dollars U.S..?! Holy stream of profanity! That is wrong, and on so many levels. Seriously, that's evil."
You will get no argument from me, Marie, although you did get a hearty laugh via your elegant prose in reaction. Laughter is a wonderful thing. I laugh every day of my life, and not always just because of the absurdities I see. Unfortunately, too many people do not get the RDA of laughter they need for living a healthy life -- both mentally and physically.
(Well, crap. Now I will spend days -or longer- working out what I think the RDA of Laughter should be. I'm peculiar that way, which probably explains why my sense of humor is considered so bizarre by many well-meaning folks. Gee... thanks, Marie!)
And thank you for the assurance that $9/US per scoop is an aberration rather than the norm. My wallet breathes a grateful sigh of relief.
All my wife wants now is for Roger to publish his rice cooker cookbook -- so he can start working on his gelato recipes!
Dear Roger,
How thrilling to discover your blog! This is not hyperbole: I do not remember ever disagreeing with one of your opinions about films. You've been educating me since 1967, when I was 13. (I was grounded for about six months after sneaking out to see THE GRADUATE based on your review. It was worth it.) Loved this gorgeous piece about Jermyn Street, particularly because I've just finished reading all of Dickens' novels. Write on, and thanks for everything.
Marie said: "Not unless you're secretly a Canadian.."
So, finally Marie, your true feelings are out. I'm not good enough to be a Canuck eh?
What's that all aboot? :D
Marie also said: "As it's all so wonderfully, terribly English. You know; cucumber sandwiches in one hand, small sharp pointy object in the other. :)"
I usually take the Floyd view on Englishness - "..hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way..". Although, I will admit to enjoying a cucumber sandwich or two :)
LOL at that picture of Gorey, I see what you mean, completely surrounded by books and from the look of things, loving it :)
Indian Idiot (H.W.)
P.S. Sorry aboot that joke Marie, had to be done. Oh crap I did it again. DAMN you Terrence and Philip..here pull my fin..stop already :D
Thanks so much for your atmospheric account of visits to London through the years. Back in the 1990s, my wife, daughter and I were vacationing in London and happened to attend a farce set in the Restoration era ("Lust" was its name, I think - possibly performed in the Haymarket?); we found ourselves seated several rows behind you and your wife. It was a delight to see you ever so slightly out of context, deriving pleasure from a theatrical production... (And thank you, too, for writing the entertaining reviews anthologized in "Your Movie Sucks" - the book my sister gave me as a gift last Christmas!)
Hi
I happen to walk through Jermyn Street every day on my way to work, and like a true Londoner, completely ignore its splendour.
While it is sad that the street is to be "developed", it's important to recognise that it was always essentially a fantasy: a time-locked corner of Edwardian Britain maintained for visitors and the very wealthy. It conjures a paradise where gentlemen had valets (and they rhymed with "palate", not "allay") and the fruits of the Empire were laid at their feet. Not that that makes it any less "real", but the pre-War world that it takes its now-anachronistic character from was not always beautiful, or fair, and rested, in fact, on appalling social injustice. As a little pocket of history, though, it's fascinating. Think of it as a Colonial WIlliamsburg with better retail.
And incidentally, George Trumper, the gentlemen's perfumer, is moving just round the corner to Duke Of York Street, so it's still there for you.
Chris
What wonderful memories.
Debbie and I stayed at Eyrie Mansion on your recommendation on our first trip to London in '84 or '85, and fell in love with the place. 'Genteelly shabby' was your apt and accurate description then. It was like having our own warm, cozy and comfortable London flat.
I remember waking one morning to the sound of hoof beats in the street below. We opened those large double windows and saw members of what appeared to be the queen's horse guards trotting down Jermyn St. It suddenly could have been the 1880s -- or 1780s -- instead of the 1980s.
You had alerted us to Henry Sr.'s habit of 'touring the precincts' with his bottle of Teachers, so we weren't startled when he let himself in while Debbie and I were napping on our first jet-lagged day in London. We pulled on bathrobes and had a wonderful afternoon chat over drinks.
We returned a few times over the next few years, but couldn't afford the post-rehab tariff, so never saw the changes Henry Jr. made.
Jermyn St. is where, I too, learned the pleasure of men's 'shaving necessities' as Trumper's puts it. I continue to use the straight razor I bought at Trumper's, the silver badger brush from Taylor's of Bond St. (even though it's really just down Jermyn St.), and Trumper's lovely shaving creams.
We were in London this past December, staying down the street at the Cavendish when we discovered the sad news about the tear-down. Jermyn St. for us has always been the sophisticated, quiet, still-London shopping neighborhood contrasting with the noise and malling of nearby Piccadilly and Regent streets. The new development can't help but change that in unfortunate ways.
Ebert: At least you experienced one of Henry Senior's visits. I enjoy it so much when eyewitnesses like you testify to the fact that I don't make this stuff up.
@ Chris Longridge wrote:
Re: Jermyn Street
"While it is sad that the street is to be "developed", it's important to recognize that it was always essentially a fantasy: a time-locked corner of Edwardian Britain maintained for visitors and the very wealthy."
Yes and no. And I say that an artist aka: not a wealthy person.
Fortnum & Mason used to sell the tea in these special wooden trunks with 3 smaller chests inside it, and which I still have:
http://www3.telus.net/thiliasspace/Marie/jpegs/fortnum_tea.jpg
I remember the trunk cost 15 pounds. And I was able to get a simple box of the peach tea for around 2 pounds. The orange marmalade was under 3 pounds.
It was a treat. But an affordable one. Let's see you pull that off at Asprey's on Bond street; chuckle!
True, it's been years since I was last in London, but I was wearing a t-shirt, jeans and sneakers, dude. There was no snobbery, no attitude. I walked in the door, someone handed me a cup of tea in a real china tea cup and asked how they could help me?
In other words, to the extent such places owe their origins to the British Empire and all that that implies, is one thing. Then there's what's happened since, you know?
And if I can walk into Fortnum & Mason and buy a jar of Marmalade, anyone can.
Note: I don't disagree with you about the street, it's definitely not cheap to shop there, but an exception should be made for Fortnum & Mason, no? Normal people can shop there too; chuckle!
Even though they do indeed stock some very expensive items.
The story of the mysterious gatekeeper and his identity is the perfect tale -- part of me wants to know if you ever tried to find out his identity, while the other part of knows that it doesn't really matter.
Thank you so much for reigniting my memory of this lovely street!
I first discovered The Cavendish Hotel (which you mentioned briefly) in 1999, and have occasionally dreamed of going back there. I am bummed that much of Jermyn Street is not going to be what it once was, and that charming The Cavendish became a part of a chain just a few years ago. What used to be a lovely respite from the bustle of the street is now a "luxury" hotel -- quite different from my experience of it, I'm sure -- and I've not been back since.
Also, the Hyde Park experience is something I've had on a couple of occasions, and though I did consider hopping the fence, I wasn't feeling quite as bold. Instead, I ran around the entire fence and ended up at the corner just as a cabbie was letting someone out. I climbed in and took a taxi -- kind of a luxury for me in those days -- back to the hotel.
I miss London, but I'm wondering how much longer there'll be a London to miss? It seems as if every place in the Western world is adopting the new model of condos with chain shops underneath, and I worry that one day I'll barely be able to tell the difference between Jermyn Street and downtown Emeryville, CA.
Ebert wrote: "My, yes, it's transparent. And grows more so the thinner it gets, until finally it's like a shard of golden window glass."
Gasp! Did someone say Pears soap?!
(Rubbing hands together with glee!)
Pears soap was first produced and sold in 1789 by Andrew Pears at a factory just off Oxford Street in London, England. The soap was aged for three months after being made to allow it to reach an amber-colored transparency...
8 Ingrediants:
Sodium palmitate: is a sodium salt commonly used in soaps, body washes, shaving creams and deodorants. Sodium palmitate comes from fatty acids and is used to give soap its soapy lather and help it break down in hard water.
Sodium cocoate: is another common salt derived from the fatty acid salts of coconut oil that is commonly used to make soap. Sodium cocoate and sodium palmitate are often combined in cleansing products, as they are in Pears soap. Coconut oil is mixed with sodium hydroxide to produce a chemical reaction that results in the production of sodium cocoate.
Natural rosin: is a resin from pine trees. The quality of rosin varies depending on the age, species and size of the tree from which the resin was extracted. The rosin in Pears soap helps give it its amber coloring and fresh scent.
Glycerin: is a natural byproduct of soap making. Many soap manufactures extract the glycerin for use in moisturizers and lotions. Pears soap retains the glycerin, which helps draw moisture into the skin and soften it. The glycerin in Pears soap also helps give the product its transparent appearance.
Pears soap contains rosemary: an evergreen herb with a strong fragrance. Rosemary is also used as an astringent to help clean and clear the skin. Rosemary is often used in aromatherapy to treat various illnesses and diseases. It is often used in skin moisturizers and natural acne products.
Thyme: the thyme in Pears soap blends with the other ingredients to finalize the fragrance. Thyme has antimicrobial and disinfectant properties that help clean and clear the skin, leaving it fresh. Thyme has been used in aromatherapy to stimulate brain activity and memory and to help cure insomnia.
BEST SOAP EVER!
And why there was a HELL of fuss recently when they changed - GASP - the original recipe in the wake of a corporate meddling! People were up in arms, Facebook and Twitter campaigns were launched, torches lit, pitchforks waved!
"Facebook campaign forces Pears soap makers to abandon 'disgusting' new recipe"
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1241241/Facebook-campaign-forces-Pears-soap-makers-abandon-disgusting-new-recipe.html
And so BEWARE soap lovers, for all in not well in the state of Denmark! Read the box - and if it's got more than 8 ingredients, it's not the original recipe in which case you should buy Nuetrogina instead.
See? This is what happens when Roger talks about stuff I actually know something about! But oh no, he always wants to talk about quantum physics as opposed to cool stuff like alchemy - as if physics ever kept you from smelling stinky or tasted as good as gelato!
Smile.
@ Greg Howard wrote:
"And thank you for the assurance that $9/US per scoop is an aberration rather than the norm. My wallet breathes a grateful sigh of relief."
There's a level of Dante's Hell for people who charge that much per scoop. And don't think the Gelati Gods aren't watching and looking to smite the wicked, because they are.
"All my wife wants now is for Roger to publish his rice cooker cookbook -- so he can start working on his gelato recipes!"
I'm just waiting for the day Roger does an ice cream book. You know, the way some people look to the sky and hope for the Second Coming. :)
@ Indian Idiot (H.W.) wrote:
So, finally Marie, your true feelings are out. I'm not good enough to be a Canuck eh? What's that all aboot? :D
Oh anyone can be a Canadian, you just need to know the secret password. :)
Ebert: The password is:
O, Canadian! Case sensitive.
I use the blog page of the London publisher, Persephone Books, as my home page (http://thepersephonepost.blogspot.com/) and today was led to this blog about an area of London of which I was previously unaware: Spitalfields (http://spitalfieldslife.com/). Dickens article “Spitalfields” is quoted extensively, reminding me of you, thus this comment.
Also, I wanted to introduce you to a really fine bookstore in London, certainly my favorite English language bookstore, John Sandoe Books, which is located on Blacklands Terrace, just west of Sloane Square: http://www.johnsandoe.com/ I do hope that you will be visiting London agin quite soon.
Ebert: Not a huge stock but a select one. In other words, seems like every book they display, I want. They have all the choice older titles, too. They know someone might walk in wanting to fill a gap of Iris Murdoch or George Gissing.
http://londonist.com/attachments/RachelH/Sandoe10.jpg
Thank you for this moving tribute to a particularly charming corner of the world's greatest city and the characters who make it so. There is a certain sweet sadness in the impermanence of things we hold dear.
I read this piece with great interest, because I, too, have the fondest memories of Eyrie Mansion. I also remember the breakfasts, Henry Togna's visits to welcome his guests and share a drink, and the front entry way with the wooden counter and gatekeeper. As a child, I did think that Eyrie Mansion was, if not haunted, at least mysterious. And as a young teenager, I loved walking around the neighborhood. Early one morning, I walked from Eyrie Mansion up Regent Street and discovered Carnaby Street. I had stumbled upon Carnaby Street -- wow, I thought, how cool was that! But what made Eyrie Mansion really cool was when my father, Tom Buck, told me that Roger Ebert stayed at Eyrie Mansion, too. I was growing up on Siskel and Ebert At The Movies, and, just as you could never decide who was your favorite Beatle, I never could decide who was my favorite critic -- I loved you both. But -- wow, Roger Ebert, how cool was that!
From the get-go, I have admired your writing -- and have hoped to run into you at Eyrie Mansion, which unfortunately will be no more. Fortunately, you continue to write. Many heartfelt thanks.
Ebert: Tom and I agreed that in Henry we had met a kindred spirit.
Ebert wrote:
"The password is: O, Canadian! Case sensitive."
Nope! The password is actually a test.
You have to correctly pronounce the letter "Z".
Those who get it wrong are quickly dealt something rather unpleasant.
Smile.
Meanwhile, I learned something new today!
"Book Fox" (vulpes libris): a small bibliovorous mammal of overactive imagination and uncommonly large bookshop expenses. Book foxes live in a wide variety of habitats, and usually find something to read in the unlikeliest places. They tend to hunt alone but often gather in packs to discuss their prey.
And I discovered this while Googling the works of writer Dorothy L. Sayers after watching a 1987 BBC adaptation last night of Lord Peter Wimsey!
FYI: an archetype for the British gentleman detective, Lord Peter Death Bredon Wimsey is a fictional bon vivant sleuth in a series of detective novels and short stories by Sayers, in which he basically solves murder mysteries.
They're also extremely good reads.
From Wiki...
"At the conclusion of "Strong Poison", Inspector Parker asks: "What would one naturally do if one found one's water-bottle empty?" (a point of crucial importance in solving the book's mystery).
Wimsey promptly answers "Ring the bell."
Whereupon Miss Murchison — the indefatigable investigator employed by Wimsey for much of this book, comments: "Or, if one wasn't accustomed to be waited on, one might use the water from the bedroom jug."
Chuckle! I do so enjoy a spot of pithy. :)
All of which is to say "I like croquet too", in addition to dark alleys and dodgy streets. Mind you that said, death by croquet is not entirely unheard of.
We are discussing the English, after all. :)
Ebert: A comment from you would make a blog entry. I sometimes fancy you would add a blog to your already swell website but you have such a good heart you're reluctant to deprive us of your company.
When you sidestep the spam filter, even its cold little heart sinks.
Roger,
Your writing is always a pleasure to read. I've yet to see you write on a topic that didn't draw me in. I have always wanted to travel to London, and this entry makes me want to see it even more. My namesake is Great Russell Street and as an avid wet shaver your description of Trumper's was enticing as well. The tragedy of course is that I'll never see the London you described so eloquently, nor the London my parents saw when they were naming me. I only hope that when I get there some day, I'll find some little corner untouched by all this progress that I can love the same way you love Jermyn Street.
I'm currently watching another Lord Peter Wimsey murder mystery, "Have His Carcase" by Dorothy L. Sayers.
Plot:
Harriet Vane, author of crime and mystery novels, goes off on a hiking holiday along the coast. She finds a fresh corpse on an deserted stretch of beach - gasp! The plot concerns the efforts of the local police, assisted by Harriet and Lord Peter Wimsey, to identify the dead man, recover his body, determine whether his death was suicide or murder and if the latter, to unmask the killer!
And here's what made me think of Roger:
The victim was killed with an old fashioned ivory handled straight razor. And not just any razor - oh no - but from the best shop in the best part of London and where if you need to ask how much, you can't afford it.
And since it's a CLUE it had me pausing the movie and rushing back in here to read the name of that men's shop again; the one Roger continues to be so deeply in love with...
http://www.drharris.co.uk/index.php
And nope; it's not the same one. Darn. For in the show, Lord Peter's man "Bunter" reveals that it's an Endicott razor; from an exclusive Gentleman's hairdresser in the West end.
I think it's important to collect these odd tidbits of seemingly useless information as you never know when the universe is going to surprise you with the need to recall them. :)
Back now to the mystery!
@ Ebert: "A comment from you would make a blog entry. I sometimes fancy you would add a blog to your already swell website but you have such a good heart you're reluctant to deprive us of your company."
That, plus the fact my gallery site was designed using Frontpage 2003, which is no longer in use or supported by Microsoft and thus reports errors whenever I try and update my site. :)
@ Ebert: "When you sidestep the spam filter, even its cold little heart sinks."
Awwwwww. (Smiling warmly.)
Your spam filter enjoys playing Moriarty to my Sherlock - and why I in turn thus play Joker to its Batman! (Ours is a complicated relationship.)
That said....
When you have to reach beyond the "common" and find other words to express a thing, I've since discovered there's a certain pleasure to be had in the use of an ironic understatement. :)
I have never stayed there - and I am heartbroken.
This is a wonderful, wonderful piece of writing that belongs in the chronicles of what "fine living", in the noblest sense of the term, once was in Europe.
I don't understand how Londoners could let this happen.
Thank you for sharing this great piece of travel writing, it captures much of London's magic. I studied in London in 1998, and my home was 7 Bedford Place, not far at all from Russell Square where you first became acquainted with the city!
All the best,
Jeremy
Roger, thanks to your blog, I now pronounce Jermyn properly and not as my Chicago bones dictate.
I'm happy and sad to learn about 22 Jermyn Street. It's a real heartache when the places you love become so gone. I’ve been away from Chicago going on 12-years now, and every time I return another memory has been stepped on. Defiled. (Didn't think they could make that many red brick condos...)
I’ve always felt that these places, the card shops, framers, florist shops, and such, are not only owned by the owner, but also in some small part by the passing pedestrian, eyes that take in the many details, recommitting them time and again to memory. Life and time place-markers. Makes a person feel like a stranger.
By the way, my laptop has been smokin’ with all the internet reference searches from your blog details… And now, since I’ve come rather late to your site, I’m reading you backwards and forwards (thanks to the archives), while awaiting the next installment. Your blog is like a jewelry box, full of toys and shiny things – all wonderful and fascinating and addictive.
Haven’t been to London but I suspect that error will be corrected sometime this year. And now what is this about a recipe book for rice? Just read the “Pot and how to use it” blog.
How’s this for a title: Roger’s Rice: TP&HTUI
Maybe have it spiral bound and include plenty of your sketches. Heck, I'd buy that in a heartbeat even without a Zojirushi cooker... Hmmm. I can see that my kitchen is not as complete as I thought.
So glad you tweeted about the excerpt in the UK paper or who knows when i would have come across this wonderful post!! I can't get to London soon enough. I have never been but my being a pseudo Anglophile has put a visit to London high on the list...
I loved this post!!
P.S. Cooked a wonderful dish today in the rice cooker.
A wonderful piece, evocative and warm. I read part of it in today's Guardian and had to track down the full version (and sample a few reviews while I was here).
Fortnum & Mason's, Hilditch & Key, Bates' - in a world of brands these are names.
Of course they are knocking the old building down, because that is what they always do. To paraphrase, they know the price of everything and the value of nothing. The Crown Estates are now reviewing their property holdings across all London and I suppose there will be other casualties.
How lovely! Thank you for the wonderful history of 22 Jermyn. I stayed with a friend in the Bank Apartments across the way last fall, and smiled at the wee gargoyles on the wall across from me each morning.
She had left us her key at the desk of the hotel, and the man in the wee cubbyhole of an office said, "Ms. MacDonald? Welcome to London!" as he handed it over to me.
It is terribly saddening to think they'll be taking down the entire block, but especially the hotel.
Wonderful piece on Jermyn Street! Wish I'd known the place as you have.
My normal flight path includes coming up from the Tube at Picadilly Circus, walking down Regent Street past Lilywhite's, turning into Jermyn Street, then down Duke of York Street, and into St James's Square to the London Library. There's nothing better than to spend a rainy afternoon in the red leather chairs in the Reading Room there, in front of the fireplace (no actual fire, alas, probably for modern health-and-safety reasons).
Last time I was up there -- can't go very often, it's a £12 train fare from where I live on the Surrey-Hants border -- I retraced my steps up to Jermyn Street, turned the other way, and treated myself to tea at Fortnum & Mason.
Er, I hope it's not out of line for me to to mention my blog article about that day -- http://mefoley.wordpress.com/2010/02/01/tea-at-fortnum-mason/
Thanks for the walk down memory lane, or at least down a remembered lane, very much worth remembering.
Ebert: Mention it! I just tweeted it! Your idea for a blog is right down my alley. Uh...mews.
The London Library. I was a member for awhile. The New York Edition of Henry James sitting there in the stacks.
Wow--my hit count has gone through the roof! Many, many thanks for your tweet; the effect was dramatic.
When I read your Jermyn Street piece I thought "kindred spirit!". I'm really glad you thought my Fortnum & Mason bit was worth reading, I just hope some of these new-to-me readers will stick around. I'm thinking I'll write next about how I got British citizenship, as Anglophiles tend to ask me how that works.
The London Library is my biggest luxury, especially now that they've doubled the fee because they've bought some nearby buildings so they can expand. Presumably it'll be even more of a fabulous warren than it is now, all mismatched floors and unexpected stairs.
Back to the ol' blog. I'm just boggled by the rise in readership numbers -- can't thank you enough!
Ebert: I hope the new buildings will have their character retained, and not become a carbuncle on the face of an old friend.
My understanding is that the exteriors of the new buildings will be left pretty much alone, but I confess I haven't followed it closely enough. They aren't involving any buildings right on the square; the newly-acquired buildings are behind the current buildings, with an address in Mason's Yard; Google Maps shows it pretty well.
There will have to be some disruption of the exteriors, though, because I've read there's to be a roof terrace. But they keep telling us that they don't want the character of the neighborhood changed, that they're going to great lengths to preserve it, that they've chosen the architect they have because he's a fanatic for "preservation of the built environment", so I've got my fingers crossed.
Now, as for that carbuncle -- I fear we may part company! I don't mind the new British Library building's exterior. I don't think it looks like a place where books would be "burned, not kept".
Then again, I don't know what buildings the new BL displaced, so I don't know what Londoners (and all of us) may have lost there, what people may have mourned. And I have a few things I'd like to say to the architect about access for the disabled inside; the place is utterly gorgeous, but hard to navigate if you don't do stairs, and still insanely round-about to get where you need to go even if you can do stairs.
It does have my favorite-ever piece of public art; have you seen the book bench in the front lobby? "Sitting On History" by Bill Woodrow. It's a giant brass book, and you can sit on the open pages. Great stuff.
Ebert: Actually, the "carbuncle" on the National Gallery (not BL) was the earlier hypermodern minimalist design, and the current look more closely reflects the taste of Prince Charles (and myself).
I'm relieved to hear the London Library isn't messing with St. Jame' Square.
Oops -- sorry -- thought that reference was to the BL. I should have checked before blundering in!
I started to say that the ugliest building in London is the American Embassy, but there's going to be a new one soon, and when I went looking for an image to show what I meant, the building didn't look nearly as bad as it does in person.
It has big concrete elements that seem to bristle at you, and they've been coated with metal so that they seem to be gilded, as though the USA is threatening passersby with gold-tipped weapons. Not a good image, to my eye.
Sorry about the carbuncle mixup (not a phrase I've ever written before...)
I was in London yesterday and took some photos of the London Library's new building and environs, but I can't seem to paste photos into this comment. Don't know whether I'm doing something wrong or whether there's some other way to send photos or whether photos aren't allowed. May I send photos? A handful, size varies, nothing over 57K.
Roger, thanks for your wonderful post and sharing your fond memories of Jermyn Street. I've admired your work for over 25 years and when I read an excerpt of your post in The Guardian this weekend, it really hit home. Jermyn street is also one of my favorite streets in London -- I've had the best shaves at Trumper, bought a classic brown fedora at Bates hatter a couple of years ago and enjoy the many shirt and shoes stores there as well. Last May, while visiting with a good friend, we went on a tour of the street and he too was smitten. We even stopped in 22 Jermyn Street hotel to have a look inside. It's sad that the street is changing and not for the better. Thanks again for sharing your experiences there -- it makes me appreciate the street and my visits that much more. When I wear my Bates hat next time, I will think of you. Cheers.
Roger- go to the hill stations of India, if you haven't already- the hotels there have not changed a bit since they were the hunting lodges, etc of the British Raj...Authentically Victorian down to the last detail...
Thank you very much for featuring my video on your article. I would appreciate credit to my website blog which has plenty of other things to do in London videos :)
Ebert: Thank YOU. I will tweet it right now.
That was a wonderful, wonderful read, as always. Thank you, Mr. Ebert.
What a fantastic article. I love the idea of the Eyrie Hotel... Oh that more such places existed!
As a Brit now living in Peru this article is one of the first times I have actually felt nostalgic for London! I almost cried when I read Henry Juniors letter to you. Since I lived in London I never had the chance to stay there, wish I had though!
As an aside you should try out my brothers excellent shirt company next time you are down Jermyn Street way! (Charles Tyrwhitt - http://ctshirts.com)
Your writing is always a pleasure to read. I've yet to see you write on a topic that didn't draw me in. I have always wanted to travel to London, and this entry makes me want to see it even more. My namesake is Great Russell Street and as an avid wet shaver your description of Trumper's was enticing as well. The tragedy of course is that I'll never see the London you described so eloquently, nor the London my parents saw when they were naming me. I only hope that when I get there some day, I'll find some little corner untouched by all this progress that I can love the same way you love Jermyn Street.
I came across your article 'I met a character from Dickens' whilst browsing the web and saw your comments about Jermyn St, in particular about the Jermyn St Theatre. As Howard Jamieson is the Chairman of The Jermyn St Theatre Trust, and incidentally my girlfriend's brother, I spoke to him about your item and he asked me to let you know that although your story was basically correct the Theatre is protected and will remain at that site during the rebuilding, and indeed will remain open during the reconstruction and after. It will be protected by tarpaulins and other temporary measures until the rebuilding has been completed. As the Trust has charitable status please would you let your readers know the correct position as it relates to the Theatre.
"Why Frederic, you are a poet."
Thanks for enjoying this article.
Good post!As i was passing by here and i read your post.
I completely understand the disappointment of losing something so familiar and beautiful to new and hidious. I myself live in Europe, in an old hansatown, built in the middle ages. It is a gorgeous place now starting to get ruined by new buildings built by childarchitects. It is a painful sight. Walking in the Old Town of Tallinn is my favourite things but the new buildings are coming more and more closer and sometimes inside the Old Town and it is a very sad sight for me.
Happiness is not about being immortal nor having food or rights in one's hand. It’s about having each tiny wish come true, or having something to eat when you are hungry or having someone's love when you need love.
Thank you so much for the story. I have read your reviews for many years, first as a Chicagoan, now online, but had never read anything else you have written. I have stayed at 22 Jermyn more than a dozen times over the last decade and loved its cha