MY BIG TRIP by Penny Dolan

                                                    

 The start - almost unbelievably - of July! 

Heavens though, my last month was a strange one, in which I travelled to London, wandered around near St Paul's, sauntered half way across the Millenium Bridge, saw the sun glittering on the Thames while murmuring Wordsworth's poem for a different bridge and time.

Then, wandering back to St Paul's, I paused to admire Wren's great dome against the blue sky and noticed a statue in honour of  the Blitz firefighters. 

I stepped back to get the street name sign in . . .

and then a step back again and . . . 

fell  backwards down several steps . . . 

to land flat on my back on the paving below. 

 I was most horribly shook up by it, alarmed to see my phone several yards away and out of reach, and somewhat embarrassed at being surrounded by kindly tourists all eager to check I was okay.

All I kept saying was "I didn't hit my head. I haven't hit my head. I'll be okay. I'll get up in a minute . . . Thank you!" And eventually I sat up a little and they left, a few at a time,to add - I hope - a brief account of aiding an ancient lady to their London travel journals. 

I took a taxi back to our peaceful accommodation and rested all afternoon, deciding what choices I had to make. I had been waiting ages and ages for this trip! Years before, as a St John's Ambulance cadet, I learned that if you can move your fingers and hand, the arm is not broken. Reassured, after some sleep and a painkiller or two,  we carried on with the trip though I kept my arm in a large, colourful scarf that doubled as a sling when I was travelling about. I have to say there are so many kind people in London.

All in all, I had a wonderful time. A trip up the Shard at sunset, seeing the lights go on all over the city and the empty rails stretching from the station below us. It was a strike day, after all. Next a visit to Tate Britain to study the Rehang, with its emphasis on historical context. We also noted the huge wooden stump on Millbank marking one of the posts of the old quay from where prisoners left for the colonies. Is Tate's high-minded gallery exactly on the site of the old prison? Must check.

Then there were the wonders of the London Tube, now - all light and space and ease, at least around the Elizabeth Line where the carriages speed soundlessly into the stations. My memories are of the old underground, dirty and poorly lit and not entirely safe and now of the crowded, unreliable underfunded Trans-Pennine route not far from my current home. 

Travel is never in a single time dimension, or so it seems to me. Past and present. Here and elsewhere. The layers we know and the layers before those. In the British Museum were classical figures I'd once sketched, the cold serenity of the Egyptian carvings, and also a gallery of gleaming Celtic and Anglo-Saxon Treasures.  When did all that splendour arrive? Before or after the recent Sutton Hoo film, I cynically wondered. Or the other way around? Again, must check. 

Then a morning's quick visit to the Photographer's Gallery, a short walk from where we were staying. There was a trio of socially-confrontational photographers up for an award but what interested us was a collection of images of grand urban designs of the 60's: places such as Thamesmead and the vast inhabited 'walls' stretching across city skylines in the North and now demolished. There were the people too, uneasily fitting their old lives into wherever they were now transplanted, or so the photos suggested.

 One night, we ate in a restaurant for old times sakes. Back then, the three floors would be squash full of people and noise. This time, we were on the ground floor, happy enough to chat and enjoy our time with the family, ignoring the fact that only three other tables were occupied. Afterwards, a nosier person than I confirmed that the other floors are still up there, all the tables and chairs eerily in place,  slightly dusty, but ready for a sudden polish whenever whenever comes again.

Our last outing was to The Bridge Theatre, to see the musical of Guys and Dolls. What a show it was: busy, stunning, complex, colourful, entertaining and with music that ran in your head for days after. 

In fact, those tunes were ringing in my head two days later, as I sat in the A&E back home, waiting for my x-ray results. Fortunately, it was not my writing arm, but beneath the black and purple technicolour bruising, I had chipped the tip off of my elbow. A cast for a few days and then a medical shrug and a "Keep exercising and stretching the arm".  Does typing this post count as exercise? I'm not sure. 

 All I know is that, along with some other far less cheering stuff that happened recently, I have absolutely no wise words on writing at all for July. And as for a host of wonderful photos to illustrate my words? My phone had been smashed, hadn't  it?  

And that was really annoying  . . .

Penny Dolan