continued from Part 2
Despite jetlag, no blankets, and the fact that we slept on one duvet, we had a fairly good night's sleep, and woke up to a lovely breakfast that Tarpe had prepared for us--fresh milk in delicate glass cups like tulips on stems; toasted madeleines, pan seared tomatoes, omelette in soft thick folds, and large succulent sausages with pieces of apple inside.
Then we grabbed our winter wear exoskeletons and the tube map, and went to see that surreal site of of culture and literature, the Globe.
We crossed the Thames, on foot, as was only right. How else could one go by such a famous river. I thought of all the history it's seen and gone through--remembering Joseph Conrad's gloomily glorious Thames passage in Heart of Darkness, I'm afraid it really just looked brown and dirty and sullen in the gray chill morning. Only its blackly ancient history gave it a sense of mysterious significance. I thought of Gaffer and Lizzie Hexam rowing down it in Our Mutual Friend (which is my favourite Dickens novel) and wondered sadly how many lives had ended here, how many bodies the drab waters had seen. Morbid? Maybe. But as I was passing by I saw a large black bird, probably injured, fluttering desperately in a corner where the waves lapped mercilessly at it. As I walked by I knew it would drown eventually. Talk about morbidness. I felt sober.
I saw the spire of St Paul's, pale blue and white, looking unbelievably clean and unreal after the earthiness of the Thames, and thought of Robin from The Wonderful Winter by Marchette Chute. I suppose this is not the right place to give book recommendations but this book is close to my heart--set in Shakespearean London and revolving around the world of the Globe's stage from the perspective of a young boy. It was absolutely charming and delightful, without being overly sentimental, and I loved it. One of the first things that came to my mind when I first knew I was really going to London was this book. I didn't dare risk bringing my precious vintage copy (one of those gems sourced from thrift shops) all the way, but I took a photo of the map inside, and was delighted when I actually visited the places there. St Paul's, which Robin visits in the story, was one of them. And I was there! Though I didn't climb to the top and carve my initials in the roof, like Robin did--
Oh just go read the book. I feel stupid trying not to sound fanatical.
When I was young one of the books which formed an important introduction to my knowledge of Shakespeare (besides Charles and Mary Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare) was The Usbourne World of Shakespeare. I vividly remembered the pictures of the new Globe, built by Sam Wanamaker (what a perfect name for such a feat, I always thought!) and it was amazing to see the famous iron gate with its symbolic embellishments in reality.
Since we were early, we found a cosy corner for ourselves in the Globe cafe to write in our respective journals, our Macbeth tickets safely in our pockets and our respective pots of tea steaming gently in front of us, sharing a white chocolate macadamia cookie and a slice of lemon and poppy seed loaf (which was quickly becoming a theme of our travels.)
Imagine. I was sipping tea in the Globe, minutes away from fulfilling something on my wish list which I'd never thought I'd be able to actually do--seeing a Shakespeare play at the Globe. Those magical seven words ought to be capitalized at the very least, if not written in gold.
Shakespeare, did you ever dream of becoming this famous? As I sometimes do?
I won't include what I wrote after the Macbeth performance as it was basically one page of ranting admiration, which I suppose is perfectly normal for a stagestruck literature student. Suffice to say that it made everything else fade in comparison--even the thatched rood, wooden galleries, shabby little red seat cushions, and the fact that there were actually 'groundlings' (though they were very modern and ordinary tourists, mostly school students.)
I floated out somehow.
My soul was positively fat--enlarged.
Shakespeare, Robin, I'm here! I'm actually here! my heart sang.
continued in part 4
I won't include what I wrote after the Macbeth performance as it was basically one page of ranting admiration, which I suppose is perfectly normal for a stagestruck literature student. Suffice to say that it made everything else fade in comparison--even the thatched rood, wooden galleries, shabby little red seat cushions, and the fact that there were actually 'groundlings' (though they were very modern and ordinary tourists, mostly school students.)
I floated out somehow.
My soul was positively fat--enlarged.
Shakespeare, Robin, I'm here! I'm actually here! my heart sang.
continued in part 4