bearing blog: Walking distance: Bloomsbury, Covent Garden, and Soho.

On the first morning in London, a Sunday, I slipped out to walk around for a little while before I had to come back and help the children get ready for Mass.

Our apartment is on a short pedestrian-only street that cuts off a corner of a block just southeast of Bloomsbury Square. The pedestrian street has restaurants and cafés at both ends, where it meets High Holborn and Southampton Row, and impossibly stylish shops in the middle.

I walked around the perimeter of Bloomsbury Square and, just as Mark promised, I found the British Museum less than five minutes' walk away:

When it came time to narrow down where we would stay, I told Mark I wanted to be within walking distance of this, since it's free and enormous. I wanted to be able to slip in and out with the kids for forty minutes or an hour whenever we want, on any day, without feeling that we had to stay till we get tired.

We shall see if that plan works. I will try to put it into effect on Tuesday. But already I am sure we are in a good place, lively and busy, near the Covent Garden area, with a Sainsbury's around the corner. We will not starve here, that is for sure.

I stood there and looked at the British Museum. People were going in. I looked at my watch. I stuck my head in the gates and looked around. I looked at my watch again. I turned around and headed back through Bloomsbury Square.

On the way back I stopped in a café, a tiny one with one table inside and two outside and a pleasant deli case with a variety of prepared salads, and ordered an inexpensive, probably not too large Roll with Egg and a coffee to take away. The woman who took my order passed it (in a language I didn't recognize) to the woman behind the counter, who straightaway made me a Full English Breakfast in a rectangular plastic box and put it in a petite paper bag with handles and handed it to me cheerfully.

I decided that if fate would hand me the Full English, I would take it. I paid and brought it back to the apartment and shared it with Mark.

The egg had been previously fried, stored in the case, and reheated, so it wasn't amazing, but I like any egg really. The sausage was pretty good, but I left that for Mark. The combination of the beans (there's my grandmother's recipe again! Is this what you get in the blue cans of Heinz beans?) and the English bacon was lovely. I can see why this is a national comfort food.

+ + +

We are equidistant between two Roman Catholic churches in opposite directions: St. Patrick's Soho and St. Etheldreda's. Both have an eleven o'clock Mass, but we were wary of taking the children to the sung Latin one at St. Etheldreda's (I know, I know, but we have an impatient three year old and we were worried it would be longer), so we walked 15 minutes to St. Patrick's.

We could shorten it with the Tube, but we don't have our Oyster cards yet and also we want to see things in our neighborhood. To get a sense of distance, you almost have to walk.

I led, carrying the 3yo on my back, and the others followed. St. Patrick's is an old parish, founded soon after Catholicism became somewhat more legal in the 1780's, mainly to serve the Irish living in London. The interior is compact, relatively simple, and prettily painted, with a St. Patrick (snakes and all) above the altar, a Very! Assertive! Pipe! Organ!, and paintings for art (it's not set into its surroundings in such a way that it can have much in the way of windows). The painting we could see best from our pew was of Christ with Martha and Mary.

One downside: The pews had backs, but with only a couple of high slats over a smooth bench, and were completely open, so the smaller kids (and once, me) kept knocking hymnals, bags, etc. onto the feet of people behind us. Public service message: If your large family finds itself in such a church, sit in two rows and put your organized less-physically-organized family members in front of the others. And keep your open-topped tote bag on the floor.

Besides the Organist! there was a very lovely polyphonic ensemble singing the mass parts in Latin. They were off to a side chapel and invisible, and I actually thought we were being played a recording until I got up to the front at Communion time and realized that there were people over there.

The church was quite full, with a number of people arriving late and standing in the back and the foyer. I went back there with the 3yo eventually, after my stay-quiet-in-the-pew tricks had run out. The foyer was watched over by a statue of (I think) St. Anthony, in a side chapel behind a little stone railing, the bank of votive candles asking 40p for the cost of the candle, and on the railing were balanced a stack of weekly bulletins and a prayer card for a recently deceased cardinal. On the other side, a Divine Mercy image on an easel, by a table with a number of D. M. pamphlets, and a box asking for donations in return for them. There were stone stairs going up and down, probably to parochial common areas and offices, with a big old metal gate closing them off and a big shiny new chain and padlock wrapped around; it doesn't look welcoming, but when tourists wander into your church for tourist reasons all the time, something like that has to be done.

I admit to being somewhat amused at the English Catholics' expense at a plaque on the wall celebrating a former rector or someone (d.1802) because (paraphrasing from memory) "wherever he went, his preaching improved the morals of the poor." Wondered if he did anything for the morals of the rich, or if the people who put up the plaque noticed. I shouldn't laugh, my morals could use a boost most of the time.

+ + +

When Mass was over, and we were done singing new hymn words to familiar hymn melodies, we regrouped by a big tree in Soho Square while the smaller children ran on the grass. Would we buy groceries and eat in the apartment, or stop and eat in a restaurant on the way? I wanted to eat out, if we could find a place that looked not too full and not too intimidating with the children, and Mark said that I had to just step up and pick the place when I saw it.

So we went down the road, with the 17yo navigating, and I looked in a few windows (and then we stopped and Mark reminded the 17yo not to walk so fast and the 17yo said that he had to be clearer in his expectations and then Mark reminded me that if I wanted to stop in a restaurant I had to pick one because he really, really didn't care where we went and he would not be upset if it was too expensive or if the children didn't like it) and we kept going and then I saw a nearly-empty noodle/salad/sushi chain restaurant called Itsu and said, "Let's go there!"

Thanks to some readers I have in London (hello!) I had been assured that London counter-service chain restaurants can be quite good, family-friendly, and exotic enough to be a real travel experience. After all, we don't have Itsu, Wagamama, and Pret-a-Manger at home.

There was some uncertain, panicked shuffling in front of the variety of bottled juices, canned sodas, and boxed coconut waters ("Do we have an algorithm for how to buy drinks in cans? We need an algorithm. Is everyone getting Coke? Just make a decision") but in the end some had sushi, some had hot dishes ordered from the front counter and delivered to us in waxed-cardboard containers with lids, some had fruit, and everyone had something to drink.

I wound up with a salady vegetarian platter grabbed basically at random while I was trying to calm people down. Fortunately, it was delicious, with lots of avocado and greens and a tasty cilantro dressing. The 7yo had taken a chance on chicken noodle soup, and liked the broth and the meat and was upbeat about the fact that the cellophane noodles were unusual and not to his taste. The 3yo had a fruit cup and was startled by pomegranate seeds, but liked some of it. The 11yo tried salmon rolls for the first time and enjoyed them very much. One teen was very happy with his sushi and the other was very happy with his pulled pork udon noodles. Mark liked his rice bowl. We decided that London Chain Restaurants were a-ok.

Back at the apartment, we made some plans for the upcoming week—Mark has to travel for a couple of days, and that will require some logistics—and I proposed we take the three younger children to Coram's Fields for a couple of hours. It was a fifteen-minute walk, and it promised to let them blow off some steam.

We left the teens with some money and a set of keys in case they wanted to go out. Then we headed off. I carried the 3yo again.

+ + +

We wound through the University College of London medical school area.

Mark was highly amused by this building and made me take a picture of it.

Google Maps dropped us at the closest, but wrong, end of the Coram complex, between the football fields and the entrance to the program reception, and we had to skirt the perimeter till we found the gated entrance to the children's play area.

Coram's Fields is not a public park, but a private one, free admission unless there's a special event, run by a foundation for the benefit of children. No adults are admitted without an accompanying child. The whole complex includes kids' programming, athletic fields, a small zoo of farm animals, and a big open area with different play structures scattered about, grass and trees, a fountain-paddling pool thing (dry now), and a sort of gazebo in the middle.

The truck parked in the background is for setup for an event that would be happening that evening. The park was closing early for an outdoor film series. They were setting up a wood fire (maybe a pizza oven?) and a cash bar under a tent. The film wasn't for children, but maybe the admission fee was? It was £12, anyway.

The best part for the 11- and 7-yos was a big spinny swing and a sort of bouncy zip line, two of them that could race. Kids climbed up a ramp, leaped onto a hanging disc-seat suspended on an elastic hanger, and sailed bouncing to the end where they dismounted and ran back to return the swing to the next child in line.

There was also a tantalizing dynamic pile of hinged logs that would move when you climbed on them, but someone had fenced it off. Perhaps it had proved to be a bit too dynamic without supervision.

We spent more than an hour there, enjoying a sunny and warm day, and then walked back by a different route, considering all the pubs and restaurants along the way.

The 7yo, holding Mark by the hand, was looking at so many things that he walked right into a pole with his forehead. No concussion, I think, but I was worried for a moment.

For that reason, and others, I am very glad for these markings on the road.

I knew I would have to get used to the traffic coming at you from unexpected directions, but I was not prepared for the combination of one-way streets, little corner cutoffs, alleys, large crowds of people looking at their phones and stopping to take pictures, and distracting things to look at. The direction of oncoming traffic at any given curb is pretty random, and our pattern-recognition faculties are strained. So the "which way to look" signs—many say to look left, it isn't all right—are welcome.

Fortunately, the crosswalks are super well designed, with little signs on posts that have a single button (that the 7yo loves to press) and a lit-up "WAIT" sign that you can see even if people and tall buses obstruct the crossing signal on the other side (or if it's damaged), and sometimes an audible signal.

+ + +

Mark and I took those kids back, and then headed back out to the Covent Garden neighborhood with the 13yo to shop for the kids' dinner. It was getting crowded. Some shops had people offering samples of tea, sausage, things like that.

Someone outside a shop offered me a brightly colored, bite-sized rectangle dusted in white. I said no. Mark started to take one, then said "No thanks" also.

The shop woman asked him suspiciously, "Do you know what this is?"

Mark confessed that he didn't, actually.

The rectangle was soap. "I'm glad I didn't take a bite of that free candy," said Mark.

"You almost made a sugar mistake," pointed out the 13yo.

+ + +

We arrived soon after at the much-anticipated M&S food shopping store.

We bought refrigerated samosas, naan, chicken jalfrazie, chicken piripiri, pizza, a roast chicken sandwich, cut mango, greengages, and more sliced Red Leicester for the 3yo who now eats square orange cheese on buttered square white bread three times a day.

We did not buy this:

Really?

Trouble with the self-checkouts, which are terribly moody compared to American ones. Also we have a chip-and-signature card, and were buying wine and beer and cider and a canned gin and tonic. The attendant was terribly friendly all three times we needed help.

Back to the entrance of our little pedestrian mall.

+ + +

Maybe Mark and I will just get carryout for the kids and then go out by ourselves every single evening.

I found one of the Samuel Smith's pubs (The Angel) from the online map that one of my London readers gave me (thanks!) and we went there. No food on Sunday, but we tried a pint of the only cask-conditioned ale, Old Brewery Bitter, and I pronounced it the best so far.

Mark informed me that he was soon going to stop helping me experiment with cask-conditioned ales and start asking for things that came from a keg and had detectable hops in them.

We spread out the map on the table and mused about what to do as we finished our pints, then walked on.

+ + +

We walked for a really long time: through Covent Garden itself, packed with people and delicious odors, and the music from live violins coming up from a large ensemble on the lower level. We kept walking and I saw a bridge: "Are we at the Thames already?" I wondered. We turned right, and there were theater marquees everywhere: The Lion King, Dreamgirls, Kinky Boots. "Is this the Strand?"

The names of things keep delighting me. So many literary associations laid down over so many years. I can't always remember whether I know them from Mary Poppins or from the Baroque Cycle or from Bridget Jones' Diary, but something on every corner, it seems, rings a bell.

+ + +

We looked carefully at a French-style restaurant and at a bar and grill and it seemed okay but I said no. We stopped on the way at the discount theater tickets office to ask how that worked, and picked up a list of shows.

And ended up at another pub, the Nag's Head this time, which was open for meals upstairs. Downstairs it was all glossy wood paneling, upstairs it was surprisingly modern looking and bright, with stools at a counter and a few small tall-windowed rooms with tidy little tables. We got a round table in the back by an empty fireplace, near a table of three American-accented young women who were joking about drinking the cider from one glass with three straws.

We split:

a garden salad (very crisp and fresh with a pleasant dressing; mustard figures heavily here)
a bowl of sweet potato fries (also very good, crisp and hot, served with mayonnaise and ketchup)
roast beef blade with mashed potatoes and a deeply brown and glossy gravy, plus an afterthought of steamed broccoli and carrots which I ate dutifully between bites of lovely tender roast beef and gravy and potatoes

Honestly, I think I will happily eat pub fare. I like meat and potatoes.

I had a half-pint of the Nags Head bitter (pleasant, not as good as the last pint, but also not cask-conditioned) and Mark had a pint of Aspall cider which was startlingly apple-forward, sweet, and crisp. If he can't have hops, he'll have apples.

+ + +

It was a pleasant evening. I especially like having the first pint, then walking for a long time, and then having the second with dinner. It's a nice way to see a city.

Posted with Blogsy