Whenever embarking in a new venture it is best keep your expectations low.
This is lost on me, an unrealistic optimist who starts most things influenced by romantic notions poached from books, tales and legends, all preying upon my imagination.
The idea of a journey through Wales and Scotland and down East Anglia in a vintage train, albeit with all the luxuries of modern travel, gets my juices flowing. I imagine dashing travelling companions, mysterious ladies, a spatter of shady characters all swishing by the North Sea and the endless moors covered in heather; I secretly hope for some foul play “a la Hercule Poirot”. No way
Arriving to congregate at our London hotel, I watch a very slow line of fifth age pensioners laboring down the front stairs thinking “where are these poor souls going, and HOW will they get there? when reality hits me: Its is less Death on the Nile and more near-death by the Thames. Most of them can barely get around unassisted; we are the youngest in the group, a first in a very long time.
The brochure promises a 5-star room -my girlfriend is sure we will get one facing smack Westminster- and as promised the hotel delivers a junior suite with stunning views of the river and five city blocks from the lifts; it feels like walking the length of an entire airport terminal.
No way.
We ask for something closer and get a tiny room with scaffolding covering the window.
We depart in the pouring rain for our first London excursion, the Queen’s Gallery, which houses not her paintings hélas! but a show on Japan.Crest-fallen and soaked and not a little disappointed we repair back to our hotel. Next day looks better and drier.
We travel to Hampton Court Palace in several coaches. Getting one of the less mobile ladies on board takes the concerted effort of the team coordinators and we wait and wait till off we go. We get the tour of the imposing premises and then we are ushered into a large room where we stand around for hours while being served vast quantities of champagne and then some. The room becomes loud and warm, the champagne keeps flowing, there is nothing to nibble on, let alone eat, people are getting seriously smashed –this last probably meant to be. I find a hostess; beg for some food –“An olive? Two peanuts? A piece of stale bread leftover in some dungeon?”- no dice. 75 minutes later and fairly sloshed we are marched into the Great Hall –where Henry used to dine and possibly some of his ladies had their last meal. Being the firsts in line we get the good seats and while skimping over a plate of wilted canapés we are treated to a fantastic concert by none other than the ravishing Miss Katherine Jenkins, dressed like Cinderella, looking like a million pounds and sounding even better. She belts out the all-time favorites including Jerusalem, and when she hits the finale with Rule Britannia wrapped in a large Union Jack -all 150 of us standing up, waving little Union Jacks, robustly singing the chorus- there’s not a dry eye in the house, including mine, but then I am also British.
Long may you reign, Ma’am.
The evening over, the temperature has dropped considerably and the staff cannot get the less mobile lady back in her seat on the coach. I mean it. She crumples and folds like a beach lounger. The husband fails to get any results, the driver, a strapping Indian bloke, enters the fray to lend a hand, the lady still cannot achieve an enough erect position to sit up and rolls down the coach stairs like suet pudding, methinks ‘tis not so much due her physical impairment as to the enormous quantities of bubbly she has imbibed. Like watching Monty Python and, God forgive us, but after a few failed attempts it turns into high comedy and we are in stiches trying hard not to pee our pants.
Finally we’re all aboard and on our way back to London. Arriving late at the hotel we find the entrance blocked by an impenetrable wall of fellow travellers with serious mobility issues preceding us up the stairs at snail’s pace. Taken aback by the silliness of my great expectations I dissolve in a fit of giggles and proceed to pee my pants for real.
The train does not disappoint. The armchairs in plush heavy fabrics and antimacassars are suitably Victorian.
The food is extremely good given also that it is prepared in a moving kitchen, the tablecloths are starched, the menus varied and the wine flows nonstop. Breakfast begins with Bellinis, always a good idea.
The crew on board is lovely and they cater to every whim, and whims there always are, although fortunately most of the guests are unflappable Brits steeped in the stoic art of never explain, never complain.
Oxford, Cardiff, Chester, Edinburg, Balmoral, Aberdeen and York go by. ‘Tis a bit hard to remember which street was where, but the overall feeling is one of watching “England’s green and pleasant land”** slowly going by.
The last day has a bit for everybody. There is a fire alarm inside the hotel and my good-natured husband ends up in the Lobby in his bathrobe sans shoes or underwear. Later we lose a guy at a pit stop on our way to Balmoral and fear he has wandered off in a bout of dementia.
Finally at the end of the day a crazy dude climbs on top the roof of the train station, putting half the local police on alert and delays our train which is idling just a few feet away. This puts the more agile members of the group into riot mode yours truly leading, of course. Police become very unpleasant and chaos looms. My good natured-husband finds a seat at the empty Information booth where he dispenses totally fabricated positive news to keep the crowd in check.
On our last night we are welcomed on board the Royal Yacht Britannia for a black tie reception given by its Commodore –quite a dishy number. Strolling around this beautiful ship feels like entering into the Royal Family’s intimate life, as if they’d just stepped out on deck for some fresh air and I realise I am finally walking in the shadow of Elizabeth the Second.
I grasp the magic and the mystery that turned this small steely woman into a Queen the world respects and find what I came looking for, Her Majesty’s place in history.
*Great Expectations (Charles Dickens, 1861)
**And did those feet in ancient time (William Blake, 1808)
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