Walking the Walk
We’ve had a good breakfast and an early start. My legs have not reset. My feet are flatter than yesterday’s pancakes and feeling every step. My wife loves walking, walks the dogs on hour long tours three times a day. She keeps a dog long pace, and is frustrated by my lack of speed. She is the horse that won’t be passed.
She looks behind to see if I’m with her. “No matter how slow I go you always walk slower,” she tells me.
Spot on. We never really find my pace. I’m in no hurry; do not have to be on time. We make it to the tubes, two rides—our transport tickets working easily, no problem. Colored lines show how to get from one tube to another in the many layered labyrinth of rails. Standing room only— crowded.
London Eye’s a relatively short walk, then another line, but it keeps moving. London Eye is very cool. The structure by itself is fascinating. I would have loved to watch it being built. It fairly sparkles in the sky, and never stops moving—very slowly, slow enough for people to step on and off. Backpack and bag are searched again.
The ride was good, met all my expectations. After getting off we have some free time I see a place that’s selling fish and chips. I loved fish and chips sold where we lived in America and am excited to buy the original here in London, but am disappointed. Tastes like cardboard, really bad. I leave it for the pigeons. We move on, but don’t get far. The London Marathon has started, and the streets are jammed, some streets blocked off.
Once again we can’t get anywhere from where we are. We stop for coffee at a jam packed Starbucks, and peruse our maps. It takes an hour to find our way to Trafalgar Square.
“Let’s go there,” I say.
“What do you want to see?” wife asks.
“I want to find a soft couch, and sit and stare at a painting for an hour or so.”
Wife decides to take some time to shop. I go alone and find it’s everything I want. Wonderful places to sit, and entrance is free after a backpack check. I’m surprised they people are allowed to take photos.
For some reason I’m most taken with a painting of a horse named Whistlejacket. George Stubbs – 1762. Horse only lost four times in its career. He’s such a pleasant thing to look at from this wonderful soft, leather couch. Just what I wanted, perfect, peaceful, quiet and not crowded here.
“Not enough time,” she says.