"Surrey is the garden of England."
"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surrey."
"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. "I never heard any county but Surrey called so."
- Emma by Jane Austen
It seemed like a convenient, inexpensive way to experience a city I have long wanted to see and start the semester off nicely. On my way back to Scotland from a holiday in sunny (and snowy) Arizona, I could stop for two days in London, attend one of the United Kingdom's two temples, and see a few key landmarks of Western civilization.
But first came two international flights, customs, and two train rides. After I dragged three pieces of luggage through the pouring rain for an hour looking for a bus-stop on the outskirts of London, I began to wonder about my plan. The bus-stop, it turned out, would leave me with more than a mile to walk on a country road; I broke down and found a cab.
"I know where the Mormon chapel is - quite a local landmark," the driver reassured me from the safety of a dry cab, adding that this was unusually bad weather for the area. But as the landscape changed from city to suburb, and from suburb to pasture-land, horses, and herds of damp sheep, he added, "You'll be way out in the sticks though."
The LDS London Temple, I would later be informed by a missionary at the Visitor's Centre, is located on Surrey and is actually 35 miles outside London, 7 miles from the nearest public transport station, and quite, quite far from any place to buy food rations. I hurried to the cafeteria upon arrival, as only one meal was served each day, and made it to lunch just in time. By the time I exited the temple, darkness had fallen and a rare snowfall had begun, stranding scores of visitors unexpectedly at the 29-acre site.
The guest accommodations at the temple site, like the service I was able to do there, were beautiful (although - word to the wise - they don't include towels), but I was beginning to worry about how I was going to leave again. My Edinburgh flight would leave Saturday morning on the opposite side of London, from an airport that the moderately helpful visitor's centre guide had never heard of.
To make matters worse, a transit-worker strike was limiting or closing down several train lines - including the one closest to my location.
I had quite given up the goal of seeing the great British capital; I was worried about making it back to Edinburgh.
Late Thursday night, while I pored over train maps and London maps and GoogleMaps, searching for a solution to the unwitting mess my ignorance had created, a friend reached out to ask how my flight had gone. I told her about delays in Canada that had meant I had to get my boarding pass printed three times, go through security four times, and run to the gate just minutes before the scheduled takeoff. And I told her about the current predicament.
We settled on a bus, which would leave at 10:30 pm on Friday from the center of London. And I had all of Friday to get there.
Temple service, a welcome lunch at last, and I decided to make one last inquiry about nearby buses at the visitor's centre before I tried my luck at a cab on Friday afternoon.
"There are no buses anywhere near here," the missionary told me. "And the cabs are spotty this far out, and expensive. You'll have to let me drive you to the station. We can leave at 5. Where exactly do you need to go tonight?"
I spent my last few hours learning about the faith of the British Saints from 1857 on, and I even received a garden tour (although January may not be its best month).
"It's gorgeous," I told the senior missionary, trying to be polite in my jetlagged and hungry state. "I have always heard that Surrey is one of the most beautiful areas of England, and I can see why."
"Surrey is known for it," he said seriously, "But Kent is the garden of England, and it's not far from here."
I restrained a laugh with difficulty.
After a ride from the missionaries, I took a train that deposited me in the middle of London at 6:30 p.m. It was pitch-dark, but my "rare excitement" would have had me dashing down the streets, if not for the luggage. I left it at the coach station and, with 3.5 hours to departure, set off to see London.
Did you know that the National Gallery, which lies within walking distance of Victoria Coach Station, is open until 9 on Friday nights? Or that a fast walker could see Westminster Abbey en route and, with enough wrong turns, catch the RAF World War II Memorial and Buckingham and Windsor Palace as well?
I walked so quickly I had to dodge people waiting for the double-decker
red buses, and I stopped at each site only long enough for a dimly lit
photo. I had my four hours in London, and I enjoyed every minute of it.
A 10-hour bus ride later, and I was in Edinburgh, which was just opening to the sunniest Scottish winter day imaginable.
I dragged my luggage to a bus-stop, and with 30 minutes to wait, bought one of great mysteries of a Scottish breakfast: mealy sausage, fatty bacon, a floury roll, ketchup, and a fried egg with a sticky yolk that dropped softly onto my jacket front.
As I munched my Scottish breakfast, missed my bus, and instead met up with a friend who happened to land at just the same time, I reflected that this venture could probably have been done better - with more wisdom or basic knowledge of the geography around the London Temple, perhaps, it might have gone more gracefully, more cheaply, and above all, more sensibly.
But then again, it also might not have included a steaming sausage roll after an all-night bus ride that deposited egg yolk onto one of the few clean spots left on my jacket.
"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surrey."
"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. "I never heard any county but Surrey called so."
- Emma by Jane Austen
It seemed like a convenient, inexpensive way to experience a city I have long wanted to see and start the semester off nicely. On my way back to Scotland from a holiday in sunny (and snowy) Arizona, I could stop for two days in London, attend one of the United Kingdom's two temples, and see a few key landmarks of Western civilization.
But first came two international flights, customs, and two train rides. After I dragged three pieces of luggage through the pouring rain for an hour looking for a bus-stop on the outskirts of London, I began to wonder about my plan. The bus-stop, it turned out, would leave me with more than a mile to walk on a country road; I broke down and found a cab.
"I know where the Mormon chapel is - quite a local landmark," the driver reassured me from the safety of a dry cab, adding that this was unusually bad weather for the area. But as the landscape changed from city to suburb, and from suburb to pasture-land, horses, and herds of damp sheep, he added, "You'll be way out in the sticks though."
The LDS London Temple, I would later be informed by a missionary at the Visitor's Centre, is located on Surrey and is actually 35 miles outside London, 7 miles from the nearest public transport station, and quite, quite far from any place to buy food rations. I hurried to the cafeteria upon arrival, as only one meal was served each day, and made it to lunch just in time. By the time I exited the temple, darkness had fallen and a rare snowfall had begun, stranding scores of visitors unexpectedly at the 29-acre site.
The guest accommodations at the temple site, like the service I was able to do there, were beautiful (although - word to the wise - they don't include towels), but I was beginning to worry about how I was going to leave again. My Edinburgh flight would leave Saturday morning on the opposite side of London, from an airport that the moderately helpful visitor's centre guide had never heard of.
To make matters worse, a transit-worker strike was limiting or closing down several train lines - including the one closest to my location.
I had quite given up the goal of seeing the great British capital; I was worried about making it back to Edinburgh.
Late Thursday night, while I pored over train maps and London maps and GoogleMaps, searching for a solution to the unwitting mess my ignorance had created, a friend reached out to ask how my flight had gone. I told her about delays in Canada that had meant I had to get my boarding pass printed three times, go through security four times, and run to the gate just minutes before the scheduled takeoff. And I told her about the current predicament.
We settled on a bus, which would leave at 10:30 pm on Friday from the center of London. And I had all of Friday to get there.
Temple service, a welcome lunch at last, and I decided to make one last inquiry about nearby buses at the visitor's centre before I tried my luck at a cab on Friday afternoon."There are no buses anywhere near here," the missionary told me. "And the cabs are spotty this far out, and expensive. You'll have to let me drive you to the station. We can leave at 5. Where exactly do you need to go tonight?"
I spent my last few hours learning about the faith of the British Saints from 1857 on, and I even received a garden tour (although January may not be its best month).
"It's gorgeous," I told the senior missionary, trying to be polite in my jetlagged and hungry state. "I have always heard that Surrey is one of the most beautiful areas of England, and I can see why."
"Surrey is known for it," he said seriously, "But Kent is the garden of England, and it's not far from here."
I restrained a laugh with difficulty.
After a ride from the missionaries, I took a train that deposited me in the middle of London at 6:30 p.m. It was pitch-dark, but my "rare excitement" would have had me dashing down the streets, if not for the luggage. I left it at the coach station and, with 3.5 hours to departure, set off to see London.
Did you know that the National Gallery, which lies within walking distance of Victoria Coach Station, is open until 9 on Friday nights? Or that a fast walker could see Westminster Abbey en route and, with enough wrong turns, catch the RAF World War II Memorial and Buckingham and Windsor Palace as well?
A 10-hour bus ride later, and I was in Edinburgh, which was just opening to the sunniest Scottish winter day imaginable.
I dragged my luggage to a bus-stop, and with 30 minutes to wait, bought one of great mysteries of a Scottish breakfast: mealy sausage, fatty bacon, a floury roll, ketchup, and a fried egg with a sticky yolk that dropped softly onto my jacket front.
As I munched my Scottish breakfast, missed my bus, and instead met up with a friend who happened to land at just the same time, I reflected that this venture could probably have been done better - with more wisdom or basic knowledge of the geography around the London Temple, perhaps, it might have gone more gracefully, more cheaply, and above all, more sensibly.
But then again, it also might not have included a steaming sausage roll after an all-night bus ride that deposited egg yolk onto one of the few clean spots left on my jacket.
