East pole

Cheese supplies had held up well during our stay in the Isle of Wight, but I had run out by the time we got back and I had been reduced to prepacked supermarket cheese. A visit to London was called for.

Three Bullingdons

It was overcast and close, but at least it was not hot and I elected for another try at the east pole. That is to say the easternmost Bullingdon stand south of the river and the easternmost outpost of the Neal's Yard operation, missed on the occasion noticed at reference 1.

Arrived at the station to find a happy small child singing away from the depths of her buggy. Except that after a while the slightly larger small child standing on the foot plate got bored and started energetically bashing the roof of the buggy with predictable results. Mum intervened in due course.

On the train, starting modest six minutes late, for the first time for a while I scored a paying-for newspaper. Although to be fair, it was bottom of the range, that is to say the Star. More like Titbits of old - a magazine which used to be carried by gents. hairdressers' - than a real newspaper - but these days, beggars can't be choosers.

At Waterloo, pulled a Bullingdon and headed off for Tanner Street, just short of Bermondsey, which I made in just under 15 minutes, that is to say taking up half of the free time allocation of 30 minutes. From where I started to tramp the arches which start at Druid Street.

Scrap timber

 Where, to make a change, I came across a scrap timber yard, perhaps the sort of place you go to when you want to kit out your eatery with pre-loved floor boards. Presumably getting their stock from demolitions and serious renovations.

Not a trolley

A bit further along a Tesco trolley, which was tempting as I have not scored an out-of-town trolley for a while. But decided against, it being too much of a bother to locate the shop on my telephone in the bright sunlight, this despite it being overcast. Perhaps my telephone is showing its age as I don't see many other people having the same problem.

Underpass

The impressive blue pillars of the Spa Road underpass, a place rather splendidly known as the Spa Terminus, with Gmaps offering an even better view. The one in the foreground must either be faulty or be taking a great deal of weight for it to have been strapped up in the way that it was.

Finally made it to Neal's Yard Dairy to find that it was the warehouse and HQ, and like a lot of the food and drink business under these arches, only open to the public on Saturday mornings, on which day, as I was to learn shortly, there was something of a festival atmosphere, with all the gentry of the gentrification of Bermondsey coming out to play.

Luckily, the receptionist behind the plate glass took pity on me and came to see what I wanted, and when I explained that my telephone had not said anything about the place not being a regular shop, said that maybe something could be done and after a short wait I was collected by a very personable young lady from the mail order department - the existence of which I had previously been unaware. A young lady who was a good cut above your average shop girl, who politely affected not to notice that I was a bit hot & bothered after my cycle ride and who seemed to know a good deal about the business and its founders, Nicolas Albury and Nicolas Saunders. She pointed me at a booklet prefaced by the widow of this last, Anja, not being handed out, but available as a pdf from their website.

The story

I was able to keep my end up with tales of my visits to the original whole food warehouse to buy brown rice, much better brown rice than was readily available elsewhere and served out of large jute sacks, in the old way. I dare say they had problems with rats, it being a rather old building, and I was tactless enough to ask about rats under the arches, with the personable young lady taking them in her stride. It seems that they did indeed work hard on rats and she admitted to having seen one in the very office - one of the arches but very bright and cheerful, if a little warm - in which we were sitting. And after I left I noticed standard rat traps set at regular intervals along the arches.

From there we moved onto natural dying, the operation set up by Albury and his former wife, for which see reference 2. 'The Natural Death Centre was founded in 1991 by Nicholas Albery and his wife, psychotherapist Josefine Speyer. A break up in their relationship some years earlier had led Josefine to see a link between the process of dying and that of giving birth, and she had explored the subject in some depth. Her acquired knowledge came in useful during when Nicholas's father died and communication was very difficult. Nicholas and Josefine had long discussions and felt that there was a need for death education, along similar lines to sex education. They set up the Natural Death Centre with three aims in mind...'. Coming at death from a rather different angle than the dignity in dying people whom I support (reference 3), seeming to be more interested in the manner of burial than in the manner of death, but I dare say there is common ground. Somewhere along the line I got the idea that they were headquartered in a former military bunker near Winchester, but I cannot now confirm that idea.

I got the impression that the place paid a lot of attention to hygiene, but I was allowed a peep into the warehouse, from behind a counter. After which I left with two large pieces of Poacher and a quarter of a new-to-me cheese called Durras, the Gubbeen having sold out. Most of this last was taken the following day, when it did very well.

A peek at the warehouse

And another peep into centre of the warehouse, from the road, after exit.

The boozer

I was tempted by the Marquis of Wellington - presumably some junior relation of the Duke - which reminded me of TB back in Epsom - probably catering to an eclectic mixture of foodies, warehousemen and people of the estates behind. Fairly quite when I passed, and I decided it might be better to getting a bit nearer home before starting on that sort of thing.

Porsche outside the Doodle Bar

The same car seemed to be sitting outside the Doodle Bar as last time, although it might be the owner of bodywork operation under the next arch, rather than that of the bar. Zooming into the bonnet and asking Bing about sports car bonnet badges I fairly quickly find that we are looking at a Porsche.

Badges

There are clearly lots of people out there interested in this sort of thing, with Internet provision for them being good. Decided against another beefburger at Doodle and pressed on, back to Tanner Street.

From where I decided that it was time for another transit of Tower Bridge, which I remember from last time as being surprisingly narrow for what must once have been a main road. Perhaps it still is. Checking this morning, I find that there have actually been two previous transits, noticed at references 5 and 6, from the days when I made more use of the Bullingdon system than I do now. With my not being able to bring the chocolate lollipop of reference 6 back to mind. Perhaps there is not enough there to go on, perhaps it will come back to me later in the day.

Round the Tower of London, to find myself on what amounted to a bicycle expressway which took me all the way back to Westminster. Very few lights, and even fewer against me. They really have put a lot of work and a lot of money into cycling in the centre of London.

Took lunch in the Wesley cafeteria under Central Hall, a handy place for refreshment when in Westminster, not well provided with eateries. I had a fine lamb's liver and bacon lunch for something under £10, including chips and mushy peas, the first time I have eaten liver for a while.

The view

A bit of interest provided by a group of young people sporting Shakespearean tops, from Belt Valley, which turned out to be a place in Montana. See reference 7 - which does not seem to offer much in the way of pictures, so I offer this view of the countryside you get when leaving the city of Belt, on Belt Creek, from Street View. Rather lower resolution than the pictures you get of London. Quite near a place called Fort Belknap, which confused, as I had thought that Belknap was the imprint of a prestige, university publisher. I forget which.

Onto Westminster Abbey, where there was a long queue, but my card got me in in around 10 minutes. With the chap ahead of me turning out to be something in the University of Calgary, to which I could claim allegiance on both my mother's side and BH's aunt's side. But he was unimpressed when I was  able to recall neither the name of the street - 13th Avenue West - nor the name of the uncle - Irons. See reference 8.

Roofs barely visible

Roofs slightly visible

Reminded how comfortable it can be in the Abbey, even when busy. One can always find a quiet corner or a place to sit. On this occasion being struck by how light and airy the place seemed in the summer's afternoon light. Not like winter at all. Also by the pointed roofs of the choir stalls, faked up as if they had been tiled or slated. I associated to the fancy wooden thrones erected for the lords and ladies in a jousting field in the Neibelungenlied, a poem with which the Victorian designer of the choir stalls may have been familiar. Try, for example, reference 9. And with the book noticed at reference 10 turning up a better picture of the stalls than Bing could manage.

A short stay in St. Faith's chapel, until disturbed by a rush of other visitors, not all of whom had proper respect for the sign for silence.

Out to cross a wedding couple from the far east, in full suit and white dress outfits. Not many attendants that I could see. All rather odd.

Pulled the last Bullingdon of the day to get me back to Waterloo, another route which had involved substantial roadworks - but not substantial enough to deal with the substantial pot hole along York Road. I am starting to get the hang of these new cycle tracks, including the business of a lot of them being two way, with lycra-clad young cyclists hurtling at you as well as past you.

Very hot in Smiths, with the lady behind the counter telling me that it had been much worse the day before, the Thursday at the peak of the heatwave. I don't think I could have managed, it seeming to be quite hot enough for me on the Friday.

Paused in the Half Way House for a beverage, after which I managed to catch the wrong train. Which meant that while I only scored two ones from the platform at Earlsfield, I did manage to score some interesting magazines from the platform at Raynes Park. Including old numbers of the New Statesman, Private Eye and Economia (the house magazine of the Institute of Chartered Accountants). As it turns out, New Statesman rather dull and discarded. Private Eye full of tales of greed etc in the upper reaches of our country. Plus lots of amusing titbits about human foolishness more generally. A useful complement to our regular diet of Guardian - a complement which leads to some understanding of the populist backlash against the elite. If they behave like this, maybe some populist really will clear out the stable? If they behave like this, let's pull the whole house down: I might get hurt, but so will they. Economia including an engaging tale of a big league crossword buff.

And as it happened, the right train contained the same family mentioned near the top of this post, nicely rounding out this rather busy day.

Reference 1: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2019/07/the-far-eastern-cheese-hunt.html.

Reference 2: http://naturaldeath.org.uk/.

Reference 3: https://www.dignityindying.org.uk/.

Reference 4: https://www.nealsyarddairy.co.uk/.

Reference 5: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=scotted. A transit north.

Reference 6: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=chocolate+lollipop. A transit south.

Reference 7: https://www.beltperformingartscenter.com/belt-shakesperean-players.

Reference 8: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2019/01/family-history.html.

Reference 9: https://psmv2.blogspot.com/search?q=neibelungenlied.

Reference 10: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/08/better-late-than-never.html.