Some photographs of the spookily sparsely occupied Oatlands Park Hotel and its environs (see previous post for context).
Looks like the clientele has not only checked out but also contrived to leave!
“This is an elegant hotel! Room service has an unlisted number.”
Henny Youngman
It had been the intention – on our recent tour of the UK – that with the arrival of The Girl upon those shores we would reside for a week with my brother in the small town in Surrey in which he and I (and our sister) had grown up. As a result of the rule of ‘the best laid plans‘, however, things did not turn out quite as expected.
In preparation for our visit my brother had decided that his bathroom needed to be remodeled (he designs kitchens and suchlike for a living) and he had accordingly set things in motion. Unfortunately, as a result of the late delivery of some essential components and because of an unusual interpretation of the laws of time on the part of his builder, the project had not been completed at the point at which we knocked upon his front door (actually he met us outside but that is not quite such a satisfyingly dramatic scenario!).
No matter! Being the splendidly resourceful (not to mention massively generous) chap that he is he had taken the precaution of booking us (at his expense – thank you!) into a rather splendid hotel not a stone’s throw from his abode. As things turned out this was actually considerably to our advantage, as we were able to entertain in the hotel reception rooms a number of those who we wished to see during our stay but to whom for one reason or other we had not been able to arrange visits.
What my brother did not know when he booked the hotel was that this historic institution – built in the 1850s on the site of one of Henry VIII’s palaces – was itself undergoing renovations. This made for a rather lovely but somewhat unusual interlude – though one that undoubtedly enhanced this part of our extended trek.
I knew the hotel from my childhood. The grounds behind the building sweep down to a long lake called the Broadwater. When I were a nipper the hotel used to host there a firework display for Guy Fawkes night – November 5th. After the show we would repair to the somewhat tatty atrium at the front of the building to partake of (presumably non-alcoholic) beverages.
The hotel was extensively and beautifully restored during the 1980s (under new ownership) and the atrium became a go-to destination (papers clutched firmly in hand) for Sunday brunch. They did a jolly spiffing club sandwich as I recall. On one such Sunday at the start of November in 1991 we convened there for brunch the day after Australia had beaten England in the Rugby World Cup final at Twickenham. It rapidly became apparent that the hotel had been chosen as the Aussies London base for the final – and even more apparent (as they gathered gingerly in the lobby) that they had celebrated the event heartily and abundantly well into the night.
Well – the old place is due another renovation now and is in the process of receiving one. Parts of the building have already been finished (we naturally had a room in this part) but much of the rest of it is still in the hands of trades-persons of all manner of varieties. As a result it is still pretty lightly booked and thus rather spookily empty. A wander around the grounds – also in need of a fair bit of TLC – gave me the slightly odd feeling of having wandered into some post-war Stephen Poliakoff drama. I kept expecting to be approached by a mysterious contact and inducted into some strange mission.
Maybe I just expect all of my life to be like that!
”…home from the sea”
A. E. Housman (rather than the Robert Louis Stevenson original)
Well – we are back!
We had a wonderful trip (concerning which much more will be written) and took many photographs (of which many such will be posted). All went like clockwork until we came to the final two days, when our return travel plans went slightly awry.
I have – since a particularly uncomfortable long-haul flight some twenty years ago – always tried to avoid flying with what was once tagged ‘Britain’s Favourite Airline’. We chose them for our return journey from the UK to Greece, however, because the price and timings were reasonable and because we could follow our regular practice of paying for the extra-legroom exit-row seats.
A couple of days before the outbound departure I received an email advising me of a seat change, though I was not able to detect any difference. Puzzled I called BA Customer Service. They were likewise confused, but hazarded that the aircraft type or configuration might have changed. Whilst on the phone I got them to confirm that our return flights would feature the very same seats as we had chosen for the outward flight.
This first leg went reasonably smoothly. On the return (having received no further emails from BA) we checked in without paying too much attention and it was only when we got to the gate that I realised that we had been bumped from the seats for which we had paid to the back of the aircraft. There followed a heated but fruitless exchange at the desk during which we were informed that the aircraft must have been changed and that nothing could be done.
Investigation during the flight revealed that the aircraft was if fact identical to that on which we had flown the outbound leg, that the seats from which we had been removed still existed (with the very same seat numbers) and that someone else was sitting in them. Though we had payed extra for these seats we had been moved to the very back of the plane, lost our chosen aisle seat and were in a row with no window. In short, for the additional fee, we were now in the worst seats on the plane.
A visit to the Customer Service desk after landing garnered sympathy and the information that we could get a refund – but only by writing to BA to claim it. In this age of modern technology it must have been quite possible for the airline to automatically generate a refund at the point at which the seats for which we had paid were reassigned.
We naturally won’t be flying with BA again!
The next day we had as good a flight back to Vancouver with Air Canada as is possible on any journey of nine and a half hours. The Boeing 787 was spacious and we had masses of extra room in our exit-row seats. On landing in Vancouver we did what we have always done (and which is still necessary for all other airlines) – we waited at the baggage carousel to pick up our checked luggage prior to re-checking it for the internal flight.
We waited some more… Nothing appeared.
I visited both of the Information Desks in the baggage hall. Neither was manned!
Finally The Girl found a knowledgeable operative. We discovered that – for Air Canada only – baggage is now passed directly through to the connecting flight. The procedure was apparently changed two years ago but – since we have not done this trek since moving to Canada – we were unaware of the fact and had not been told. With time to make our connection now short we sprinted down what felt like several miles of corridor and stairway.
Unfortunately, even though one has come directly from another flight (for which one has already been security-checked) YVR insists on re-checking… and the operation is a complete gong-show! Very nearly half of all bags – including two of ours – were hauled out for special attention, carried out with excruciating slowness one at a time. We had purchased a bottle of spirits on the Vancouver flight which had been sealed in a special bag to ease onward transit. Regardless of this precaution the officer carefully unsealed the package, checked the pristine contents and then carefully and slowly resealed the bag (why?!).
The end result was that we arrived at the gate in time to see our plane accelerating away in the direction of the taxi-way. We were forced to join the standby list for the following flight.
Enquiring as to what had happened to our checked luggage we were told be no less than three officials that – as we were not on the plane that had just left – our cases would not have been on it either. Given the couple of days we had just endured we were not in the least surprised to find, on arrival in Victoria, that our luggage was already there waiting for us. No-one involved in either of these sorry affairs exactly covered themselves with glory.
What conclusion are we to draw from these mishaps?
It was clearly time to come home!
Tags: Holiday, incompetence, Travel
This last week has found us in many interesting places and being entertained by many lovely and generous friends and relatives. I have pictures – I have topics on which I am determined to pontificate (just a little). What I don’t have right now is the time…
Tomorrow we fly to Athens to move into the final phase of our ‘grand tour’ – our little ‘R & R’ break in the Greek islands. It is unlikely that I will be in a position to post whilst bobbing on the briney so further missives must needs wait until we are back.
Fear not – however (said he optimistically) – there will be a rush of postings once we return!
Bet you can’t wait…
Tags: Holiday, Travel, United Kingdom
“No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other’s worth.”
Robert Southey
A little less than two weeks ago I wrote the following on the subject of how I felt about returning (for however brief a visit) to the land of my birth.
“A dear friend here in BC asked me the other day how I felt about going back to the country of my birth. I told him the truth: I am really not at all sure how I feel about it. I am certainly looking forward to seeing family, friends and acquaintances and it will be good to visit some of the old haunts again. Beyond that I currently feel somewhat ambivalent.”
Safe to say that I am now a whole bunch less ambivalent!
Since arriving in the UK just over a week ago I/we have been met with nothing but kindness, generosity, enthusiasm and love. It has been a real joy to revisit old friendships and acquaintances and to rekindle relationships that have been dormant for years or even decades. The whole trip has thus far been an incredibly positive experience.
That said it seems invidious to single out any particular one of these joyful (and I make no apology for the repeated use of that word) experiences – but I do have to make mention of the heart-warming gathering that took place on the first Sunday that I was back in the UK.
Shortly before leaving for Canada four years ago I passed a delightful afternoon in the company of some old musician friends of mine – none of whom I had seen for some considerable time – chewing the fat about the old days in which we had played in a band together and about the theatrical works with which we had been involved.
With this visit to the old country in the offing I once again contacted my guitarist friend and suggested that it would be good to repeat that experience. What he actually did – whilst keeping from me all but the broadest hints – was to arrange a full-scale re-union of all of the old band members and a good number of those who belonged to the youth theatre with which we then worked.
Any fears that I might have had about being able to recognise those whom I had not seen for forty years – some of whom were then only in their late teens – vanished just as soon as I walked in. I was far from alone in showing my delight at seeing again those with whom we had enjoyed such formative experiences all those years ago. The afternoon was quite, quite magical and none of us really wanted to leave at the end of it. The subsequent outpouring of gratitude on email by all concerned clearly illustrated just how much the re-union – and the adventures some four decades back that we were celebrating – had meant to us.
A lovely, lovely occasion – and one which I will never forget.
A heartfelt thank you to all concerned.
Tags: Friends, Memories, Music, United Kingdom, Youth Theatre
Oldest friend and his good lady live in a part of rural England that is perhaps the epitome of all that is considered to be the most English of Englishness.
They did not always do so of course. When we were growing up we all lived in a small town by the river Thames in Surrey that the locals to this day (or at least until not that long ago) insist on calling (without irony) ‘the village’.
We have each now disappeared in our own directions – us to western Canada – they to the borderlands of Worcestershire and Herefordshire. Naturally I made the pilgrimage to the heart of the country to get a look at our friends’ new home (the which I had previously only glimpsed briefly in estate agents particulars online) and to re-connect with them. A thoroughly lovely couple of days in the countryside ensued.
These images give a general impression of the area – and if you can hear strains of Elgar playing somewhere in your subconscious as you view them I would not be in the least surprised.
Readers from ‘the old country’ – and in particular those from the south east thereof – will doubtless already know of the delights of Painshill Park. This post is really for others who do not (yet!) but who will no doubt be happy to be introduced thereto.
Painshill was established in the mid-18th century by the Hon Charles Hamilton (MP) and was one of the early examples of the fashion for creating ‘natural’ landscapes adorned with Gothic follies such as ‘ruined’ abbeys, grottos and hermitages. Those familiar with Tom Stoppard’s ‘Arcadia’ will know whereof I speak.
The reason for this post is that the old and dear friends with whom I have been staying for the first phase of our UK adventure live in part of the Georgian mansion that adjoins the park. A visit was thus in order.
Here be photos:
…surprised me on my arrival back in the UK for the first time since leaving the country for British Columbia nearly four years ago…
The first was that on landing, coming through customs and leaving the airport I had the strangest sensation that I was entering a foreign country. I can’t quite put my finger on what it was that made it feel that way, but it undoubtedly did so.
Now – a day and a half later – the feeling has diminished somewhat but I still find myself experiencing the sensation of being a little disconnected from everything I see about me.
The second oddity is quite the opposite. I had been rather concerned that, having driven only in Canada for the past four years, I would find it difficult to deal with a right hand drive car on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. This would have been made worse by the fact that I had hired a manual (stick) vehicle as opposed to the automatics that I have been driving for the past four years. That I had immediately to set out on that bear-pit of a road – the M25 ( the London orbital motorway) did not help at all.
In the event – and for reasons I need not go into here – the vehicle was upgraded to a better model, one with a hybrid transmission (to all intents and purposes an automatic).
Further – and to my surprise – it felt as though I had never been away and driving on the left felt entirely natural. In the last couple of days I have driven into London twice but not yet felt out of my depth once. Fingers crossed (and wood touched) that this state of affairs continues.
The visit is already massively busy – but at the same time really rather lovely (with the sorry exception of badly missing The Girl!) and everyone is being most kind and massively generous.
My heartfelt gratitude to all…
Tags: Friends, Holiday, Travel, United Kingdom
“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.”
Jack Kerouac
The Kickass Canada Girl and I have been most fortunate in that during our time together (not far short of a decade and a half now) we have been able to travel both widely and well. We might not have ventured to quite such far-off and exotic places as have other friends of ours, but we have derived nonetheless a great deal of pleasure – joy even – from our joint excursions.
It probably goes without saying that foremost amongst those trips were our Atlantic crossings to Canada. We visited in 2006 (my introduction to both the country and to British Columbia) and 2008. We were back in the summer of 2010 to get married (whoopee!) and again in the spring of 2011 for less happy reasons. Those who have followed this blog throughout will recall that The Girl came to Victoria early in 2012 for a job. In the ten months that she was here and I was still in England we both traversed the ocean several times to see each other before her return to the UK in the November of that year.
Finally we visited at Christmas time in 2013 with the additional pleasure of celebrating my sixtieth birthday at the Wickanninish Inn on Chesterman Beach outside Tofino.
I say ‘finally’, but of course our real final crossing – to date – was in July of 2015 when we moved with all of our goods and chattels from the UK to Vancouver Island.
In the nearly four years since that momentous event we have not ventured in the direction of the United Kingdom or Europe… until now! (For those who have not been following these scribblings – I leave for the UK in two days time).
A dear friend here in BC asked me the other day how I felt about going back to the country of my birth. I told him the truth: I am really not at all sure how I feel about it. I am certainly looking forward to seeing family, friends and acquaintances and it will be good to visit some of the old haunts again. Beyond that I currently feel somewhat ambivalent – a feeling most likely re-enforced by the current political chaos there. I will just have to be prepared for any eventuality and I will – of course – document the experience in full in this journal.
Even more pertinently, perhaps, the friend asked me how I thought I would feel when – after nearly a month away – I returned to Victoria in June. I told him what I expected to feel. We will just have to wait to see how accurate is that expectation.
A downside of disappearing to the UK (and to elsewhere in Europe) in the middle of springtime is – of course – that one’s little acreage here on Vancouver Island is still only just getting into its stride when it comes to the Glories of the Garden. We will vanish across the ocean and by the time we get back some of these beautiful shrubs and flowers will have been and gone for another year.
As least I got to take pictures of these ones:
Though not – of course – the (non-fruiting) cherry tree!
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