After postponing our excursion on two separate occasions due to gloomy weather and stranded friends thanks to a certain ash cloud, I finally made a visit to Hampton Court Palace this past weekend on a particularly stunning warm day.
The royal palace, which was built by Cardinal Wolsey in 1514 and subsequently passed on to King Henry VIII when his chief minister fell from favour in 1529 (due to his failure to secure an annulment of the King’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon so that he could marry Anne Boleyn), is located in the London borough of Richmond-upon-Thames in the southwest. Over the years the palace has been enlarged, first by Henry and then by William III in the following century in a bid to rival Versailles.
The palace spans years of English architectural styles, transitioning from the domestic Tudor to the perpendicalur Gothic to the Italian Renaissance classical style. Henry VIII enhanced the Gothic-inspired Tudor style but the hybrid architecture would change again when Inigo Jones introduced strong classical influences from Italy to all the London palaces of the first Stuart kings.
The palace has been home to many Kings and Queens since the 16th century, but for me, the most interesting history it has seen is the Tudor years. It might be because I love watching the television series 'The Tudors', that sexes up Henry VIII’s (played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) tumultuous marriages and unstable rule.
Many of the most famous moments in the Tudor dynasty took place within the walls of Hampton Court Palace. In 1537, the King’s only male heir, the future Edward VI, was born at the palace and his mother, Jane Seymour, died there three weeks after the difficult birth. Four years later, while attending Mass in the palace’s chapel, the King was informed of his fifth wife’s adultery. The Queen, Catherine Howard, was dragged away screaming from a gallery that leads to the chapel and it is said that her ghost still haunts it.
When Henry VIII died followed by his only son, the throne went to Mary I, the King’s daughter with his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Hampton Court Palace is where she and her husband, King Philip II of Spain, spent their honeymoon. That marriage was a childless one and when Mary’s half-sister Elizabeth I (Henry’s daughter with Anne Boleyn) became Queen she had the Eastern kitchen built – which today is the palace’s public tea room.
Besides the history that echoes throughout the palace, it is also a really interesting place to spend the day walking around – even if you are not a history junkie. When I ventured out here with Diane and Lauren we were lucky enough to have a warm and sunny day, which are few and far between in the UK. Though we went indoors to see the various wings, the apartments, the chapel and Great Hall (where William Shakespeare and his players performed for the royalty) and the haunted gallery, we spent a lazy afternoon enjoying a boozy picnic and lying in the grass amid the spectacular gardens.
The garden grounds as they appear today were laid out in the 17th century. Apparently, there are no authentic remains of King Henry VIII’s gardens. The dominating feature of the gardens is the great architectural landscaping scheme that was constructed for Christopher Wren’s (also the father of such feats as the dome of St. Peter’s Cathedral) new additions. A water-bounded semicircular parterre covers the east front with three avenues radiating out in a crow’s foot pattern. The great canal, which is known as the Long Water, was excavated during the reign of Charles II in 1662 and is another immediately recognizable influence from Versailles.
Once we had soaked in the sun and semi-napped on our picnic blanket, drowsy from two bottles of rose, cheese, crackers, meats and sweets, we headed off to explore two of the most famous aspects of the palace grounds: the Great Vine and the Hampton Court Maze. The Great Vine is currently housed inside a conservatory for protection. Planted in 1769, by 1968 it had a trunk 81 inches thick and spanned a length of 100 feet. It still produces an annual crop of grapes. The Maze was planted in the 1690s for William III of Orange. It covers a third of an acre and contains half a mile of paths. I quite enjoyed walking through it, until I felt like we weren’t going to get out, and then I had to use the emergency exit.
It was a great day out and really makes for a wonderful day-trip from downtown London. With the right weather, the grounds offer a beautiful place to enjoy the season while boning up on your Tudor and Stuart dynasties. Just read that over and I sound like I am selling tours. Well, if you want to come visit I would be more than happy to run that tour for you.
Monday 24 May 2010
Saturday 8 May 2010
Great Britain Gets Hung
On the morning of 7 May, the UK woke up to a hung parliament. Since I was unable to vote – or, as I later learned, was able to but just missed registration – I went to bed mainly unbothered by whatever results would greet me the following day. I was aesthetically annoyed with Tory leader David Cameron, whose smug little face I could do with never seeing again, and already discouraged by my own liberal attitudes being disregarded back in conservative Canada. So you could say I am politically lackadaisical at the moment.
But from my point of view, it looks as if the mother country is following in the footsteps of its Commonwealth child. The UK has been continually disappointed by the Labour party (in power since 1997 when Tony Blair came in) in the same way that Canada was with the Paul Martin liberals. The comparisons are rather striking, actually, with MP scandals and older, crusty prime ministers who could just not connect with younger voters. The result for both has been – in a certain widespread cry of “out with the old and in with the new” – a movement to the left side: doughboy Stephen Harper and try-hard David Cameron. The two could be brothers, really. If only GW was still around to form a plonker triumvirate.
First of all (though all Canadians should know this well), what exactly is a hung parliament? It is a term used to describe a parliament in which no political party has an absolute majority of seats. In countries like Germany and Ireland, where legislatures have proportional representation, this is a common situation. In Canada, our current parliament is hung, as were the two before it. However, we don’t use the term across the pond. Back home we say minority government or minority parliament instead. Our 40th, 39th and 38th parliament were also not “hung” in the sense that there were no clear precedents allowing the leader of the party with the most seats to form a government.
A hung parliament inevitably leads to an uncertain period following election. For example, the widespread “d’uh” that was heard around the UK yesterday. This is apparently quite common in countries that are not used to it. Despite some confusion around overcrowded polling stations, the Tories are expected to get 305 seats (just short of the 326 needed for an outright majority), Labour is expected to end up with 255 and the Lib Dems (the UK’s NDP essentially) will have a disappointing 57.
According to the BBC, past practice under Britain’s unwritten constitution grants the sitting prime minister in a hung parliament with the right to make the first attempt at forming a ruling coalition. But apparently, the Queen is the only person who can actually invite someone to form a government and become prime minister. She has no tie-breaking power, however, so the ceremony is mainly symbolic. If the outcome of the election is inconclusive, as it is today, it is for the political parties to determine who will become prime minister, and then that decision is communicated to Buckingham Palace.
Meanwhile, back in the ring, the gloves are coming off – not that things didn’t get dirty during the run up to election night. Yesterday morning, the leaders’ rhetoric is mature and edifying. Tory Cameron has accused Labour PM Gordon Brown with “losing his mandate to govern” but Gordo came back with a statement that as prime minister he still has “a constitutional duty to seek to resolve the situation for the good of the country.” In the meantime, Lib-Dem leader Nick Clegg, who created early positive buzz during the three pre-election televised debates, said that the result gives the Tories the right to seek to govern first.
As I post this, the situation has still not been resolved. The government of the UK is still hanging in the balance. Cameron has offered an olive branch to the Lib-Dems, effectively inviting them to join forces and create a “stronger, more stable, more collaborative government.” Former Tory prime minister John Major told the BBC that offering cabinet seats to the Lib Dems was “a price, in the national interest, that I personally would be prepared to bear” for the formation of a stable government able to manage the economic crisis.
No one has moved out or into Number 10 just yet, but it is likely that sometime this weekend, the change will come. Prime minister Brown will probably pack up and head out to Buckingham Palace with Cameron in his stead. When the motorcades arrive, Elizabeth II will invite someone to form a government. And then it will be interesting to watch the political drama unfold. Living in the UK during this historic election (these televised debates were the very first of their kind over here) has been exciting, even if I am not that invested in the result.
But from my point of view, it looks as if the mother country is following in the footsteps of its Commonwealth child. The UK has been continually disappointed by the Labour party (in power since 1997 when Tony Blair came in) in the same way that Canada was with the Paul Martin liberals. The comparisons are rather striking, actually, with MP scandals and older, crusty prime ministers who could just not connect with younger voters. The result for both has been – in a certain widespread cry of “out with the old and in with the new” – a movement to the left side: doughboy Stephen Harper and try-hard David Cameron. The two could be brothers, really. If only GW was still around to form a plonker triumvirate.
First of all (though all Canadians should know this well), what exactly is a hung parliament? It is a term used to describe a parliament in which no political party has an absolute majority of seats. In countries like Germany and Ireland, where legislatures have proportional representation, this is a common situation. In Canada, our current parliament is hung, as were the two before it. However, we don’t use the term across the pond. Back home we say minority government or minority parliament instead. Our 40th, 39th and 38th parliament were also not “hung” in the sense that there were no clear precedents allowing the leader of the party with the most seats to form a government.
A hung parliament inevitably leads to an uncertain period following election. For example, the widespread “d’uh” that was heard around the UK yesterday. This is apparently quite common in countries that are not used to it. Despite some confusion around overcrowded polling stations, the Tories are expected to get 305 seats (just short of the 326 needed for an outright majority), Labour is expected to end up with 255 and the Lib Dems (the UK’s NDP essentially) will have a disappointing 57.
According to the BBC, past practice under Britain’s unwritten constitution grants the sitting prime minister in a hung parliament with the right to make the first attempt at forming a ruling coalition. But apparently, the Queen is the only person who can actually invite someone to form a government and become prime minister. She has no tie-breaking power, however, so the ceremony is mainly symbolic. If the outcome of the election is inconclusive, as it is today, it is for the political parties to determine who will become prime minister, and then that decision is communicated to Buckingham Palace.
Meanwhile, back in the ring, the gloves are coming off – not that things didn’t get dirty during the run up to election night. Yesterday morning, the leaders’ rhetoric is mature and edifying. Tory Cameron has accused Labour PM Gordon Brown with “losing his mandate to govern” but Gordo came back with a statement that as prime minister he still has “a constitutional duty to seek to resolve the situation for the good of the country.” In the meantime, Lib-Dem leader Nick Clegg, who created early positive buzz during the three pre-election televised debates, said that the result gives the Tories the right to seek to govern first.
As I post this, the situation has still not been resolved. The government of the UK is still hanging in the balance. Cameron has offered an olive branch to the Lib-Dems, effectively inviting them to join forces and create a “stronger, more stable, more collaborative government.” Former Tory prime minister John Major told the BBC that offering cabinet seats to the Lib Dems was “a price, in the national interest, that I personally would be prepared to bear” for the formation of a stable government able to manage the economic crisis.
No one has moved out or into Number 10 just yet, but it is likely that sometime this weekend, the change will come. Prime minister Brown will probably pack up and head out to Buckingham Palace with Cameron in his stead. When the motorcades arrive, Elizabeth II will invite someone to form a government. And then it will be interesting to watch the political drama unfold. Living in the UK during this historic election (these televised debates were the very first of their kind over here) has been exciting, even if I am not that invested in the result.
Tuesday 4 May 2010
Cows in the Cornish Countryside
I have just returned from a lovely weekend in Cornwall, an area of Great Britain that forms the tip of its southwestern peninsula. It counts among its borders the Atlantic Ocean, the English Channel and the county of Devon, so the scenery is as breathtaking as any I’ve seen across the continent. The sheer cliffs, rugged coastline, nude stretching sand and aquamarine waters are reminiscent of parts of Portugal’s Algarve and portions of the coast of Italy. But like their European doppelgangers, the Cornwall beaches are not often warm places to sunbathe and tan. They are picturesque but windy coves that offer excellent surfing, windsurfing and kite sailing.
Newquay, the areas most popular surfing destination, was also our locale for the weekend. Six Canadian gals – myself, Lauren, Diane, Christine, Erin and Belle – rented an adorable cottage called the Barn Owl with exquisite views of rolling green (cow-filled!) fields, a short distance from the seaside. Though exuding a definite charm that echoes Greek’s island towns, Newquay has fallen prey to the tourist bug. Its rustic chippies, old-fashioned souvenir shops and pastoral B&B’s are now overtaken by American surf shops, three-tiered nightclubs and gaudy indoor amusement centres. The town has become very well known for hosting wild stag and hen do’s, so its nightlife has grown to accommodate this.
Despite the town’s glaring tourist appeal, we had a quiet and pleasant long weekend. The days were cool but gloriously clear and sunny so we wandered through fluorescent green fields, along the top of craggy cliffs overlooking the sea and on firm expanses of sand that were occasionally licked by the white-foamy tongues of the Atlantic. Our only instances of rain were early and late in the day, so we were tucked cozily into our cottage, sipping wine or tea, eating baked Camembert and chocolate, playing board games and euchre, and listening as the downpour played the windowpanes like a drum.
Quite a serene picture I am painting, isn’t it? Well, I have returned to the city very relaxed but with one noted difference. I am now quite afraid of cows. I always considered myself to be rather fearless but, as I get older, my tolerances have been gradually decreasing. On top of an alarmingly mounting fear of confined spaces, heights, clowns and people dressed as animals, I am now not too fond of the doe-eyed farm creatures.
Minding our own business on a delightful stroll through an area labeled a public walking path, we approached a congress of cows. As we mounted the fence that separated woman and beast, the cows looked up with interest, hunger and, I observed, a touch of rage. Though we stuck close to the fence as we headed down the hill, cows from across the pasture turned from their meals and began to rush towards us. Belle, confidently our leader, carried straight down to the bottom while the rest of us turned back. Then the cows lost interest and dispersed, so Erin, Diane and I hustled back over the fence and began to walk down the hill, eyes to the grass to avoid making eye contact with the bovine ladies. I was shaking like a leaf, and wearing questionably appropriate footwear, but managed to reach the bottom without getting trampled (though the cattle did come close). Christine and Lauren, too terrified of the aggressive animals and educated by the two demonstrations the rest of us had provided, opted to climb over a barbed-wire fence rather than face the beasts.
The cowherd has been haunting my dreams ever since. You may consider me a wimp, and you might be right in relation to a number of additional fears, but it is apparently known in the UK (no one bothered to tell me) that cows quite often attack humans. The typically placid creatures have been known, especially when protecting their young calves, to charge at humans, and dogs. Just search ‘cow attacks’ on the BBC website and you will see a plethora of stories. Last summer a vet was trampled to death by a herd of cows while walking her two dogs and MP David Blunkett was left with a black eye and a cracked rib after a tussle with a bovine. Statistics from the Health and Safety Executive released in 2009 say that 19 people have been killed and 481 injured by cows since 2001.
At least our countryside stroll avoided tragedy. We carried on past the cows, and past an old-fashioned mini BMW rally, towards a picturesque beach with towering rock face and then into Newquay for some fish and chips and fresh Cornish ice cream. (The seaside wandering was balanced out with some truly devilish eating.) The Cornish seaside was a welcome adventure from my recent long workdays and tourist jaunts around London with Mom, despite my newly acquired fear of cows – as well as a camera mishap involving sea and sand, a slight return-train incident that added further expenses, and a delay en route to Plymouth while a drunk was thrown off the train for assaulting a member of the staff. Despite all that drama, the air was crisp like Canada and the sky a clear blue, offering a much-needed respite from the congestion of the city.
Newquay, the areas most popular surfing destination, was also our locale for the weekend. Six Canadian gals – myself, Lauren, Diane, Christine, Erin and Belle – rented an adorable cottage called the Barn Owl with exquisite views of rolling green (cow-filled!) fields, a short distance from the seaside. Though exuding a definite charm that echoes Greek’s island towns, Newquay has fallen prey to the tourist bug. Its rustic chippies, old-fashioned souvenir shops and pastoral B&B’s are now overtaken by American surf shops, three-tiered nightclubs and gaudy indoor amusement centres. The town has become very well known for hosting wild stag and hen do’s, so its nightlife has grown to accommodate this.
Despite the town’s glaring tourist appeal, we had a quiet and pleasant long weekend. The days were cool but gloriously clear and sunny so we wandered through fluorescent green fields, along the top of craggy cliffs overlooking the sea and on firm expanses of sand that were occasionally licked by the white-foamy tongues of the Atlantic. Our only instances of rain were early and late in the day, so we were tucked cozily into our cottage, sipping wine or tea, eating baked Camembert and chocolate, playing board games and euchre, and listening as the downpour played the windowpanes like a drum.
Quite a serene picture I am painting, isn’t it? Well, I have returned to the city very relaxed but with one noted difference. I am now quite afraid of cows. I always considered myself to be rather fearless but, as I get older, my tolerances have been gradually decreasing. On top of an alarmingly mounting fear of confined spaces, heights, clowns and people dressed as animals, I am now not too fond of the doe-eyed farm creatures.
Minding our own business on a delightful stroll through an area labeled a public walking path, we approached a congress of cows. As we mounted the fence that separated woman and beast, the cows looked up with interest, hunger and, I observed, a touch of rage. Though we stuck close to the fence as we headed down the hill, cows from across the pasture turned from their meals and began to rush towards us. Belle, confidently our leader, carried straight down to the bottom while the rest of us turned back. Then the cows lost interest and dispersed, so Erin, Diane and I hustled back over the fence and began to walk down the hill, eyes to the grass to avoid making eye contact with the bovine ladies. I was shaking like a leaf, and wearing questionably appropriate footwear, but managed to reach the bottom without getting trampled (though the cattle did come close). Christine and Lauren, too terrified of the aggressive animals and educated by the two demonstrations the rest of us had provided, opted to climb over a barbed-wire fence rather than face the beasts.
The cowherd has been haunting my dreams ever since. You may consider me a wimp, and you might be right in relation to a number of additional fears, but it is apparently known in the UK (no one bothered to tell me) that cows quite often attack humans. The typically placid creatures have been known, especially when protecting their young calves, to charge at humans, and dogs. Just search ‘cow attacks’ on the BBC website and you will see a plethora of stories. Last summer a vet was trampled to death by a herd of cows while walking her two dogs and MP David Blunkett was left with a black eye and a cracked rib after a tussle with a bovine. Statistics from the Health and Safety Executive released in 2009 say that 19 people have been killed and 481 injured by cows since 2001.
At least our countryside stroll avoided tragedy. We carried on past the cows, and past an old-fashioned mini BMW rally, towards a picturesque beach with towering rock face and then into Newquay for some fish and chips and fresh Cornish ice cream. (The seaside wandering was balanced out with some truly devilish eating.) The Cornish seaside was a welcome adventure from my recent long workdays and tourist jaunts around London with Mom, despite my newly acquired fear of cows – as well as a camera mishap involving sea and sand, a slight return-train incident that added further expenses, and a delay en route to Plymouth while a drunk was thrown off the train for assaulting a member of the staff. Despite all that drama, the air was crisp like Canada and the sky a clear blue, offering a much-needed respite from the congestion of the city.
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