Our last full day in London didn't go at all to plan. I awoke to the muted sound of the New Cross road and lowered myself off the creaky bunk with no ladder like every morning so far. After a quick freshen up I woke Alysia. It was 6.43am - two minutes before the alarm was due to go off and soon enough we were out the door and feeling pretty good. The 436 to Victoria Station was already at the stop opposite the hostel and we just weren't quick enough. And besides they come every 6 to 10 minutes, right? Well, they're meant to, but it didn't and it was 7.20 before we leapt on the next one. Dread filled me every time I caught a glimpse of my watch while the traffic became more and more manic the closer we drew to central London. Climbing over the Westminster bridge I couldn't help but notice the tide on the River Thames was out - fitting because I knew the damned bus had left us stranded high and dry with no chance of making the coach to Stratford Upon Avon, a shrine to Shakespeare. At 8.05 we leapt off the inter city express in the vain hope it's regional brother would share it's tardy habits. At 8.17, when we found gate 17, people were already boading the next bus. Damn. Alysia was close to tears and there was nothing I could do to make this dream day trip come true now.
Defeated we found a locals' type cafe to... I don't know what. I ordered but Alysia just could bare the thought of food just yet. With the maps and guide book out we resolved, without any spoken pact, to make the most of the day. 'London Tower it is'. Alysia grabbed a croissant as we left that cafe to find a direct route without the need to change buses several times - our former fondness of the red London buses suspended. On a morning that had gone so wrong we had nothing to lose but to finally tackle the tacky and tasteless affair that is souvenir shopping. It was here we pledged to only buy souvenirs of strict practical applications - with tongue in cheek - having picked up a key ring that serves as a bottle opener and nail clippers. Alysia smiles. Things don't seem so bad.
We walk past Buckingham Palace for the third time and Alysia tells me 'that's the freshest croissant I've had'. I tried hard not to laugh. It only took missing a bus to the final resting place of one of Alysia's favourite writers; finding an ultra-fresh pastry was not really a goal on this trip. Let's just hope there are even better croissants in places like France, perhaps, to shake any sugestion fate was responsible for this cruel morning.
The next surprise for us was London Tower. It's a castle. How did we not know that? Anyway, we walked in and with no expectations, we found it was great. For a place that's seen its share of nasty stuff it was truly peaceful. A mixture of sandstone, coblestones and green grass. But with the skies rebelling against our fortunate run of sun we sought some shelter, in the actual tower where the Crown Jewels are stowed. Having seen so much footage of the jewels and pictures we knew what to expect and weren't disappointed. We probably could have spent longer inspecting the intricate detail but the crowds weren't co-operative. Back outside we strolled past the ruins of a wall constructed during Roman occupation and could only wonder what it might once of looked like. From there we climbed the stairs onto the perimeter wall overlooking the Thames and the city with great views of the Tower Bridge. Or the storming peasants, perhaps, a few hundred years earlier - the Royal family's only enemy to raid the fortress.
A quick bite to eat at Subway (hey, at least it wasn't McDonalds) and we were off to the Tate Modern museum within the cavernous bowels of London's old electricity building and wow, what a big space it is. You could probably stack five double deckers in there and not touch the ceiling. Well, there's five or six floors spearing off this main 'foyer' at least. The works were generally typical of the genre - they looked like kiddy scribbles. Alysia took some time out to rest her feet while I kept looking. Till I found a piece by Joan Mitchell and was drawn to it. I could have stood there a lot longer pulling out the different aspects buried within. A face here, a ship there and other stuff I just couldn't place, but knew was there.
Outside our London marathon continued. We strolled across the Millenium Bridge (of which, coincidentally, there is a drawing of across the entire common room wall at our hostel) and to the steps of St Paul's cathedral. It's trully massive but I was on a mission to get us to Portobello Rd in Notting Hill. On the bus again we passed through Piccadilly Circus, with it's massive billboards and expensive looking shops, while thousands of people fought one another along the street. Aysia summed it up well: "we've found where the rest of the tourists have been hiding". A change of bus had us roaring past Hyde Park - the bus drivers here are insanely brave - as the traffic dispersed and we were soon at our destination. We walked down the famous market strip and at first saw nothing. But, before we knew it, we were flicking through some acrylic on canvas street scapes and had bought one of old London Town. Not high-couture art but we both instantly loved it. On we walked past street stalls with clothes and fresh produce. Most amazing was a corner clothing store, in the windows of which were stacked old, black, Singer sowing machines. An amazing sight. I wouldn't be surprised if had every one of the world's know remnants stacked floor to seiling in the windows right around the frontage and on the wall inside.
We turned for home with aching feet and shoulders and, for Aysia, a painful hip - shooting pain down her leg. It was a frustrating end to a day we otherwise had salvaged. Then Alysia dropped the bomb: "our tickets through the sites at Stratford Upon Avon are valid for a year, we'll have to come back". I think to myself 'not a bad idea'. And on the bus trip back to our hostel I wonder quietly how a couple of young journalists might land a job here; home to what seems like the world's largest concentration of print media. You just can't escape the sheer number of papers on news stands and being handed out for free on the street. The place certainly has more soul than Sydney.