I’ve been taking so many photos, and it can be hard to decide which ones to share. To show all of them along with my thoughts would mean a lot of blog posts. My blog host people tell me that I need more storage — my blogs are photo-heavy. I’m working on it but need to win the lottery.
Last weekend I met my niece at the Tollkeepers Cottage. I’d been trying to visit for quite some time, and finally I found a date that worked. The cottage is on Davenport Road, a street not too far from where I live, a street that always seems almost suburban. Davenport Road is one of the oldest, if not the oldest, roads in the vicinity of Toronto, with a history dating back to the time when the great ice sheets were melting. It was used as an ancient footpath by Indigenous people as an overland route from Montreal to Niagara. It then became an important trail for French fur traders in the 1600s, and for the first European settlers who arrived in the area in the 1790s, and was slowly converted into a built road during the 1800s. At that time, the roads were just muddy trails (Toronto was called Muddy York), waterlogged after rain and slippery in the winter. The tollgates were a way to improve the roads by collecting money to fund these efforts. Outside the cottage, beside the ramp, were examples of two styles of roads — log and plank.
On the left, examples of the log and the plank style road surfaces over the early years of Davenport Road
Because of its style, this tollhouse (Tollgate #3) probably dates from about 1832. It was built from what we think was just one white pine tree felled nearby and constructed in very rare vertical plank construction (no framing), held in place by bottom and top sills (huge beams). The cottage stopped collecting tolls with the abolition of the tolling system in 1895 and then lay idle. Originally, it sat on the land on the southeast corner of Davenport Road and Bathurst Street. It’s the oldest tollkeeper’s house surviving anywhere in Canada open to the public and among the oldest still standing.
Tollkeepers Cottage original window with a small table beneath, where tolls were collected. A tollgate sits on the grounds
Once inside, there was a land acknowledgement (very common in Toronto, at least), then a large room with a craft table and volunteers helping visitors with crochet, mending, and knitting. Over beside the small gift sales area was a lady who was spinning wool. The atmosphere was friendly. There was a kitchenette area in the main room, and a toilet at the front of the cottage. They made me a cup of tea – no milk today, they told me apologetically. I chose to knit a chicken and chatted with the people at the people. I’d leave my tour-visit until my niece could get there. They were having a meeting after visiting hours ended, and one of the visitors’ husbands arrived with Halloween snacks of crackers and candy. There was a nice, inclusive atmosphere. I felt comfortable and decided it was a good idea to come back to do more in November if I can.
Land acknowledgement and memorium photosI wanted to make a chicken like this example, but mine was a monster (larger and not as cute)In the main room, someone was spinning
The cottage was moved and transformed several times in the 150 years since it closed. It was discovered in 1991, not too far away, when land nearby was being redeveloped. Fortunately, a neighbour knew what it was and the developer sold it for $1 and delayed the construction until it could be removed. The Community History Project, which still runs it with the help of volunteers, kept it in a transport yard while they and the Toronto Historical Board raised funds to restore it.
The original plans and records were lost in a fire in 1881, so they needed to find craftspeople who could determine how to restore it. Finally, in July 2002, a house mover transported the cottage to its present location, and the restoration began. This included removing all the 20th-century fixtures that had been added, finding period-appropriate stones for the foundation floor, making bricks and mortar as it would have been made in the 1830s, hand-splitting and shaping cedar shakes for the roof and creating plaster walls and laths for the interior. The original floorboards were numbered, removed and hand washed, and woodwork from the door and windows was removed and re-installed.
They obviously went to great lengths to restore the building to its 1861 appearance, that year being chosen because most of the found furnishings and items belonged to the Bulman family who were living there then. Bulman descendants were able to provide artefacts to add to the authenticity. The City of Toronto designated the Tollkeeper’s Cottage a historic site in 2004.
The parents’ room with a baby crib/cot and small deskClose up of rope bed (method used from the 16th to 19th centuries). These ropes would be regularly tightened to support the mattress. It’s where the expression ‘Sleep tight’ comes fromThe children’s room, one bed for the girls, one for the boys (Blurry)Great castiron stove dominates the living spaceThe living room with a dining table. No couches! The collection window is the small one at the back
The cottage newsletter arrives every month, promising craft lessons, tours and more. I’m ready for it.
Adrianna and I left there and walked down the street for a while.
The Spirited Coffee Shop is in a building with lovely art deco design. We had a drink there after our cottage visitThis TTC construction worker mural is north of the Dupont bridge by the TTC offices and garages.Wall art on Bathurst Street cannabis dispensary north of DupontOn the stone wall along the perimeter of the TTC Hillcrest Complex. This is the (TTC) Toronto Transit Commission’s historic, massive maintenance facility and operational hub. It features the retro, industrial TTC stencil typography painted directly onto the surface—reminiscent of traditional municipal transit equipment markings rather than standard modern station signageHalloween candy at Summerhill Market
First, I’ve updated my Live if you want to go see how my health is going.
I’ve been on a bunch of walks, which I’ll regale you with soon. OK, maybe two or three, but growing. It’s my attempt to get more active and beat this annoying pre-diabetes. I really have a long way to go, but every bit counts…I hope. The walk on Friday has a bit of a history in itself. I have been trying to go to the Tollkeepers Cottage, which is a historical site not too far from where I live, but it’s hard to find an opportunity to get to their monthly Sunday open house. The next one is on 18th October, and I’m hopeful. That’ll be another blog. Meanwhile, their newsletter lets me know about their free walks. I got in touch with them to ask if I’d be able to manage it. They were super friendly, telling me that they were planning to start some shorter and slower walks for people who need that. Would I be interested? I would! Then last week they got in touch again to say that they had a trial walk planned nearby, and I was invited to be there. I accepted right away.
We met at the Christie subway, one stop away from my base, and I decided to get Wheeltrans there and to make my own way back, since I had no idea how long the walk would be, and I’d have an opportunity to check out the Korean Supermarket. I’d been trying to get there for some time. There were six of us plus our guide, an older lady with a lot of energy. I was impressed and envious! I took a lot of photos, so this will be mostly that, with some stories where I can.
Koreatown runs from Bathurst Street to Christie Street, one subway stop long. At Christie subway is the Korean Tiger, there since 2004. It was originally just for Christmas, but storage in the meantime proved a problem, since it kept getting stolen. The answer was to keep the popular tiger in place year-round. It’s impressive at 17 feet wide by 8.5 feet tall and represents Baekho, the sacred guardian of the western sky from the ancient Goguryeo mural, and was placed to pray for the neighbourhood’s prosperity and well-being. Gorgeous at Christmas!
Koreatown’s Tiger
The following are photos along the short block from the Tiger to Clinton Street. We were told about Korea’s journey to its current written language, which is wholly phonetic today, when originally the written language was made up of characters like the Chinese. The phonetic writing means that language learning has speeded up considerably.
We turned onto Clinton Street, where our history walk continued. Along the way, we saw quite a few houses that were decorated for Halloween. And the colours are changing. I love that.
I may have forgotten to take photos of the newer builds on the street. They came about when the local abattoir, which slaughtered smaller animals like goats and sheep, burned down in 1999. These houses have a Toronto look, but not like the original houses on the other side.
Newer house on Clinton Street, following the typical Victorian style popular in TorontoThe older houses along Clinton Street
Our first story came at Crestfallen Lane, and it was a long and surprising one. It’s an unusual name for a lane, but Crestfallen was a horse. He was among four rescued from a glue factory. The rescuer was Dr John Gerald Fitzgerald. Children were dying from diphtheria, and the antitoxin to save them was brought up from the USA at great cost. Fitzgerald bought the horses, housed them in a shed at the back of the houses off Clinton Street at Barton, and injected them with the diphtheria toxin. He then used their blood to deliver antitoxin to children who would otherwise have died. He stipulated that the families should not be charged. He established Connaught Antitoxin Laboratory (later, Connaught Laboratories) at the University of Toronto to provide affordable Canadian supplies of diphtheria antitoxin and rabies treatments. His contribution eliminated diphtheria in the area. Fitzgerald, as director of Connaught, was also a key figure in the development of insulin, Banting and Best’s laboratory being just upstairs from the antitoxin headquarters. Sadly, mental health illness ran in his family, and he committed suicide in 1940 at the age of 58. It had not been the first time he tried to end his life. Shamed and forgotten due to the stigma of suicide, although Banting and Best were two of his pallbearers, it took some years until his grandson, James, discovered his grandfather’s story and wrote a book – What Disturbs the Blood – about it. He wrote this article about his grandfather’s remarkable life and contribution to the field of medicine. There’s much more to the story of JGF, too much to write about. In 2004, he was posthumously inducted into the Canadian Medical Hall of Fame, a titan of Canadian healthcare. This story really moved me. It reminded me of Alan Turing, who, despite such heroic work, was shamed at the end of his life.
There are many lanes in Toronto, all named after people who matter. This next lane is John McIntosh Lane. Bonnie Gibbons, an ancestor of John McIntosh, lives on Barton St. John McIntosh “discovered” the McIntosh apple in 1796. There are now 300,000 trees around the world. The family has lived in Toronto for three generations.
This ordinary straggly plant is milkweed. It looks like something any gardener would love to get rid of, but it is the egg-laying plant for the Monarch butterfly, so it’s left alone here on Clinton Street
Our tour guide, Marilyn, shows us some of the pollinator plants. This small house was so pretty, my favourite one on the street, along with the following
The most interesting house on Clinton Street is the home of Albino Carreira. When this Portuguese-Canadian man was injured on his construction job, he filled his idle hours by glueing coins to his house. He sliced pool cues, then added beads and shells, then whatever he could find. People call it the wood-cake house or the bug house. It would take a very long time examine what’s become an absolute spectacle. Every inch of the house, the laneway, the garden, and even his van is covered with toys, beads, and different objects that struck Albino’s fancy. I’ll need to come back many times to see it all. I also had a flashback to the graves I’d seen in New Orleans of children, which were also covered in toys for them to play with. This was that on steroids.
The tour ended and I headed for P.A.T., the Korean supermarket. At the side on the north and south of the road were two large murals.
Inside the supermarket, the first thing is the taiyaki stand. These are fish-shaped waffles filled with either vanilla custard or red bean. My brother and I shared one when he last visited. Pretty good! They sell hundreds every day.
The supermarket isn’t fancy and I think the prices are quite high compared to Chinatown, but it’s interesting to browse. Note the elegance of these chicken feet!
Just a few more photos on my way to the subway, where I missed my ride for free within two hours by five minutes. Woe! And who knew you could get a handroll with natto in it? I passed it by since it’s on the second floor and I can’t get up there.
Opposite Christie subway station is Christie Pits. The Toronto local baseball team plays here, but I’ve never made it to a game. One day? Christie Pits was made by Garrison Creek, a defunct stream that features throughout the west end of the city. It was once an escavation site for sand and gravel used as building material in early Toronto. More about the creek some other time. The ravine that was created was called Shacktown when it housed poor immigrants. By 1909 the gravel was depleted and it became Willowvale Park. The name Christie Pits arrived in 1983, named after Christie Street. In 1933 a riot took place. A mainly Jewish baseball team was playing aginst the St. Peter’s (Catholic) team, when the latter unfurled a bedspread displaying a swastika. Others joined in and the fight lasted until 1am. Fortunately, there were only a few injuries, one hospitalisation, but no deaths. The police chief, who had already witnessed anti-Jewish sentiment in other areas of the city, sent just 2 or 3 police attended and four people were arrested. After this incident, the mayor outlawed the showing of the statistika. The park is difficult for me to navigate since it really is quite deep, but I’ll try to skirt the edges some time before or after the snow.
I was quite proud of myself today for braving the subway alone. Gold star! When I got back, the restaurant was deep into pumpkin season.
I love pickles. Almost anything — I don’t see the point of pickled eggs. My mum used to say I was weaned on a pickle. Until I was five, we lived with my dad’s mum – Nana. Nana is a whole story of her own, and I think I’ve told it, but one thing she was known for was pickles. Somewhere I have the handwritten (not by her) recipe, ‘Pickels.’ I don’t remember if they were new or fully sour pickles anymore, but they were amazing. I remember the smell, or I think I do, and I can see the container they were fermented in, filled with the cucumbers, the brine and the generous amount of dillweed. It’s not so easy to find today. I’ve spent my whole life looking for a pickle that compares, even if I know a taste today may prove I’ve already found or even surpassed it. It’s just been too long.
In Canada, the taste for pickles is similar to the USA. A crisp and vinegary pickle with a slight sweetness. The UK gherkin from a chippy has the same sweetness but a different flavour. I see Canadians and Americans who live in Britain yearning for the Bicks or Clausen taste. It’s not for me. A brined kosher pickle is my style. There are a few jarred ones that I will eat but perhaps a Jewish deli is the best place to find the right one. If I ever find Nana’s pickel recipe, perhaps I’ll give it a go.
Toronto has a Polish neighbourhood in the west end, near High Park, its biggest park. Once upon a time it was filled with Polish restaurants, delis and other businesses, as well as Polish churches. When the pope was Polish, his photo was everywhere! Robin and I spent a summer on Roncesvalles in the early 90s. I woke every night thinking there was a fire. It was the smoke from the converted garages behind us, where they smoked sausages and hams. The air in the neighbourhood was always smoky. Luckily, I liked it. You had your pick of where to pick up sauerkraut, bigos, pierogies, pickles, smoked fish, cabbage rolls, and sweet doughnuts and pastries, When I left Toronto and visited again, they were almost all gone. Things had started to look smart and trendy. Now there are only two Polish delis left, although the restaurants and a couple of take-out counters for cooked food remain.
Benches beside the planters along the sidewalkNeighbourhood muralTwo long-standing Polish restaurants in the area
The main street is Roncesvalles Avenue. It gets its name from the Battle of Roncesvalles, which took place in the Roncesvalles Pass in Spain in 1813. An early Irish settler, Colonel Walter O’Hara—an early 19th-century Irish settler in the area—played a significant role in the establishment of the neighbourhood. He’d led a regiment that fought against the retreating army of Napoleon at the battle.
Old apartment buildings and Polish churchesUrban mounties, shall we say?
The name means ‘valley of thorns’ in Spanish.) In Spanish it’s pronounced Ron-sess-vie-yes (or with the alternate ‘th’ sound). In Toronto, we call it Ron-sess-vales. When it was first constructed, this was a primarily agricultural area with market gardens. In 1904 many of the estate homes in the area were sold and the east side of the street became mixed-use. Today, at least at the lower end, the west side stays residential, while the east is shops. The homes in the area still seem quite grand but most are now split up into flats.
This was once a gated community off the main road. The houses are grand
Roncesvalles is where you’ll find many greengrocers with vegetables and fruits overflowing wooden display counters. You go for the Polish deli, Benna’s, the restaurants like Chopin or Polonez, the trendy boutiques, European toys and other goods. I like that they do decorate for the holidays and I must go back closer to Christmas when it will be quite cheerful. Besides, I covered only a third of the street.
Greengrocers (not as lush as in the warm months) and the European style boutiques ready for Christmas
I took the plunge to travel by public transport on Monday. I had a false start when I took the wrong streetcar and ended up needing to backtrack and almost start again – my eyes aren’t functioning too well and the driver was reluctant to help! On Roncesvalles, the right streetcar pulled away too hastily from my stop and I ended up further up the street, when I’d had no intention of walking very far. Walk I did, pausing to inhale the scent of Christmas trees on some of the lots. I’d had a few other false starts to buy pickles, and those times I’d not managed it for one reason and another. I ended up buying my pickles from the supermarket instead of from the familiar “barrels” at Benna’s. Benna’s does stock the double-smoked garlic sausage I like, though. That was my only goal.
There are a lot of Polish customers in Benna’s. They chat happily with the (mostly) women behind the counters. The English speakers just may be at a disadvantage since some of the servers’ English isn’t fluent. Sometimes I get cheerful service, this time I got a grumpy reception. But I got my sausage. Job done. I also visited the hot counter for a small amount of potatoes and some pork stew, which I ate outside since the weather was mild. I skipped the sauerkraut, the pastries, and the herring that I always buy. This was a light shop.
A quick snack lunch from the hot counter, sitting on the bench outside Benna’s
I got the streetcar straight back, this time without any problems. This driver, unlike the first two, was a gem. I’m going to make borscht and use some of the sausage. Crossing my fingers.
I fear I’ve made lots of mistakes and doubled up on photos. Bring on the editors!
Ordinary days. On the 7th I finished my rehab sessions. 90 minutes of education followed by 60 of gym work. The group had started out feeling like it couldn’t gel, but week by week it did happen. There were always the odd ones, the fussy ones, the bewildered ones, the ones who bounded in like this was a heavy-duty gym experience and ate lettuce and raw almonds like it was their religion. What’s said in group stays in group. By the end, we were pretty much a team. One of the younger ones arrived with a QR code to scan and join WhatsApp so we could ‘keep ourselves accountable.’ Not so bad then. We exercised and had the most fun warming up to Blue Jays fan songs, willing ‘our team’ to win. They didn’t in the end, but it was quite a ride. I won’t get into it. It sucked to lose. There’s always next year. For a while, though, Toronto was buoyant. If you lived here and felt the animosity from the USA, this was a big deal.
Then we got an early taste of winter.
They were right. Out came the winter boots and coats. Here we go then. It lasted a few days, about two and a half days longer than I expected.
The first day it snowed, there was enough to shovel.
And then it was like it never happened
When it was almost clear, I had to go to an appointment at Wellesley near Church. This area is now called the (Gay) Village. It’s always weird for me since it’s not always been so chic. Back in the day I’m sure there were gay residents — their biggest stores, bars and other haunts were around there – but there were also the young straight crowd, the hippies. Along these roads they lived together in crowded and awful conditions, shooting up drugs and not coming out for days. There’d be sprays of blood on the walls, garbage on the floors. No one cared as long as they were high. Does this still happen now? Today it’s cleaned-up facades and rainbows, trendy restaurants and boutiques. Everything changes.
I was there to renew my WheelTrans pass. This is Toronto’s public transit alternative to public transport. I got it because I was in treatment and going back and forth while in a vulnerable position. No one really wants to need it but it opened up my life and I feel sure I’d have stayed housebound without it. I’ve seen a lot of the city too, the back streets. Somtimes I doin’t have a clue where I am, the buses and cabs zigzag around in sometimes illogical patterns and then I look up and notice something familiar and reorient. There have been some crazy journies but I’ll skip talking about these for now. (PS I was accepted for another year when I hope to be well enough to actually have adventures.)
One of the perks of the transport is going places I might not have elected to travel to or, if I had, would have been an onerous journey. On the last day of my rehab, I was invited to a get-together for the women I used to teach with. Some of them I’d known since the early 80s. Then we were together, with only a few missing faces, as if we had never been apart. There was a lunch that was mostly breads and a bunch of cheese, but the company was warm. We sat in the friend’s house and enjoyed each other’s company and her amazing living area, full of comfy couches and a view of the trees at the back. Envious, moi?
Suddenly raalising where I was after seeing this hippy bus near Trinity-Bellwoods Park
I went back to making dolls. My brother called this a Janice doll. I certainly didn’t mean to do that.
At least if it’s a Janice doll, she has hair
I really need supplies, though. I try to make my dolls from recycled materials and give-aways. After another rehab appointment on Friday, I went to look at a few fabric stores on Queen Street West. I did find a place that wasn’t too expensive, but I’ve been used to Ridley Road bargain bins and Stoke Newington remnants where the owner would ask me how much I wanted to pay for my handful of lace, ribbon, beading and colourful fabrics and never said no to what I offered. On Queen Street, I succumbed to buying two separate metres of lace – $9.00. Must find more donations in the neighbourhood or it’s the end of my sewing career.
Queen Street West has also changed. I took a few photos, though. I was there, after all.
I did my last Writing workshop (cancer-related) on Thursday and am not sure I learned much. Maybe. I also did my last art therapy workshop on Friday (also cancer-related, as most of my things are these days). I did learn from this one. My art group did gel pretty quickly. We were a mixed bunch but we’ll stay connected, I know it. Our final assignment was to look at common themes from all of our past works. This was my piece.
I learned that home was my common theme. Always with lots of windows, chimneys with evident smoke from fires, and although surrounded by trees and plants, most definitely urban. In this one the Gherkin and a bit of a botched attempt at the Tower of London are clearly there. This yellow brick road had no obstacles. A clear path home. The sky was blue, the sun was out and shining. A wish on paper.
Today I haven’t gone out. I made some noodle soup, mixed a little miso into the broth, cooked a perfect egg but forgot to marinate it, and added some marked-down tempura shrimp for that fancy touch. Winter comfort on the horizon.
I wanted to go to Leicester to see the Diwali lights and to meet up with our friends, Avi and Farrah. It’s about halfway between London and Sheffield and on the same route so that was handy. The lights were being turned on for 24th October and the crazy Diwali day was 4th November, so we were nicely in the middle.
When we arrived in Leicester, I was immediately struck with how much more genteel it felt than Sheffield. Sort of like Bristol but a bit grittier. A first it also seemed busier, at least at the station. I got on my cab app and a taxi arrived quickly to take us to the Holiday Inn. It was a nice big room with a car park view. The hotel in Sheffield had a view onto the next building. One day I’ll have a nice hotel view!
After a rest we opted to not have any dinner but to go straight to Belgrave Road, which is also known as the Royal Mile or Curry Mile. It’s a big Asian community. Belgrave Roa hadn’t changed since we were last there. There’s a big, illuminated Ferris wheel and there are Diwali lights strung along the road with some illuminated decorations on the lamp posts. It looks very festive. Last time we were there for Diwali night and there were big crowds and fireworks. It was manic! This time it was deserted apart from some busy restaurants.
I’d said that maybe we could find a simple bowl of dhal and skip anything fancy, but most of the places had bigger meals or were fast food outlets. Apart from Bobby’s. Bobby’s is the best-known Indian restaurant in the area. It’s a vegetarian hotspot. I didn’t really want to go there so we walked on. I tried to go into a shop or two that were selling Diwali trinkets but, despite their open doors, they were closed – or so I was told as soon as I put my foot in. We walked along to the end of the road.
Right down where it started to thin out was a Chaiwala and I thought we could at least have a cup of masala chai, but again I was ushered out – more kindly this time. They were apparently setting up for their grand opening the next day. And so back we went to Bobby’s and miraculously got a table immediately. Then we waited. We probably waited longer than we’d ever waited, since Krish is notoriously impatient, but there wasn’t anywhere else to go, and it was wet and chilly outside. Finally, they came for our order. I wanted dhal and a puri, and true to form Krish (who always over-orders) wanted dhokla and chaat and naan. And we waited again – a long time. We weren’t alone in our impatience. At every table people were looking around wondering where their food was.
The dhokla came first, then some naan, then some puri – I forget how long afterwards. We ate the dhokla, which is a spongey type of pancake. It was slightly spicy. Not bad but not as good as our friend, Rakhee’s. I had two pieces. Krish ordered a lassi to cool us down from the spice. I ate two more teaspoons of dhal. Krish ate everything else. The chaat never came, nor the lassi. Finally losing patience, Krish asked for the bill – the chaat was on there so he told them to take that off, and the lassi had never made it to our order. The verdict was – slowest and most unfriendly service ever, but the food had been very nicely made. We took a look around the street for something else (I’d barely eaten) but there was nothing and everything was dark – so we ordered another cab and went back to our room, settling for a cup of tea and sharing a pack of hotel biscuits.
Overnight my stomach was so sour, and by morning I felt truly ill. I could barely move from the pain in my abdomen and lower back. Krish lingered in the hotel with me, we fashioned a hot water bottle from my drinking bottle, and he went out for an hour or two at a time, while I stayed in bed hoping to recover by evening so I could see our friends later that day.
Krish found this plaque. Attenborough was educated at Wyggeston Grammar School for Boys!
Krish picked me up a sandwich – an omelet on white bread, I told him. Only they didn’t know how to make an omelet so gave him a fried egg one instead. I got brown sauce on it, said Krish, I know you like that. Oh well, I couldn’t eat anyway. I drank though, whatever I could stomach – some very weak tea, some ginger beer, some coconut water. It was clear I wasn’t going anywhere with our friends. I told Krish, please go anyway. I’ll feel less guilty. he said no, so I told him to call and explain and maybe during the chat he’d change his mind. He did. I was glad for that.[/caption]
He was out for three or four hours. They had fun. I’m so glad. In retrospect, I’m pleased I didn’t go. If my response to spice had been that bad from Thursday, how much worse would it have been if it had happened on Friday night with the journey ahead! Ah well, spice or not – DONE!
I took an extra dose of my meds in the evening, having actually managed to eat TWO CRACKERS! Yay.
It was rainy in Leicester. This was the view from the hotel room and you can see the water streaming down after collecting on the flat roof of the car park
The next morning, I planned to stay in bed and ignore the jibes from Krish about going to seek breakfast. Instead, I took another pill, ate some crackers – AND A COOKIE, yay. I didn’t feel quite right but at least able to move about and talk without sounding like someone had strangled me. Avi and Farrah had said if I was feeling well enough, let them know and they’d pick us up to go over. I messaged them that I was OK and to get back to us.
We then had a lazy morning with Krish packing and me just resting and praying. Just before we checked out, Avi phoned to say he would come by at 1pm. So, for one hour we explored around the old centre, and I was able to get some photos. Leicester has a small but interesting medieval quarter. There’s a big Richard III connection in Leicester.
(Is this Wygston’s House? I think so) 15th-century timber-framed merchant’s house thought to be the oldest dwelling in Leicester. Wygston’s House is a beautiful example of a medieval wool merchant’s residence.Wyggeston Hospital in Leicester was founded by William Wyggeston the Younger in 1513. This building went up in 1877 as a hospital boys grammar schoolFrom Applegate towards the Guildhall and the cathedral
Leicester Guildhall started life in 1390 when its Great Hall was built as a meeting place and banquet hall for the Guild of Corpus Christi. It’s believed that Shakespeare performed here
A mini graveyard behind the cathedral
King Richard III was killed in the battle of Bosworth Field (Leicestershire) and his body was crudely buried near the present day cathedral. In 2012 his skeleton was found and when it was confirmed to be him in 2013 it was reburied in the cathedral
We bought gifts for Avi and Farrah – a lovely scented candle (winter scent) and some halal chocolate (harder to find than I would have imagined, considering the Moslem population. and we went into the visitor centre and I bought two Diwali items – a bird with a bell, and a string of birds with a bell. They’re both very pretty and seeing the price now, I should have bought many more. Then we heard from Avi that he would leave in ten minutes so we headed back to the hotel to collect the case. That is, Krish headed back and I sat across the road where Avi would be pulling up. The following photos are of the fancier shopping area, Loseby Lane.
It was really nice to see him. He took us to his place by the scenic route (I now surmise) and picked up somewhere from ‘our favourite place’ which was grilled marinated chicken on a bun and some chips. He ordered mine plain. They live in a small community with suburban housing and their place is traditional and neat. it was my first meeting with Farrah, who was wearing a hijab (she wore it for dinner the day before so obviously that’s a normal thing, although I’ve seen Instagram photos of her with her hair showing) and was very chatty. She’s a Computer Sciences teacher and very articulate and interesting. So nice to meet her, two years after the marriage, and already chatting a little through our Instagram pages. I managed to eat half the burger which, despite being ‘plain,’ had been marinated and I tasted it for ages, I also managed a handful of chips.
Avi showed us around the house and then suddenly realised we had fifteen minutes to get our train. Panic! We raced along with us telling Avi, get us there but alive, we’d rather pay the fare again. in fact, our train was 3:32 and we arrived at the station at 3:31! (This is when I discovered getting to the station was probably a THIRD of the distance we’d travelled coming from the hotel to his house – so yeah, scenic route.) We raced through the barrier, up the stairs to the footbridge, all the way along, and saw that the train was on the platform. I tucked my cane under my arm, got down the stairs as quickly as I could, grateful for someone who was holding up the boarding process a bit, jumped in the closest door to me and we took off. This is the second time we have absolutely rushed to Leicester station and just made it. I hope it’s not a trend.
The train back was packed, mostly with football fans – definitely Arsenal at an away game, definitely drunk, and definitely super noisy and boring. Every five seconds or so someone – usually the same person – started an awful fan song which the others joined in or not. The second song seemed to need some clanging and banging of the train seats and overhead railings. Joy! Facing us across the table sat a man with his young daughter. She was watching a video on her tablet the whole time so wasn’t subjected to the swearing that was part of the whole thing. Anyway, no ticket inspectors, no hassle, straight through to London in an hour. And here’s the song:
F*ck em all!
F*ck em all!
United, West Ham, Liverpool
Cos we are the Arsenal!
We are the best!
We are the Arsenal!
F*ck all the rest!
At St Pancras, my taxi app was painfully slow and eventually it told me no drivers. I tried once more, and we settled for a bus and ended up taking two buses after seeing the best bus was 19 mins away (what???). We arrived home 90 mins after our actual arrival in London. A bowl of soup and a small slice of bread and off to bed with a hot water bottle. So, all in all, a bit of a blip here and there but a good trip.
