Ostrich and Windsor

For some people, arriving first thing in the morning at a travel destination might be ideal, if one can sleep on the way then make the most of the journey at the very moment of touchdown. I prefer to land in the evening, so my first task in a new place is to go to bed. But I usually don’t get to choose. On May 1, I arrived at London Heathrow airport in the morning. Customs was a total breeze, and Margaret and I found each other at the bus stop in Terminal 5 in less than an hour.

We arrived very early at The Ostrich Inn in Colnbrook, only 6 stops west of the airport. They were startled to see us before noon, and we explained, as I did above, that we can’t choose arrival times of our flights. But we absolutely understood that it was too early, and asked if they would store our luggage, before we moved on to Windsor to be tourists for as long as our tired bodies could bear it. To our surprise, they asked us to wait a few moments, and they thought they had a room ready for us after all.

Margaret and I only ever travel with a single backpack and an additional purse. (Well, except for New Zealand, where we brought a suitcase to hold all my costumes, ha ha!) She’s the champion, and can go a month living out of a small backpack. But even with relatively small loads, we wanted to set them down. We each ordered a half-pint (My first ever, since I don’t think I’ve seen a half-pint offered in the US. And now the joke from the Fellowship of the Ring “It comes in PINTS?!” is even funnier to me.) and sat down to wait and chat.

I was excited to stay in this particular Inn, because the story goes that it may have inspired the story of Sweeny Todd, a deliciously vicious story of morbid entrepreneurs in London the mid-1800s. Here’s the true story, as depicted on the walls of The Ostrich Inn:

“One 14th century landlord, Jarman of the Ostrich Inn, installed a large trap door under the bed in the best bedroom located immediately above the inn’s kitchen. The bed was fixed to the trap door and the mattress securely attached to the bedstead, so that when two retaining iron pins were removed from below in the small hours of the morning, the sleeping guest was neatly decanted into a boiling cauldron. In this way more than 60 of his richer guests were murdered silently and with no bloodshed. Their bodies were then disposed of in the River Colne. The murder of a wealthy clothier, Olde Cole or Thomas of Reading, proved to be Jarman’s undoing in that he failed to get rid of Coles horse, leading to his confessing. Jarman and his wife were hanged for robbery and murder.”

Yes, I am the kind of person who would choose lodging for that reason. Margaret was eager to see one of the reported ghosts, as she has had multiple ghost sitings in her life. Nothing creepy or ghosty happened during our stay.

About the time I took the photo above, a woman behind us asked what the poppies were for. Poppies? I wondered. Turns out, those red things attached to the poles are stylized poppies. We were the worst people in the country to ask this question of though. Well, at least we spoke English, and could tell her that we had no idea. The woman instead asked her friend in the car with her, who explained to all of us that it was in celebration of the 80-year anniversary of VE Day. We saw multiple honors of this anniversary throughout the trip, culminating in the very best one at noon on May 8th as we left the country. But I won’t tell you till I get there.

We caught the next 703 to Windsor and used the convenient tap on/tap off bus system. At the end of the day, all my bus charges (from the airport to lodging, from lodging to Windsor, from Windsor back to lodging) added up to $8 US. And that is why I love public transportation. On the bus we talked with a vivacious woman traveling alone who happened to be Mexican. I said I had just been in Guanajuato recently, because Pedro is from there. She exclaimed that it is also her own home town, and we talked about city landmarks that we both love. She said her father also attended the University of Guanajuato, as did Pedro, and participated in the Ashland, Oregon – Guanajuato, Mexico exchange program. What a small world it is.

Margaret helped me find Queen Charlotte Street. I am standing at one end of the street, and you can see the building at the other end of the street. At 51 feet, 10 inches long, it is the shortest street in England. I found this and other facts that we followed up on, at one of my fave websites called Atlas Obscura. Do you think the people sitting here knew how cool this very short street was? I think not. Do you think they cared as much as I did? Definitely not. Ha!

The woman on the bus had been to Windsor already, and recommended The Ivy – directly across from the castle, she said. Doubtful that something good would be smack in the middle of tourists, we took her advice and loved it. The atmosphere, staff, and food were excellent.

My meal was scrumptious. Pan-fried Aegean Sea Bream (I had to ask what “bream” was), shaved fennel, Granny Smith apples, chive and white wine velouté. We each had water, and then shared an aperol spritz that the bartenders gave to us for free when it wasn’t served to a different customer.

We made our way to Windsor Castle next, and it’s a good thing we did. They informed us that it would be closing early that day (due to a royal visitor?), so we needed to get right in and look around quickly.

The line for the dollhouse stretched out the door and down the walk, but if anyone wanted to see the castle first, you could walk right in. That is what we chose. Tickets in hand, we scurried inside, and as the crowd slowly moved up the stairs at the entrance, I was already taking a photo. I moved around to get a better angle of the weapons on the walls, and was hollered at. “No photos! No photos!” So the one above is my only photo of our tour inside Windsor Castle.

Through the use of ropes, we were shuttled from room to room, and they are all magnificent. Paintings and tapestries, and china collections, and astonishingly luxurious furniture are all there. The ceilings and wallpaper consistently impressed us. I was rather pleased to see King Henry VIII’s armour, and to hear how tall and big he was. I am sure that size is helpful in getting your way as a leader. He didn’t need to murder people after all. But murder he did.

Margaret casually asked a question of a man walking toward us in garb that identified him as an employee. He was approaching to take his post right where we were standing. In that way, we accidentally learned about a fascinating mantel clock as the man told us much about it. Of course I don’t recall the details and with approximately 14,000 clocks in the Royal Collection, I’ll never find it, but I do remember that the study of clocks is horology. He was the first of several docents whose friendly attention and depth of knowledge made our tour more enjoyable.

At the end of the tour, when they were trying to encourage people to leave so they could close, one docent pointed out her favourite tiara in a case on the far end of a room. To help us see, she unattached the rope and invited Margaret and me in. We were able to walk up close to the displays and marvel at it all. The highlight of the tour for me was a small carved trophy in recognition of a treaty with North American Indians. So silly of me not to have remembered that the British must have been making treaties with Indians long before the Americans. Probably breaking them like we did too.

As we left, we were shown the way to the Queen’s dollhouse. Margaret expressed neutrality, so I said I wasn’t interested, and she graciously followed me out. Dollhouse. Meh.

I marveled endlessly at the myriad gargoyles.

I was expecting the famous red coats and gigantic fuzzy black helmets guarding the castle, but instead we saw this regiment. Is it in honor of VE Day? These very dark uniforms with the red stripe are likely their dress uniform.

We left the Castle and tried to look at everything we could see as we made our way to St. George’s Chapel, which was also closing early.

Beneath the city streets is a time capsule, sunk in 2011 for 50 years. Above the capsule is a working clock. This clock is in the same location of another sunken clock, placed into the sidewalk by a watchmaker in 1950.

We caught the 703 bus back to The Ostrich Inn, trying to stay awake, but definitely slowing down as jet lag dragged us down. We got out at Olde George pub and walked in to check it out. Then we walked a few more steps to the Ostrich and went up to our room and refreshed ourselves. It was a hot day – did you notice the weather?! We changed into cooler clothes and sandals, and went downstairs once more.

The back patio was inviting and we didn’t have the energy to go anywhere else. We sat and ordered.

Margaret had a ceasar with chicken, and I ordered fish and chips – as one does. This one came with a massive slab of fish, which I had never seen the like of. As we continued our adventure, we discovered that serving fish and chips with a single huge hunk of fish is common here. Also: mashed peas? How weird. I don’t even like peas. But when in Rome…. So I tasted the peas, and they were actually good. I ate them all.

I had a beer and tasted Margaret’s cocktail, which was made with strawberry gin and refreshing and delicious. Pedro loves a bit of fruit in his drinks, and I realized it was the perfect gift for my man on day one.