I've taken to walking a lot. Last week, I had an interview with a Mum in Vauxhall at 6.30 pm. I'd decided earlier in the day to go to the second hand shops in Charring Cross to see if I could pick up a couple of books I'd been wanting. By 4.30 I was ready to head out. I wondered if I really wanted to stomp all that way and then turn round again for the interview, but the thought hardly registered - I went. I power walked, paranoid about the time and checking it all along the way so I'd know how much I would need to walk back to the appointment and how much I could spend browsing. Again, just as I went through Vauxhall I wondered "do I really want to be powering all the way down to Charring Cross, only to turn round again almost immediately, just for a couple of books I could easily do without till tomorrow?", but even though I knew it made sense to stop and chill and be all fresh for the interview, my legs would not stop. I was on a stomping mission. As it happened, I found both books and was early to the appointment.
On Sunday, I walked to Soho to check out the location of "Ain't nothing but blues" bar (recommended by my Papa) and get a good cup of coffee at Flat White, a cafe owned by a New Zealander. The walk was and hour and a half, the missions achieved in twenty minutes. Then I headed over to Saint Paul's Cathedral.
That is an amazing building. From the outside, the stony solemnity of the thing offset by those golden angels you can easily imagine to be flying heavenward (especially on that particular day of sun bursting through the rain and dark grey, low hanging, billious clouds), and then the beautifully maintained rose garden, its impressive. Inside, its breathtaking. It took thirty years to complete and whew! you can see every minute of work. I took in an organ recital by James Drake; half an hour of deep meditation to the sweet, milky scent of burning candle wax. The dome has phenomenal accoustics and again you can see how the design of such places inspired/s reverence.
I stayed for a service. At the door, the ushers asked if I was attending and gave me the Order of Service. I sat in the third row and perused this document. In the second paragraph it stated that any babtised Christian was welcome to attend. I'm not a babtised Christian - not babtised nor christain, only curious! But I figured who would know?! As long as I was respectful and participated in a spirit of worship and gratitude (of and to whomever worked for me), then my presence was surely acceptable. It began. A man in robes spoke from the central point beneath the dome, and a woman in robes read from the bible. We stood and sat, stood and sat, intoning our parts and singing hymns under our breath. I thought I might be busted when, near the end of the service the priest suggested we turn to our fellows and offer an expression of peace. I interpreted this liberally I think and just grinned around me, but then noticed that everyone else was shaking hands and a woman behind me was offering hers. So I turned, took her hand and said "Hey!" warmly, just as she whispered "peace be with you". I turned away again and would swear that she was boring holes in my back...but she didn't blow my cover. I then took communion (the best port I've ever had) and that was that! I sat for a little while, listening to the gentle organ and people speaking quietly, the room growing ever more hazy with the smoke of incence. But at no stage did I feel even the remotest sence of religosity or even spirituality. I often do in circumstances like that - they can simply be inspiring - but not here, not at all, despite the beauty and solemnity. Only a respect for craftsmanship and dedication.
I am loving these long walks to strange places. My bike is fixed now and I hope I won't get lazy and give up on the walking in favor of speed. I think not. For now at least, I have the walking bug.