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Welcome to the “Georgia Wasp…”
This blog is modeled on the Carolina Israelite. That was an old-time newspaper – more like a personal newsletter – written and published by Harry Golden. Back in the 1950s, people called Harry a “voice of sanity amid the braying of jackals.” (For his work on the Israelite.)
That’s now my goal as well. To be a “voice of sanity amid the braying of jackals.”
For more on the blog-name connection, see the notes below.
In the meantime:
Imagine a Saturday night in London. Your last before taking the train to Heathrow next morning. Ending your last full day in England since flying over from Atlanta four weeks before. And what will you tell friends and family about this exciting last night in an exotic across the pond World Capital? To be honest, you’re standing in dreary drizzle, between Paddington and a McDonald’s just across Praed Street. Eating a chicken wrap combo, your cheapest meal in weeks. With fries and Diet Coke perched on one of the three-foot high flat-topped light posts just outside the train-station entrance. But the SJK Hydrotek Rain Jacket keeps you fairly dry.
And you’re remembering. And the memories are mostly good, in hindsight…
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I went through that just over a week ago. (Writing this on September 9, 2025.) My last London evening ended a full and busy last day, August 30. Next day, Sunday, I flew back home. Home from hiking 134 miles in 16 days, from Winchester to Canterbury, the Pilgrims’ Way.
And now it’s time to get back up to speed. Like starting last March I’ve done posts on what I expected to find, including three previews starting on July 21. This post will start telling what really happened. But first, I’m happy to report that my brother, his wife and I finished the trek on Wednesday, August 27. (I took the picture above next day, August 28, after some late-afternoon settling in, showering, a celebratory beer or two – and later doing two days’ laundry.)
I’ll talk more about that in a future post, but back to my last full day in London.
It started early. That Friday night Tom, Carol and I saw the Tina Turner Musical at Aldwych. (As did tons of others, judging from long, shuffling lines at Piccadilly tube station.) Next morning Tom and Carol caught a very early train, down to Paris and Hendaye via the Euro Tunnel. I managed to get a bit more sleep, after 5:30, then – after breakfast at a nearby coffee shop – did a preliminary non-pack hike down Euston Road. (I wanted to make sure I didn’t get lost, like that time in Lyon, France, in 2023 when the train from Paris arrived at Lyon-Part-Dieu first, instead of Lyon “Part Un.” That totally screwed up my careful pre-planned Google paper-mapping.)
Later Saturday morning, at 10:45, I checked out of our California – Kings Cross Hotel.
I’d booked a room for that night at Days Inn Hyde Park, Sussex Park, mostly because it was a four-minute walk from Paddington Station. Check-out time at the California was 11:00, but check-in time at the Day’s Inn was 2:00 p.m. Which raised the question, Should I take a bus, using my Oyster card, or should I walk? Google Maps said the Day’s Inn was two and a half miles southwest, mostly along Euston Road, but then there were some twists and turns.
In the end I walked the whole way. For one thing I had three hours and it was a beautiful, cool near-fall day. For another I had just enough on my Oyster card to get to the airport.
So I walked, and on that hike – with 16-pound pack – I saw something new, dozens of homeless tents on Euston Road. It’s apparently been an ongoing problem, but something I’d never seen before, either the month in August or the earlier two-week visit in May. (Then too in May I was staying in the Canary Wharf section of town.)
From there, down past Regent’s Place, through Park Crescent Garden, the Royal Academy of Music and St Marylebone Parish Church. (Pronounced “Mar-leh-bone.”) Just down from St. Marylebone, just short of Baker Street I came across a statue of Sherlock Holmes. I stopped to take some pictures and since I’d stopped, I had a donut and coffee at the Bagel Factory Baker Street. I’d read there was a Sherlock Holmes museum at 221B, but also that it cost 20 GBP for what reviews said could be covered in 20 minutes. I went up to check and saw what looked like a very touristy museum, then said. “Nah!”
From there I hiked on to what the signs said was Old Marylebone Road, and finally to just past Westminster Magistrate’s Court, where I stumbled on to Sussex Gardens, a street in London also known as the A501. Walking southwest down the sun-dappled Sussex Gardens you see what could be called “Hotel Row.” On each side – separated by a park-like tree-lined median – you see what were once swanky private residences now turned into swanky-on-the-outside hotels. From where Old Marylebone Road magically turns into Sussex Gardens (street), I passed Haven Hotel, London Hotel, Pavilion Hotel, Prime Inn, the Normandie Hotel, not to mention the Wilson House – Imperial College London. Then, finally, it appeared, Day’s Inn Hyde Park.
I got there right about noon, but when I checked the door it was locked. (Check-in not until 2:00?) With hours to kill I went down and turned right on London Street. (Might as well check out Paddington Station, where I’d go in the morning to get to Heathrow.) On the way I found the (Charles) Dickens Tavern, “25 London Street, Tyburnia, London.”
What to do, what to do?
I ended up lunching “at the Dickens.” Behind the bar, a young Johnny Depp lookalike, but with more piercings, rings and tattoos. With a rakish Van Dyke goatee and all topped with a multi-colored and striped do-rag. Across the bar, he looked up and said, “Nice hat.” Then pointed to one of many tattoos on his right forearm, “LA.” (I’ve been a Dodger fan since 1962.) Having bridged the cultural gap I ordered a pint of Estrella, then sat at a nearby table and pondered the menu. A chicken BLT was the cheapest item on the menu – about 10 GBP – and with that, another pint of Estrella and catching up on my Facebook notes* – 2:00 p.m. rolled around quick. I slid on my pack, walked around the corner and checked in, got a bit settled and took a nap.
About mid-afternoon I awoke, refreshed, then went back to the Dickens for one more pint. I figured I deserved it. “Johnny” was gone but I ordered another pint and settled in the back room. (At lunch the place was empty but by now it was packed, mostly with people watching soccer on the TVs.) I relaxed, fiddling with my phone and watching a little soccer when my LA-tattoo buddy came out a the store room. He stopped, smirked a bit and we bumped fists.
That’s the reason for these pilgrim hikes, to cross international boundaries and mingle with the locals – not hang around with a bunch of all-samey-same American turistas.
That was pretty much the highlight of the afternoon. (That and the well-earned beer.) I went back to my room, made preparations for leaving early next morning and dozed a bit. Toward evening I figured I’d better get some food in me, but didn’t want to pay the equivalent of 13 American dollars. And I’d had enough beer, thank you very much. “Admirable Self-Denial!”
And that’s how I ended up spending my last evening in London, in a dreary drizzle, chomping on a McDonald’s chicken-wrap combo, just across Praed Street near Paddington station, and remembering. And the memories this night were mostly good, in hindsight…
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But enough about my last full day London. I’ll write more later about the pilgrim hike – as I have been wont to do for past Caminos. (Which I define: At the end of each day you look forward to a hot shower, warm bed and a cold beer.) For now I’ll end with one creepy tidbit we came across. It involved our visit to St. James’s Church in Shere on August 17. Here’s what I wrote later that day about the “hole in the wall” we found inside, as explained by a local lady:
It seems one Christine Carpenter wanted to be an Anchorite, dedicating her life to Jesus, by staying in this cubby hole in the wall of the church. The clover-shaped thing on the left was where she could receive communion. The other is where she could watch the church service. Then she changed her mind, but The People wouldn’t let her out. The church lady who related the story said nobody knows whatever happened to poor Christine, who wasn’t allowed to change her mind after that…
Which definitely piqued my interest. I checked Wikipedia, which said that by initially leaving her cell Christina violated her Anchorite vows and so was in danger of excommunication by the Pope. She changed her mind again, but to make sure she didn’t change a third time, when she went back into the cell her doorway was walled up. (See an image in the Notes.)
That church visit creeped me out – think Cask of Amontillado – but made me appreciate. Which I suppose is a benefit of walking hour after hour, mile after mile on a long pilgrim hike. For one thing you get a new appreciation for the freedoms and options back home.
One thing for sure. Leaving Christina’s walled-in Anchorite cell at St. James’s in Shere, I reveled in my rediscovered freedom to “walk free and own no superior.”
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The upper image is courtesy of… Myself. I took the picture the morning after we trudged into Canterbury from Chilham. (See Towns & Villages in Canterbury – Visit South East England, on the town where we spent out last night on the Trail: “Renowned for its beauty and charm, the Kentish village of Chilham lies high above the valley of the River Stour in the picturesque Kent Downs.”
Links to past posts on the trip, including a preview visit last May. Starting last March, Next up – Hiking the Canterbury Trail, then A mid-May “Recon,” “London, Liverpool and Stratford,” A return, to “London, Liverpool and Stratford,” From Stratford-on-Avon to Byng Street in London, From “Fat Henry” to Gipsy Moth pub, and From (a) Bath to “The Gun.” After that came the first two-of-three preview posts for the hike: A Canterbury hike preview, and A second (of three) Canterbury previews.
We reached Canterbury on Wednesday the 27th, then on Thursday, August 28 toured the Cathedral – free – after getting our final stamp. In my case, Canterbury was the last of 18 stamps in my book, starting with Winchester Cathedral on August 11.
Re: “That time in Lyon.” See the full story at More “gang aft aglay” – and luxury in Lyon! BTW, the official name of “Lyon Part Un” – or One – is Gare de Lyon-Perrache.
Re: Do rags. See The ‘Do-Rag’, its story – African American Registry, along with Durag – Wikipedia:
Durags may be worn to accelerate the development of long curly/kinky hair, waves or locks in the hair;[2] to maintain natural oils in hair (similar to a bonnet); to stop hair breakage; to manage hair in general; or to keep hair, wave patterns and braids from shifting while sleeping. Durags are also worn as an identity-making fashion choice,
Little of which I knew before writing this post…
Re: “At the Dickens.” Not to be confused with What The Dickens, with Dickens a euphemism for the word devil. Such euphemisms that avoid mentioning God or the devil – to avoid bad luck – are known as minced-oaths. Shakespeare used the phrase in Merry Wives of Windsor, 1600: “I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of.” Meaning & Origin Of The Phrase – Phrasefinder.
Re: Estrella Damm – Wikipedia. A Spanish beer I acquired a taste for on the Camino Frances in 2017.
“Admirable self-denial” is what General George McClellan said in a letter to his wife after being offered command of all Union armies during the Civil War: “I almost think that were I to win some small success now, I could become Dictator, or anything else that might please me–but nothing of that kind would please me – therefore I won’t be Dictator.” See The Civil War Months.
Something else I didn’t know: Aside from being a Spanish word for tourist, “turista” can refer to the “diarrhea as suffered by travelers when visiting certain foreign countries.” Turista: meaning and origin – word histories.
BTW: I was standing outside, near the Paddington station entrance, because the McDonald’s on Praed Street was take-out only. But as it turned out I enjoyed the peace and quiet outside, and it wasn’t drizzling that hard.
The term “wont” is defined as an adjective meaning “accustomed or used to doing something, or a noun meaning a habit or custom. It can also be a verb meaning to accustom or to be accustomed.” (And not to be confused with “want” or “won’t.”) It can also mean a manner or action habitually employed by or associated with someone, as in phrases like “as is my wont,” or “as is his wont.” Definition of wont by The Free Dictionary.
The full link Walt Whitman: ‘Freedom – to walk free and own no superior discussed the two perspectives on freedom, external and internal.
The external perspective perceives freedom as the absence of external control or domination. It revolves around the idea of breaking free from societal norms, oppressive systems, and the constraints imposed by others. This concept aligns closely with Whitman’s quote, as seeking emancipation from any superior implies rejecting external influences. On the other hand, the internal perspective on freedom focuses on breaking free from the mental constructs and limitations that restrict personal growth. It involves self-reflection, introspection, and a journey towards self-discovery. (Emphasis added.)
Here’s a photo of outside of St. James, Shere, courtesy of Cell of the Anchoress of Shere – Atlas Obscura. It shows where poor Christina got herself walled in, after she “broke out of the anchorage after almost three years and attempted to rejoin society.” See also – aside from Wikipedia – Secret Surrey: The woman who chose to spend her life in a cell, The Anchoress of Shere, Christine Carpenter – Shere Delight, Cell of the Anchoress of Shere – Atlas Obscura, or Christine Carpenter – Surrey Cultural Lives. For more on Anchorites see Wikipedia: Such people were required “to take a vow of stability of place, opting for permanent enclosure in cells often attached to churches. Also unlike hermits, anchorites were subject to a religious rite of consecration that closely resembled the funeral rite.”
The lower image is courtesy of Dickens Tavern Paddington – Image Results. For more see Dickens Tavern Pub Restaurant in Paddington – Greene King, and Great pub in paddington, near the station.
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Re: The Israelite. Harry Golden grew up in the Jewish ghetto of New York City, but eventually moved to Charlotte, North Carolina. Thus the “Carolina Israelite.” I on the other hand am a “classic 73-year-old “WASP” – White Anglo-Saxon Protestant – and live in north Georgia. Thus the “Georgia Wasp.”
Anyway, in North Carolina Harry wrote and published the “israelite” from the 1940s through the 1960s. He was a “cigar-smoking, bourbon-loving raconteur.” (He told good stories.) That also means if he was around today, the “Israelite would be done as a blog.” But what made Harry special was his positive outlook on life. As he got older but didn’t turn sour, like many do today. He still got a kick out of life. For more on the blog-name connection, see “Wasp” and/or The blog.
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Some final notes, for possible use in a future post on the night before the last day in London: “Last night’s show ‘Tina,’ on Drury Lane [sic], was great. Very intense, good music (including ‘Shake your tail feathers’ from the Blues Brothers movie; in the original, ‘Shake your money maker.'”) And quite the musical comeback” – for Tina, after leaving Ike. Also: “An earlier adventure, yesterday [Friday] afternoon coming out of St. Pancras train station, this guy – dead to the world, but not dead. Though it did take the security guys at least 15 minutes to get him to respond.” And finally, at one point I wrote: “Back on the Trail a guy from Canterbury Cathedral said pubs were closing at the rate of five pubs a week. Seems hard to believe but ‘Hey, I’m doing my part!'” (To save some of them anyway.)