I first noticed the skies on that glorious first day in London. We were walking around Covent Garden, just off of a well-deserved buffet at Mr. Wu after a 16-hour flight. As we were strolling around the Piazza looking for the perfect red photobooth, I looked up to see the sky with nary a cloud in sight. London is notoriously known for its bleak weather. It's "grey-ness" and dreariness. But on that first day, it was the opposite. The skies spilled with my favorite color as if welcoming me home. It was a vast space of perfect seamless gradient blue blanketing the city, the color progressing from electric blue to a muted shade of cornflower. It was akin to staring at the ocean if it were hanging above you instead of beneath you. Back at Ludgate Hill, the cross-topped dome outline of St. Paul's Cathedral poised against the cobalt blue. The English baroque church stood pale and resplendent, with its stonework looking incredibly whitewashed by the afternoon sun.
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| St. Paul's Cathedral viewed from King Edward Street |
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| Carter Lane Gardens |
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| View from the Millennium Bridge |
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| Covent Garden from Regent Street |
We found ourselves at Piccadilly Circus. The skies weren't as blue as it was an hour earlier, drowned by the soft sunset. I stared across the junction, watching as the sun's last rays of the day cascade down the fancy pewter gambrel rooftops and glinting off of the dormer windows lining Regent Street. It was only four in the afternoon, I noticed. A busker had just finished setting up his amplifier, and started singing Hallelujah at the side of Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain. The sunset grew more melancholy with each note. The lights surrounding Piccadilly Circus flashed on one by one. The cabs and double-deckers flit in and out of view from one street to another, their fleeting headlights a melody of twinkling Christmas lights. The crowd grew livelier. I felt like I was in a Neil Gaiman novel.
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| Sunset at Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain |
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| Piccadilly Circus |
At dusk the infinite expanse above London turns a cool hue: periwinkle and lilac dancing with the last rays of sunset across the skies. For some odd reason, it reminds me of circus colors--sharp, festive, and bold. The view from one of the London Eye's compartment above must have been spellbinding with the city lights glimmering straight out of a classic romance movie from the early 90s.
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| London Eye at twilight |
Further up the north of England, sits Cambridge, the county town of Cambridgeshire often called the "City of Learning." The city was glazed over with frosty skies--not quite grey nor blue. It filled the horizon with a soft pastel glow. While we walked across the town teeming with students, the clouds shifted but the tone remained, cheerfully vintage and hectic. Students running past, students in deep discussion walking in clusters, tourists in following a tiny tour flag around, students on bicycles winding around the bemused tourists. Around the winding streets of Cambridge, bordered by tall brick walls and chimney stacks in varying shades of brown gradually turning into deeper shades, the usual chaotic scene at King's Parade is replaced with hushed murmurs of students going to and from the buildings and the occasional rings of the bike bells swiveling past. I could almost make out the forms of Stephen Hawking and Alan Turing in classic tweed coats under these same wintry skies hurrying across the grounds to get to their classes. Or the hunched over form of Sylvia Plath on one of the rooms of those red brick Jacobean buildings while she reads and writes her poems in front of those vast sash windows looking out at overcast skies.
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| Cambridgeshire |
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| King's College Chapel |
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| The Mathematical Bridge viewed along Silver Street. Beside it is the back of Queen's College Old Library |
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| Along the winding alleyways of Cambridge |
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| King's College Chapel viewed from The Backs |
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| King's College, University of Cambridge |
Midway between London and Edinburgh, the tone grew more medieval, as did the skies. The walled city of York was cold and icy when we got there. The streets were slippery and the last remnants of snow from the previous night were starting to melt. Some of the rooftops were still dusted with snow. The heavens were a white chiffon draping the somber town. York was dark and gothic, Nordic in all aspects. The York Minster rose up against the grey skies, its English Gothic form age-old and imposing, as if aware of its grandeur--the magnificence inside reflecting outside.
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| Wellington Row still dusted with ice |
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| York Minster visible at the distance from Library Square |
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| York Minster up close |
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| South African War Memorial along High Petergate |
As we progressed further into the heart of York, the weather turned fairer, the skies clearer, and the sun's rays peeked out from the clouds, but the place's ambiance was relentlessly archaic. A shopping street known as The Shambles is paved in cobblestone footpath and bordered by timber-framed buildings. These structures, formerly butcher shops of the 15th century, emitted a cool Sherlockian vibe.
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| Minster Yard |
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| The Shambles |
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| Clifford's Tower Gardens |
Back in London, the skies turned magical. The evening drizzle mingled with the hum of Euston Road's traffic. We stood beneath the clock tower of St. Pancras station waiting for it to subside. However, the drizzle became silent. The soft plinks of rain transformed into soft drifts of ice--the first snow of the year in London. My heart was aflutter. It was my first snow experience. The snow falling grew thicker and a hushed settled down, as if the entire city stopped and was just staring at the flurry, surprised just as I was at the unexpected turn of the weather. I couldn't help but stare in wonder. My mind is so used to hearing a steady barrage of noise or the pitter-patter of rain against the surroundings when I see drops from the sky. But with snow, it was eerily quiet. Fat tufts of white swirling under the golden gleam of the city's lamp posts. I felt like I'm in a Christmas card. The magic from the heavens continued on to the next day when we were on our way to Leavesden. The shrubs, plants, bare trees, and car roofs were topped with a generous blanket of fresh crisp snow. I was surrounded with white, from the sky to the ground. Outside the Warner Bros. Studio (The Making of Harry Potter Tour), I played with the little clumps of snow on the ground, surrounded by a blown-up collage of Daily Prophet news clippings and Azkaban Wanted posters covering the studio's gates. I wasn't inside the studio yet but it felt like I was already at Hogsmeade during Hogwarts Christmas weekend trips.
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| Outside the Warner Brothers Studio Tour |
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| The Making of Harry Potter |
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| The Knight Bus |
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| Outside Privet Drive |
A few days before departing London, the skies shifted. It grew greyer and darker, as if the heavens were in agreement with my mood, with the sadness of leaving. The view from one of the cars atop London Eye was somber, attuned to my initial expectation of London before I came here. The heavens were a sleet grey, looking ominously like an approaching dementor at bay. The River Thames beneath us a murky muddy brown. For the first time on our trip, I saw the face of the city the way Dickens saw it during the Victorian era, bleak and jaded. Atop the Houses of Parliament, I saw the Union Jack flag dancing in the chilly wind. I realized, however, that I still wasn't disenchanted. The city still filled me with endless fascination.
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| The Houses of Parliament under gloomy skies |
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| View of bleak London atop London Eye |
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| The London Eye |
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| Tower Bridge, framed by The Shard (left) and The Walkie-Talkie (20 Frenchurch St.) (right) |
England is so vivid. In glaring difference to
Paris's eerie goth vibe. If I recall Paris, I would immediately recall different tones and hues of browns and greys, with a hint of gold. Moody and luxurious. But when I think back to London I immediately associate blues, reds, yellows, and greens--a plethora of colors, reflecting both the skies and the city. The city's heart is a myriad of colors and emotions, all engulfing me completely. I felt myself getting flustered. Even as a child, England has been my biggest dream destination. Encouraged by my
(unhealthy) obsession with Harry Potter; fueled by my fascination with the works of Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie set in Victorian England; sustained by my admiration for the stories of Neil Gaiman. The moment I was finally there, everything was overwhelming, a welcome assault to my senses. Staring in awe at biopics and books of the brilliant minds of Hawking and Turing and finally being able to walk the same grounds they've tread during their scholarly pursuits, was an experience I will eternally beholden. The skies served as a colorful anchor of awareness. By gazing at it, I've felt grounded. It's a reminder that this isn't just a pipe dream now; this is my reality.
On our last day, the blue skies returned, bidding me a cheery goodbye. A deep royal blue, while the sun cast a soft honey glow across London's skyline. The crowd basking in the late afternoon sun drawn to the blue of the skies. The scene feels like I'm in a music video of The Beatles. A red double-decker appeared from a street corner and my mind took a mental snapshot: its red against the deep blue skies, like the Union Jack. The redbrick spires and pinnacles of the clock tower of St. Pancras outlined dramatically against the blue skies, making it almost seem like a Gothic cathedral. The sight made me sentimental, half-expecting I would see a blue Ford Anglia disappearing in the corner away from Kings Cross.
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| Trafalgar Square |
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| St. Pancras Station and Kings Cross Station |
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