A Greenwich Park Goodbye

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been an Anglophile. I might’ve been in Kansas City physically, but I was always somewhere in England mentally. I visited my soul country for the first time in the Spring of 2022 and when I returned, I searched for an excuse to go back. That excuse came in the Spring of 2023 when I enrolled in a class at my University about the history of England, which included a class trip to London over Spring Break! It couldn’t have been more perfect.

The Professor of this class was like me - American only in accent and citizenship, and her love and knowledge of England was admirable. When it came to London, she knew the best restaurants, shops, parks, hotels, etc., which is why she’d chosen the Strathmore in South Kensington for our lodgings. It was a stately Victorian mansion turned hotel that once belonged to the Earl of Strathmore, father of the late Queen Mother. It was an exquisite, luxurious blend of old and new and when the day finally came when I got to see it in person, I thought it had more than lived up to its hype.

I arrived in London a day earlier than my classmates because I wanted to get settled in and enjoy the solitude before spending a week in close quarters with the roommate I’d been assigned. It was already evening when I got there and I was exhausted from the journey, so I called it an early night. I woke up feeling refreshed and spent the day relaxing in the hotel as, one by one, my classmates trickled in, fresh from Heathrow airport. We had dinner in the dining hall and I met my roommate who was just as quiet as I was, so we were a great match.

Our first morning as a group was a Sunday and we all sat in the dining hall eating our breakfast and trying to wake up enough to begin the walking tour we were scheduled to take. Waiting for us in the lobby was our tour guide, who looked like she could’ve been an understudy for Miss Marple. She was a tiny elderly woman with a posh accent who seemed to flit around the room like a hummingbird, chatting to whoever wanted to chat.

We squinted in the early morning light as we walked through the streets of London, the same streets that had been heaving with people the night before, but were now practically deserted. Everything was still and peaceful, the only sounds being the chirping birds and the voice of our guide as she told us the history behind every inch of South Kensington. I was just as amazed by her and her knowledge of the borough as I was by the borough itself.

After we’d been shown and taught all there was to show and teach, 0ur class was free to do as we pleased the rest of the day. When lunchtime came around, I took the tube to Twickenham and met up with my friend Malcolm at one of our favorite restaurants. Twickenham is a charming, picturesque suburban district situated right on the Thames, and Malcolm and I enjoyed a serene afternoon stroll along its banks after we’d finished our meal.

The next morning, after a good night’s sleep and a hearty English breakfast, my classmates and I boarded a coach that would take us sixty miles outside of London to the University of Oxford. I gazed out the window, trying to tune out the incessant buzz of everyone’s conversations, and I noticed that only after fifteen minutes of travel, the landscape had changed drastically. Suddenly, we were in the countryside surrounded by rolling green hills and farm houses with barns and gardens and all manner of bucolic delights. I looked behind us. I could still see the hazy silhouettes of a hundred skyscrapers. Classic England with its ever-changing scenery that's as beautiful and varied as its accents.

Like the Strathmore, Oxford was a stunning blend of historical and modern, with its intricate stone carvings, elegant spires, and expansive courtyards. It was a sight to behold, but as grand and prestigious as it was, it wasn’t what I was most excited to see.

When our professor had finished teaching us about Oxford’s history and we were allowed to go off on our own, I made a beeline for the blue and white building I’d been eyeing since I arrived - Blackwell’s Bookshop. To my sheer delight, it was right where I’d heard it would be: a whole display dedicated to my favorite author, Philip Pullman, who grew up in Oxford. I bought his most recent book, sat down in a sun dappled chair, and let the afternoon pass me by as I lost myself in its pages. I hardly remember the bus ride back and I stayed up later than I should have that night, no thanks to Sir Pullman and his un-put-downable masterpieces.

The next few days went by in a joyous, exhilarating blur. I admired the views at the top of the Tower Bridge, popped in and out of shops like Selfridges and Liberty, caught up with my friend Charlotte over sushi, fulfilled my childhood dream of seeing Wicked at the Apollo Victoria theater, took nightly strolls along the Thames and watched the city lights glisten on the water. I felt like I was in a whirlwind romance with the city.

It had been one of the most incredible weeks of my life and it went by far too quickly. Before I knew it, my last full day in London had arrived. It might seem overly sentimental, but by this point, London was like a friend to me and I felt the need to say goodbye before I left. I decided the best place to do that would be Greenwich Park where I’d be able to see the majority of the city.

It was a lovely afternoon when I arrived, if a bit cloudy, and everyone was out and about. There were families having picnics; kids kicking footballs around; couples holding hands as they walked along; dogs playing fetch without a care in the world. Everywhere you looked, there was joy.

In order to feast your eyes on Greenwich Park’s famous views of the London Skyline, you have to earn it by trekking to the top of a long, steep hill. I was sweaty and exhausted by the time I got up there, but my discomfort vanished the moment I was presented with my reward for making the climb. I stood there frozen in awe, trying to commit every detail to memory.

I could see the City of London to the East and all the way to the O2 in the West. Below me was the grassy expanse I’d just come from, which stretched out to the National Maritime Museum, Queen’s House, and beyond them, Greenwich Hospital. I could see a glimpse of the Thames and the Isle of Dogs with the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf front and center to the North. This was a view that I’d only ever seen on postcards and photographs, and it was more beautiful than I could’ve ever imagined.

A rumble of thunder from above snapped me out of my reverie. I looked up. A dark, threatening rain cloud had formed overhead and I silently pleaded with it to go away, but it must’ve been a particularly pitiless cloud because within minutes, raindrops began to fall over Greenwich Park. Little drops became a downpour so heavy it obscured my view of the city to the point where I could barely make out the buildings. However, my fellow sightseers didn’t seem the least bit phased by the deluge. They simply opened their umbrellas, held them over their human and canine companions alike, and continued to stare off into the distance.

The sight made me smile to myself; this was English stoicism at its finest. I figured if they were going to stay, I would too. No sooner had I retrieved my umbrella from my backpack, the clouds parted over Canary Wharf and the sun shone through. The wet buildings glistened in the light, as if they were made of glass. It was still raining in Greenwich, so everyone remained under their umbrellas as they admired the sunlit city. There was something about the whole scene that moved me, and I knew I needed to get a photo of it immediately.

While I was snapping pics, I reflected on the incredible week I'd had and decided that I didn't just owe the city a goodbye, but a thank you as well. I was so grateful for this delightfully English city full of delightfully English people and I made a promise to myself that I'd come back to where I belonged as soon as I could. So it wasn't really goodbye, it was "see ya later" and most importantly, it was "thanks for the memories."