Saturday, July 23rd, 2011
London, United Kingdom

What Went Down.....

On Thursday, July 21st we all met up at the The Knights Templar Pub  to size up the other side and pick out future dancing partners :) A jovial time was had by all and it was brilliant to see our favourite faces in one place!

The next day, the McGregor/Daly clans decended upon Casa Malevo for a family dinner and indulged in equal parts delish Argentinian steak and crying. Oh and vodka. Lots and lots of vodka.

Saturday began with a bang, that is a loud banging in my head from all that vodka. But luckily we had Eamon, Kay, my Mom, Aunt Kathy, Natalie, Charlotte and Karly on hand to help us get this wedding party started! They came early at the crack of dawn to turn a rubbish old hall into a fabulous and magically eclectic reception venue. My grandpa always used the phrase 'homegrown' which became my mantra throughout the wedding process and we definitely retained that lovely feeling! Meanwhile guests assembled atop Parliament Hill where they were greeted by gigantic balloons with our names on them and Stephen's brothers doling out prosecco from wheelbarrows.

As the clock struck 2PM Stephen and I popped out of the woods to the sound of a trumpet reverie and met my brother Eamon and parents at the top where Eamon then performed the ceremony for us. This was all made a bit more nerve wracking as the park superintendent had told us that under no circumstances were we to bring a brass band with us. Ooooooops :) Eamon was an absolutely brilliant officiant and we sealed it with a kiss before the rogue brass band paraded all 130 guests down the hill to our hall. The dress code all weekend was to "look cool" and EVERYONE did. Feathers on hats fluttering, gigantic balloons bobbing in the wind, prosecco twinkling and so, so many smiles! I'll never forget the waves, the cheers and the little kids racing across fields to meet our happy parade all along the way!


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The Vows

Nora, have you found someone...
…to take, hold, and keep, someone to look after, someone to dote on, someone from whom to accept love gifts, someone with whom to embark upon unknowable adventures and with whom to come back home laden with trophies, someone to wrap your arms around, someone to follow around the house, around town, around the world, someone with whom to stay up late, someone for whom to dress up, someone who makes you stop caring what anyone else thinks, someone to make you change your mind about everything, someone to never doubt, never distrust, never deceive, always desire, with whom to look forward to being old, with whom to look back on being young, to have so many good days to come, someone to make you not just turn the TV off; throw it away, bolt the door, burn some candles, have a wee dram, turn the sound system up so loud you can’t even hear the neighbors shouting, kill the lights, close the blinds, and then love this person for the rest of your life?

[Nora: I have.]

And who is that person?

[It’s Stephen!]

Stephen, have you found someone…
…about whom to write poetry, to whom to address sonnets, sestinas, villanelles, and pantoums, for whom to construct vast and manifold pieces of grammar, someone for whom to light fires, throw bricks, and break rules, someone around whose existence you will shape your ideals; you can rationalize them later, someone with whom to endure the harshness of life, the distress of humanity, the extremities of existence, with whom to relish the largess of the cosmos and the munificence of having a life to live, someone who will be your first thought every morning and your last thought on the last day of your life, someone who you never need to photograph because every image of her will be in your brain forever, someone who is referred to you by everything else on the planet, with every extended index finger and every arrow pointing the way back to her, someone to defend and cherish and love for the rest of your life?

[Stephen: I have.]

And who is that person?

[It’s Nora!]
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The Poetry

The Relic by John Donne

When my grave is broke up again
       Some second guest to entertain,
       (For graves have learn'd that woman head,
       To be to more than one a bed)
                And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
                Will he not let'us alone,
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls, at the last busy day,
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

If this fall in a time, or land,
         Where mis-devotion doth command,
         Then he, that digs us up, will bring
         Us to the bishop, and the king,
                To make us relics; then
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
                A something else thereby;
All women shall adore us, and some men;
And since at such time miracles are sought,
I would have that age by this paper taught
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

First, we lov'd well and faithfully,
         Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why;
         Difference of sex no more we knew
         Than our guardian angels do;
                Coming and going, we
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;
                Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals
Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free;
These miracles we did, but now alas,
All measure, and all language, I should pass,
Should I tell what a miracle she was.



Untitled by Stephen McGregor
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Stephen the Wiver

I’ve always wondered why William Blake decided to marry his wife Catherine. Spurned by another lover at a young age, and inherently skeptical about conventional dogma, anyway, Blake’s ideas targeted marriage in particular as a strangulating aspect of the society in which he lived. He famously referred to the “marriage hearse” being “blighted by plagues” in his Poem “London.” His view on the immaculate conception of Christ is telling, as well: according to Blake’s personal mythos, Christ was conceived by Mary with an unknown but utterly human partner in a moment of unsanctified passion, in flagrant abandonment of her commitment to the attendant but perhaps unstimulating Joseph. To Blake, Mary’s transgression represented an instance of innocent passion, channeling the purest of human energies, and Christ’s existence was endowed with the unrestricted creative force which occasioned his coming into being.
          Yet wedlock becomes the titular and guiding motif of Blake’s masterpiece, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, a document which would appear to be the effluvia of a narrator undergoing a semi-veridical hallucination which gradually leads to his recognition of the fundamentally dialectical nature of the universe. It is, to put it more broadly, a manuscript which details, visually and verbally, an intensely psychedelic experience—if it were anyone other than Blake, you would assume copious drugs were involved. The “marriage” itself has obscure alchemical undertones, alluding to the pseudoscientific principles by which the essential properties of various minerals combine to perform astounding transformations on uninteresting materials. But the late 18th Century was not the era of magic, and Blake was not a moron; in his work alchemy becomes a metaphor for the dissolution of the rigid material world in the flux of abstract creativity engendered by the thinking mind. Blake’s marriage was the resolution of the contradictory influences of structured society and fluid consciousness in an individual’s life.
          Moreover, Blake got married himself, and quickly, and in a church, and there wasn’t a bulging belly at the altar, either. In order to understand how this poet-artist could have hated the institution of marriage but valued it as a metaphor and loved it in his own life, I went down to the place where the wedding actually happened. (This, incidentally, is one of the many pleasures of life in London: the city is its own encyclopedia; the data bleeds from the stones.) St. Mary’s of Battersea dates back to Saxon times, with a church having stood on the same site since the 7th or 8th Century. Its latest manifestation, which still stands today, would have been quite new in Blake’s time, an exemplar of the stately, measured architecture which characterized the height of the Georgian era in Great Britain. The site, which sits right on the south bank of the Thames, is now adrift in an array of askance council towers and luxury flats trying to find berths in the unordered web of streets which conform to the fluid contours of the river; you get the feeling that a tidal backwash might set the buildings bobbing and knocking, low-emissivity glass crushing against a corner of Thatcher-era concrete. Across the Thames, the derelict Lots Road Power Station is crying out for occupation by lit ravers and destitute anarchists. But the church still stands: you can see the very doorway where William and Catherine must have walked in together one Sunday in August of 1782, and, very shortly thereafter, walked out to very little ceremony as Mr. and Mrs. Blake.
          And the relationship would last for many happy years: Blake is notably one of the most uxorious figures in the history of literature and art—though he’s admittedly competing against a fairly weak field of contenders in this regard. Nonetheless, there is abundant evidence that Mr. and Mrs. Blake loved each other dearly. Catherine was known to assist Blake in his artistic endeavors, bringing him his image-making tools when his visions came upon him, even learning how to operate his press despite her own illiteracy. She was attendant to Blake on his deathbed, on which occasion he produced a final sketch of the woman he had spent his life loving. Catherine indulged Blake in his radical world view, and participated in the unique and often bizarre mythology which he constructed around himself: the two were known, later in life, to go about their garden together and entirely nude, visiting various tree stumps and mounds of dirt which they would instill with deistic significance. And, when Blake did suggest that the couple introduce a prostitute into the relationship, ostensibly with an eye towards producing elusive offspring, Catherine was reduced to tears—and Blake promptly desisted.
           What could marriage have possibly meant to this strange genius? Having rejected religion and the government, having defied every other expectation of society, why would he then turn around and make this commitment to his lover in such a conventional way? On the other hand, is the question even worth asking? After all, we know Blake first as a writer and an artist; the nature of his life and his marriage are only of interest to us because of what he made. But when Blake married at the age of 24, he was just a young ideologue living through one of the strangest eras of history, trying to find his place in a city characterized by clandestine cults, roving mobs, and a ubiquitous black market. Perhaps at the time, Blake sensed that the marriage would outlive the man, and would leave some residue of the best aspect of his life for posterity.
          This line of reasoning has given me occasion to reflect on the nature of the persistence of reputation more broadly. Who, for instance, was William Shakespeare? It’s a question which has provided fodder for many a semi-academic exposé in recent years, but that fact remains that someone in London wrote some awfully good plays around 1600, and the politics of identity, sexy or sexualized as they can be, seem somehow secondary to this; the name “Shakespeare” encompasses the works adequately. And Socrates exists now only as a participant in the dialogues written by Plato, who is himself primarily preserved in statuary, and Homer is only a shade which can be seen dimly haunting the other side of a couple old poems. With time, the details of these ancient lives fall away, and what remains is the information: the words and the pictures which these famous people used to describe the world are now the only thing which we have to describe them.
          And why do we need to know, anyway? From where does this mania for knowing the private lives of great people arise? Isn’t it enough to have what they gave to the world, without needing to understand their own privations? And if the features of the greatest poets of the ages are fated to become worn and dulled by the perpetual revisiting of history, what more can I hope for in my life? The documents which record us, the thousands of sheets of paper which we produce, must eventually become us: some day, all that’s left of me might be reduced to a folder in an archive somewhere. If I am to be eventually classified as an exhibit, and artifact, anthropological data, I want what’s left of me to be that I loved and was loved, that someone found me and gave me a little happiness in my life and that I turned around and made a little more happiness with the small amount of time I had. If my life is going to be forgotten, then I want some element of the love I have to be what’s left behind.
          This is what I thought about while I was sitting down by St. Mary’s on a dreary Wednesday afternoon, imaging what Blake had done there 230 years earlier. Perhaps Blake’s decision to marry was ultimately an act of pure rebellion which ran so deep that it was even targeted against his own ideas: it was a rebellion against the constraints of the self, against the obsession with identity imposed on all of us by society. Blake’s marriage ran against everything, against conventions, against expectations, and even against his own system of beliefs; it was more radical and more liberated from the constraints of analysis than anything he could have written or drawn. This is the beauty of Will and Kate Blake’s love, that it was against everything, even against themselves.
     And then something occurred to me about St. Mary’s itself, too, this stately old building which has survived wave after wave of regeneration. The church is now a Grade I listed building, protected by the government from the uncertainties of human enterprise, but this status and the very perseverance of the church itself is surely one of the many externalities of Blake’s actual marriage, for if William Blake, this favorite son of London, hadn’t chosen to marry a little girl from the neighborhood there, it surely would have been toppled more than 100 years ago to make way for whatever was coming next. But if Picasso could use his signature on a napkin to pay for dinner in Madrid, then surely a Blake marriage is enough to preserve a building in London’s tumultuous cityscape. And so the church still stands, and, though the pilots and passengers of the trawlers and river taxis and rubbish barges which float past it every day would hardly know it, the building itself is ineluctably a monument to the event which sustained it, just as every bomb crater is a memorial to war.
          I’ll probably never be famous, certainly not for anything anyone would be proud of, but maybe my love for Nora will become bigger than I am, will become something of note in itself somehow, even if I’m long forgotten. My marriage will be like a listed building: inside it, something spectacular has happened, and it’s worth preserving, even if everything around it starts changing. It will be my own greatest work, and 1,000 generations from now, someone will excavate it and marvel at it and theorize about how someone so primitive could possibly have conceived of something so incredible.
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The Evidence


A smattering of wedding photos so as not to overwhelm you are in this slideshow! 

But if you've got a few hours, the main photogallery is made up of hundreds of snapshots taken by all of our lovely guests on the day :)You can view them here in the "Stephen and Nora get Wed Kodak Gallery".

We also have video evidence of the magic that went down taken by the craftier of our guests! Stay tuned as they get uploaded over the coming weeks.....

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Still our Favourite Places

The Regent’s Canal – The narrow stretch of placid water running from Westbourne Grove to Limehouse was built 150 years ago to connect London’s Docklands to the rest of England.  It now cuts through many of the coolest neighborhoods in the world.  Primrose Hill, Camden, Angel, Dalston, Victoria Park, Bethnal Green: the canal ties together a swath of conurbation with some of the hippest pubs, restaurants, green spaces, and abandoned warehouses in London.  It has been the main axis of many a romantic walk for us over the years, and there will no doubt be many more in the years to come.



Clerkenwell – This neighborhood features a few patches of some of the best preserved architecture from various epochs of London’s history, including St. John’s Gate, the Tudor-era entry to an even older church, a rare relic of an era when most construction in London was done with wood.  The area has attracted revolutionaries for centuries, dating back to the the Lollards, the disciples of the influential medieval demagogue John Wycliffe.  Most good rallies and protests kick off at Clerkenwell Green these days, which is especially convenient since there are also lots of great pubs nearby.  It’s easy to get lost in the narrow and indecisively planned streets around here, but there are worst places to not know where you are.  Also consider checking out Hatton Gardens, London’s diamond district, where Stephen bought Nora her antique engagement ring.



Victoria Park – We spent two years living just south of this wedge of green in the midst of the concrete expanse of the East End.  Each of London’s many parks has its own distinct qualities; Vicky Park is characterized by a kind of jovial anarchy in the midst of beautifully maintained settings.  Situated in the quarter of the city currently favored by artists and musicians and the like, this park draws a particularly Bohemian-slacker crowd who can be found firing up their barbies and sunning their tattoos any time the weather permits.  The Inn on the Park, at the north end of Grove Road, has a beer garden which is conjunct with the park itself and is a good place for an early pint if you enjoy watching hipsters struggling with hangovers.



Peckham Rye – This is definitely not a main stop on the tourist trail, but if you’re up for a bit of adventure south of the river, we recommend a stop at this relatively unknown but exceptionally beautiful spot.  Peckham itself is notable for its bustling market culture set in the midst of one of the grittier parts of town; the Rye is the large park just to the south which absorbs a bit of the chaos.  This is the place where William Blake apparently experienced one of his first visions, a hallucination of a tree full of angels, at the age of 8—and received a box in the ear for relating his experience to his parents.  The gated area south of the open common features an oddly harmonious array of differently styled gardens.



Greenwich – Where time comes from.  The main draw of this southeastern neighborhood is probably the Observatory, from which the Prime Meridian itself eminates: here, you can enjoy standing in the Eastern Hemisphere while punching your friend in the Western Hemisphere.  Aside from that, though, there is also a lovely village with many cozy pubs and a market which is open from Wednesday to Sunday.  You can also pick up a river taxi here and ride it back to points west like the Embankment or the London Eye—just be warned, figuring out how to get tickets can be a bit confusing.



Camden – So Nora was run down by a cyclist on Chalk Farm Road, and claims she gets acne every time she goes to the Camden Market.  Stephen asks, “So what?”  Long famous as a haunt for types who mousse their hair and rip their clothes, and regularly occupied by an ad hoc army of discontent adolescents, Camden’s charm perhaps lies in its rejection of the discreetness of taste and fashion which characterizes much of the rest of the Metropolis.  The market, which is open every day and is built into an ancient horse stable, is a great place to find a Sex Pistols t-shirt, a new safety pin to wear through your septum, or pretty much any item of clothing made out of latex.  And, while the likes of Amy Winehouse and Liam Gallagher may have indulged themselves into ruination in the innumerable taverns scattered around in the vicinity of the high street, the spirit of rock-n-roll lives on in Camden’s pubs and clubs, where it’s not unusual to find free entertainment from aspiring young musicians playing in almost unbelievably cramped conditions.



Chelsea and Knightsbridge – Home to the most evil and heartless sports organization in the world and an empire of profiteering clothiers and victualers, there are those who nonetheless find this area’s labyrinthine passageways and elegant architecture irresistible.  On certain stretches it seems as though almost every building is “listed,” which is to say, something important happened there.





PUBS



In A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth’s epic tale of post-partum tribulations in decolonized South Asia, an Indian character who had studied in Great Britain is interrogated regarding what most impressed him about London.  His response takes the form of an incredulous query: “It must be the pubs, of course?”



We concur.  More than the museums, the parks, and the palaces, the pubs of London are the repositories of the cities complex history.  It was in a Clerkenwell pub that Vladi Lenin first met Joe Stalin; it was in a boozer in Deptford that Christopher Marlowe met his final end.  The pub is generally the center of community life in a London neighborhood, and a regulars’ haunt is a good spot to pick up on a little local flavor.  You can get a bit of nosh at most pubs as well, with some gastropubs offering fare which competes with some of the top restaurants in Europe.  Most of all, though, the pub is a good place to drink.



The drink of choice in London is certainly lager, probably because it’s both more alcoholic and easier to stomach than the more traditionally British ale.  Stella and Krnonenberg (or, if you want to sound like a tourist, “1664”) are reliable brand names, though many drinkers actually consider these beers classless.  If you’re up for something a little warmer and less fizzy, try a cask ale—just make sure your bartender has the arm power to properly pump the liquid out of the barrel.  Wine and spirits (or, if you’re still going for the out of town sound, “liquor”) are also available pretty much everywhere.



William III was a Dutchman and a self-motivated ruler who married opportunistically, but Stephen will make the case that, by regulating the size of measures of beer and spirits in England in 1698, he did a greater service for the Kingdom than any other regent before or since.  And the British pint is formidable indeed: a pint in London weighs in at 570 mL, 100 mL more than a pint in America—and drinkers here don’t take kindly to hiding a bad pour with an overabundant head, either.  Please take care when ordering wine, too: a “large” wine is generally exactly 250 mL, which is 1/3 of a bottle—a few of those over the course of an hour and you might forget why you’re here in the first place.



Here are a few of our favorite pubs, categorized roughly by neighborhood, all north of the River:



The Victoria  – This is an exemplar of classic pub décor: busy wallpaper and elaborate sconces form the backdrop for various severe depictions of old Q. Vicky herself.  It’s set in a very pleasant and well planted neighborhood featuring a few celebrity residents—a great place to go to beer up before you go around the corner to give Tony Blair a piece of your mind.



The Monkey Puzzle  – Not far from Paddington Station, this pub is named for a particular species of pine tree an example of which grows in the nice courtyard out front.  Thickly carpeted and fairly compartmentalized, this is a slightly more local take on what a pub can be, though the station nearby also means that lots of travelers pass through.



The Barley Mow  – This is a very old pub.  It’s characterized by little snugs, private micro-rooms which were common in pubs in the 19th Century but have largely gone out of fashion, probably because they take up space.  Two of the snugs in this deeply atmospheric venue actually date from that era, for which the interior of the building is actually “listed”—so you can spill your drinks on a bit of history.



The Albert  – We don’t really know why we like this pub so much, but we do.  Situated in fashioned but geographically implausible Primrose Hill, it’s a good place to stop off if you’re walking on the Canal, and has a nice sunny glass room in the back.



The Lock Tavern  – This is a fairly well known Camden institution with a very satisfactory beer garden and, believe it or not, outstanding hamburgers.  The upstairs room features a little stage where rock bands play so close to your face you can feel the strings on their metal guitars quivering, and there’s also a nice balcony outside with a good view of the chaos on the streets down below.  Nora saw the girl from Dr. Who here and immediately freaked out.



The Island Queen  – Another pub close to the canal, this one features sort of neo-regency décor in a comfortable interior.  It’s on a nice street in a very attractive neighborhood, and close to the bustling strip of Upper Street.



The Three Kings  – Just around the corner from Clerkenwell Green, this is an eccentric little place with a pretty chilled out crowd.  On nice summer evenings the area in front of the churchyard across the street becomes an impromptu beer garden, and knocking back pints as the sun sets on this twisty corner of London is a great way to pass an evening.



The Spread Eagle  – We are including this pub because it’s in Shoreditch, and some of you are likely to wander into Shoreditch, a neighborhood characterized by lots of similar places to drink.  There are actually lots of good pubs in Shoreditch, but there are also lots of bad ones, and the bad ones necessarily make more of an effort to get your attention.  The Spread Eagle has cool mouth-shaped urinals and is fairly unpretentious.



The Carpenter’s Arms  – So some pub names are more popular than others, and “The Carpenter’s Arms” will probably never go out of style.  The establishment to which we’re referring is just off Brick Lane in the East End; this used to be one of the main hangouts for the legendary Kray Twins, renowned for making crime sexy and sex criminal.  These days they serve a great selection of slightly obscure beers to a slightly less intimidating clientele.



The Town of Ramsgate  – This pub backs right on up onto the Dirty Old River, and actually looks out on the spot where Captain Kidd’s dead body was hung in 1701 as a bit of a warning to pirates, kind of like when your school put a wrecked car in the parking lot right before prom.  There’s apparently been a pub at this spot for quite a few years, and it’s fun to sit inside and imagine the atmosphere back when Wapping was awash with fishermen and sailors and their shady consorts.  Should you choose to wander off the beaten track and into this part of town, this pub is worth a visit.



The Sam Smith’s Spiral  – One thing to realize about London pubs is that many of them are part of franchises or consortiums.  What this means is that a pub will have it’s own landlord, but the landlord will buy into a scheme for getting cheaper booze and food.  Such a pub will generally have its own name but will also have certain generic characteristics, such as a set menu or a certain type of draught beer.



Sam Smith’s is an especially specialist institution: Sam Smith’s pubs only sell Sam Smith’s products, from the beer to the spirits to the little bags of nuts.  They are typically characterized by faux Victorian wood sconces around the bar and do not pay the fee for music license, which means you can expect to either hear yourself thinking or you can hear the other patrons thoughtlessly shouting, depending on the time of day.  The beer is priced very reasonably and isn’t half bad, either.  Particularly good alcohol per pound (APP, the most important metric when you’re out pubbing) value are the Alpine Lager and the Oatmeal Stout, both on draught.

At some particularly low point, Stephen conceived the dubious idea of doing a pub crawl which focused on only Sam Smith’s pubs.  These pubs are mostly clustered around the West End, in the area between Hyde Park and Chancery Lane, with a particular concentration around Covent Garden, Soho, and Fitzrovia.  It’s an array which defies a truly linear progression; as such, it makes much sense to try to circle around and hit as many Sam Smith’s as possible.  We particularly recommend the Chandos, right by Charring Cross, the Princess Louise, a pleasantly divided place with a nice upstairs on High Holborn, the Cittie of Yorke, on a site right by the Chancery Lane Underground which has hosted a pub since the 15th Century, and the Champion, situated in charming and bustling Fitzrovia.  We’ll be very impressed if you can hit 8 establishments and actually come back with a coherent description of the experience.

Undoubtedly the best way to soak in all of the most famous sites is to sign up for one of the Big Bus Tours. You can hop on and off throughout the day and can be assured you'll have all the big landmarks covered!

Here are our tips for other events a little off the beaten path:

  • Take a walk from Little Venice along Regent's Canal to the crazy Camden Markets of Amy Winehouse fame.
  • Speaking of markets there are a ton around London and the best place to pick up a gourmet sausage for lunch! Our favourites are Portobello Road, Borough Market, & Covent Garden.
  • Make like the Victorian's and take a rowboat out for a spin in Hyde Park (don't forget the wine and baguettes!), or if you're a landlubber, rent a deck chair (or bring a sheet!) and enjoy a leisurely afternoon by the lake.
  • It may sound ghoulish but we definitely recommend a visit to the famously gorgeous Highgate Cemetery which opened in 1839. Tranquil, beautiful place for a summer walk.
  • In case of rain, hit up the Royal Academy of Art Summer Exhibition if you have an insatiable appetite for art, it might just be fulfilled here: rooms chock-full floor to ceiling of some of the greatest new works you'll ever get to see in one place. You might even walk home with one as all of them are on sale :)
  • The Wellcome Collection has some of the absolute best free exhibitions around and I've loved every single one. This show will be running this summer and I'm sure it'll prove just as fascinating as previous ones!
  • St. Alban's (a 20 minute train ride) Absolutely the most delightful 'oldeee towneee', perfect for a day trip outside of London. There's a church there founded in 960AD. Stephen tells me they also have the highest number of pubs per capita...
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