Loran - Smith
Loran
As the action intensifies at Wimbledon, the world’s oldest tennis championship charms and inspires and leaves you smitten and overwhelmed. For sure, that is how this great venue and its revered tournament affects this partisan. It is a doubleyour- pleasure fortnight, which causes unlimited swooning, even when there is no compelling competition taking place. Like Churchill Downs, the Augusta National Golf Club, and the Henley Regatta, Wimbledon showcases the ultimate in class, style, sophistication, elegance, and refinement. Wimbledon is renowned for its superlatives. It would be futile to try to find fault.
The competitors are “ladies” and “gentlemen,” and they are still required to wear all white. At least for the most part. The pay is as big as it gets, there is a roof overhead, and roughly two million strawberries are served each year – along with an untold gallons of tasty cream. Members of the Royal Family show up and cause a stir, just as it was in 1907 when King George V was the first scion of Buckingham Palace to patronize the great championship.
Most recently, Catherine, Princess of Wales, has been a frequent guest – her arrival announced by a crescendo of ooh’s and aah’s.
The first time I was at Wimbledon in 1991, her late mother-in-law Diana was a popular attendee. She was (naturally) photographed incessantly by the phalanx of photographers who never seemed to give her a break. Annoying at the time, tragic in retrospect.
Located in southwest London, Wimbledon has two parts: Wimbledon Village at the top of a hill and the town at the bottom. The entire area reeks of tradition and you can easily become entranced with the way of life you find in the village within a giant metropolis.
You can take a train from Waterloo station, which seems to be the most popular. I remember the first trip to Wimbledon, taking a train from Bayswater Station to Putney Bridge, then a double-decker bus to my destination.
I was excited that it was a leisurely journey and was soaking up the experience to the fullest, which meant that I could take my time without fret or worry.
Climbing up the stairwell to a seat where I could enjoy a few minutes taking in the views of London gave me a perspective, which was emotionally uplifting.
You never tire of street scenes and monitoring the pace and daily routine of the local constituency. Homemakers with their shopping bags, some on bicycles. Pubs with conversations, which hold everybody at rapt attention.
People are so engaged, even enraptured in some cases. It makes you continued from page
think the entire city is enjoying one big social at which all—residents along with strangers— are welcome. That is the way the pub life has become entrenched in my mind’s eye.
On that first trip, I was fortunate to book bed and breakfast with a lady by the name of Elizabeth Robins, who began taking in boarders from the Fourth Estate. A New York sportswriter was her first introduction, he introduced Furman Bisher of the Atlanta Journal to her, and Furman subsequently introduced her to yours truly.
You can have great fun traveling Europe and learning about the country via the bed and breakfast routine. That is one of the most illuminating treasures of the past.
A widow, Elizabeth had a becoming garden with flowers and plants, which enriched the experience. She was well read and had even visited Lake Rabun in North Georgia, courtesy of friends she had in Atlanta. We enjoyed tea and cookies in the afternoon and a “cooked” breakfast every morning.
As much as I enjoyed the classic performances on Wimbledon’s grass courts, I would give high ratings by the ancillary experiences of being immersed into the culture of the community and its warm and friendly inhabitants.
