A Wallace returns to the Tower and leaves with her head intact…
One of Dad’s clans is Wallace. My Gran was a Wallace. So – I traced us to make sure of which Wallace (if any) we are related. It certainly explained the stubbornness and ferocity of spirit that rears its head in my family line.
I wore blue in honour of my Great-Grandfather’s King Robert the Bruce and John Wallace (less famous brother to Sir William Wallace). As far as I know, I’m the first of my family to see the haunts of the Tower of London. William was a guest here prior to his death (hanged, drawn, and quartered then his head placed upon a stake out on London bridge as a warning). Hoping to avoid being stripped naked and dragged through the city at the heels of a horse to the Elms at Smithfield, I opted to lay low and just shoot images and smile politely.
Despite it being cold and drizzly (redundant statement in the UK), I set out to have a look and snap what I could of the exterior. The first shot is by far my favourite out of all that I shot of the Tower. The hardest challenge is capturing the essence of the history.
Ignore the Gherkin and modern London photobombing the Tower.
Per Wikipedia, Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, more commonly known as the Tower of London, is a historic castle on the north bank of the River Thames in central London, England, United Kingdom. It lies within the London Borough of Tower Hamlets, separated from the eastern edge of the square mile of the City of London by the open space known as Tower Hill. It was founded towards the end of 1066 as part of the Norman Conquest of England.
Tad bit of history, you say?
Overwhelmingly so. Shooting it is intimidating. Such history screams back at one, ghosts abound, the modernity of London races and swirls outside its walls, and one stands completely gobsmacked by it all.
Unless you live here and this is part of the daily commute, it’s gobsmacking to a history nut. I get it…the locals are used to it much in the same way I’m used to seeing the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, and forbiddingly Fisherman’s Wharf (yawn) of San Francisco. Ever day it’s there, every day there are tourists taking images, and standing mouth agape. I was proudly one of them. At least I knew not to wear trainers – the badge of a colonist.
This Wallace just thought it was time to see some of the digs her Great-Grandfather haunted.