If there is one sure-fire method of humbling one's self, it is to pay a visit to the Buildings of Parliament at Westminster Palace. Perched on the edge of the Thames, it towers imposingly over nearly everything around it: ships on the river drift by like wood chips, double decker buses seem little more than children's playthings. And this is not to mention the way you feel, stepping out from the tube station to find, immediately ahead of you, Big Ben surging up from the pavement, the hands on its clock face inching ever towards the next moment and the tip of the spire aiming towards the cold, leaden sky. And beyond Big Ben: the sky decorated with myriad other towers and steeples, all jutting out of the vast, sprawling complex of buildings that the British government calls home. There is nothing to do for that first moment other than to halt mid-step - your foot, forgotten, trailing to a stop on its own momentum - and gaze upwards. The thought that it takes to comprehend such a thing is so massive in itself that there is no room left in your mind for anything else.
But how Parliament appears on the outside is but a small thing compared to the interior. The first, great hall - part of the original construction from 1097 and the only remaining building after fire ravaged the place in the early 1500s - is strikingly bare in its stone construction, and - as it remains without heating to do this day - cold enough to see your breath hover in the air before you; nonetheless, it in itself is the size of a cathedral. And the barrenness only serves to highlight the extravagance that is to follow. For every room, every hallway, every door and every statue throughout the rest of the building is a stunning testament to artistic passion and intricacy.
Parliament is divided into two sections: the House of Lords and the House of Commons (though, without a guide, it's all but unnavigable - Historian Ernest Law may have called the lawn maze at Henry VIII's Hampton Court "the most famous Maze in the history of the world," but Parliament is a twisting, winding mess of hallways and chambers which puts all other labyrinths to shame) and seems to be an exercise in ever-increasing excess. First comes the Queen's Robing Room, whose walls are lined with paintings and friezes of the story of King Arthur and the noble traditions of his court; the throne sits at the end of a long stretch of blue carpet and underneath a ceiling of gold. From there, you move down through a series of galleries, decorated with stirring portraits of great moments in British military history, and into the House of Lords. And what a display is that! Not a space is left uncovered: gold creeps up the walls like unchecked ivy, chandeliers descend elegantly from the ceiling, and giant windows open up the room to the outside world. And at the head of it all rests the throne - a monument of solid gold towards which the eye, like a magpie, cannot help but drift.
The credit for this incredible presentation goes to the Gothic designer Augustus W. N. Pugin, who spent thirty years designing literally everything in the palace - from the ceilings to the throne to the legs of the chairs - and who still found time to engage in other projects. It is true that the sheer amount present is overpowering at times, and, if one is in a sour mood, the excess - not to mention lack of subtlety - can be almost laughable. But it is still almost impossible not to be impressed by the attention to detail, the precision, and the technical skill so obviously apparent. One could spend an hour in every single room, pouring over every inch, every little incision, and still not even come close to discovering everything it has to offer. And after it is all over and you step back outside, with gold-tinted eyes, to the black of the asphalt and the grey of the sky, the world seems just a little drabber than before, and you feel like a groundhog who has crawled out from his hole only to find the earth still frozen in the grasp of winter.
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