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I had pursued that same endeavour. Eventually my friend arrived and, after some elated salutations, we started our weekend escapade.
Bags in hand, we set course for Leicester Square. I always go to Leicester Square just to make sure it is still there.
Satisfied, I dragged my friend off to be captivated by the buskers at Covent Garden. The magic of London erupts here. Street artists filled the air with music, and performances elicited laughs and applause from enthralled onlookers. A small new café in nearby Soho offered a second cappuccino for the morning.
Next we trekked to the National Gallery to view one of my favourite paintings, Georges Seurat’s Bathers at Asnières. We lost ourselves among the art treasures. Eventually, my friend messaged to say he was waiting at the cloakroom.
It was time for a late lunch. The choice was obvious. I had imagined this lunch in my head a hundred times: bread and butter pudding with custard in the Cafe in the Crypt at St-Martin-in-the-Fields. The ancient burial site with its modern lighting offered a perfect sanctuary.
That evening, we arrived at our accommodation in Greenwich, exhausted from the day’s adventure.
Saturday found London clothed in familiar, drab clothes. Set against the grey damp, splashes of vibrant colour clashed with monotones. Soon it turned into a game: chasing colour in London. I snapped away at red coats, yellow umbrellas, green rain boots and a kaleidoscope of flashing hues.
That evening, the magic continued as we joined a school friend and her family for a mesmerising evening at Syon House. The noble home was open offered culinary delights, old men played backgammon, and young women in fashionable burkas smoked hookah pipes. The scene was somewhat unchanged from 14 years earlier when I’d sat in that very restaurant for the first time.
On Monday morning, I was back at Liverpool Street to bid my friend farewell. I changed my mind about catching the Tube back to the hotel. Above ground, I walked the streets of London as the lyrics to Ralph McTell’s The Streets of London played in my head.
Still dark, the city slowly unfurled itself. Bankers in smart suits, the smell of coffee, joggers, and the rising drone of traffic set the tone for the day.
I tarried on a bridge amidst the bustling commuters to watch the sun rise over Tower Bridge. After several kilometres, I eventually made it back to the hotel. I spent the morning venturing around Greenwich, marvelling at the old tea clipper ship Cutty Sark.
By Monday evening, I was on a plane to South Africa and greeted the African sunrise on Tuesday, bucket-list item ticked. — © Andre Rose
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