We arrived in London amid the continuing European heatwave. Typically 29-30 degrees by day, and low 20s overnight. Our Chelsea bed and breakfast had no air conditioning and limited window ventilation. Needless to say, sleep was elusive, but we managed the days ok.
London never disappoints. Like Paris it has a special aesthetic that makes it fun to be amongst; the black cabs, the double-decker buses, the red phone boxes and that ‘dirty old river’ the Kinks sang of; the Thames.
On the first day day we ticked off the Natural History Museum, with its grand foyer Hintze Hall, housing at high level the skeleton of the largest creature ever to have lived, the blue whale (with plenty of room to spare). Afterwards we walked to the grandiose and gilded Albert Memorial looking across to the famous Albert Hall. Having looked forward to English pub food and tepid but flavoursome real ale for some weeks, we sampled both at a typically charming English pub just around the corner from the B&B. Turns out our demure and immaculately dressed 77-year-old B&B host worked as a barmaid in that pub many years ago. She also mentioned that she was a ‘bunny’ in a men’s club at one point. Wouldn’t have picked it.
The next morning we had coffee at a world-class factory conversion: The Battersea Power Station. Its fat, heritage-listed chimneys still tower against the skyline, surmounting an up-market complex of shops, restaurants and exclusive apartments, with various relics from its former life (hoist cranes, turbines, control stations etc.) cleverly retained in the design.
From there we took a bus to Tate Britain gallery to view the world’s finest collection of JMW Turner paintings, with dozens of his ethereal, misty and storm-tossed masterpieces mostly bequeathed by the man himself. Parliament square, Big Ben, etc., was also obligatory, particularly as the renovations to Elizabeth Tower and Big Ben that were underway last time were now complete, and the bells that are the sound of London were ringing again.
It was also a chance to revisit a favourite statue, that of Winston Churchill. It is a typically British depiction of the kingdom’s greatest wartime leader, showing him as he was: hunched, bald, and overweight, with a walking stick. Compare that to the French memorial to Napoleon Bonaparte, a land-grabbing warmonger of the type that has plagued humankind since the dawn of the species. Like most of his ilk he ended as a loser. Yet France accorded him an ornate coffin the size of a bus in a temple to rival Westminster Abbey.
We were lucky enough to be invited to the exclusive private Royal Automobile Club in Pall Mall that evening. Maureen’s cousin and her husband are members, and it was a treat to be hosted in such a hallowed institution, with its Michelin-starred chef and luxurious surroundings including an Olympic-sized swimming pool and a billiard hall larger than any commercial equivalent I have seen. There was also a sports bar where two large television screens broadcasted the unfortunate spectacle of some accused money-cheats dressed in sky blue winning the Champions league.
Above all, the real treat was catching up with Bill and Fiona, whose company was delightful, as always.
We are fans of the recently finished TV football drama Ted Lasso, filmed in Richmond, just 40 minutes on the District Line from Sloane Square Station near our B&B. We made the pilgrimage and found the village to be a gem, with its cobbled lanes and riverside market. We had lunch at the 18th century pub that features in most episodes, the Prince’s Head (rebranded the Crown and Anchor for the show). Our table was next to a small shrine to the fictional Richmond AFC at the back of the restaurant. In typically British fashion it is tasteful but modest. A bonus of the visit was that the food was generous and delicious, the servers witty and efficient. Maureen’s roast chicken was a Roman feast on a plate. On leaving she told the manager that she came in as a fan of Ted Lasso and left as a fan of the Prince’s Head.
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