Another year where travel isn’t as easy as we would have liked and permitted destinations seemed to change like a capricious chameleon. But, having not been away in 13 months, somewhere was better than nowhere. Anywhere.
Would it be a family holiday, a solo break or a lads’ trip? As a family we were missing our trips to Hong Kong and sub-trips to other Asian cities, so we wanted something that reflected that. I was missing my solo visits to hip European cities, and the lads’ trip hadn’t happened since a weekend across the expanses of Berlin almost exactly two years earlier.
The family wanted to go away, and my fellow lads’ trippers were stirring too. I was willing to do a dual-centre break, with something for myself in between. However, fate had other plans. The family zoned in on the world of Asian food that London’s Chinatown would afford us, and the lads had cocked an eye towards the Bermondsey Beer Mile. A mile of beer? Of course that piqued their interest.
It was decided, we were London-bound. I would head down with the Other Half and the Niece to focus on touristy central London and Chinatown, spend 24 hours by myself in Shoreditch and Hackney, before my fellow hop enthusiasts would arrive and attentions would turn to the south-eastern part of the capital.
Part One: Family
The thing with being travel starved is you don’t really care what you do, you just appreciate being able to do something. I usually have a list of places to visit and, when solo, even go as far as planning a complete day – including tourist sites, walking routes, bars and restaurants. For the ‘family’ aspect of this trip, we had no itinerary other than “see things, eat good food”.
As such, moments after checking into our hotel within view of Trafalgar Square, we found ourselves sauntering round Lisle Street, Newport Place and, eventually, Gerrard Street. To put it more succinctly, Chinatown. It didn’t take us long to plonk ourselves down in a restaurant and order a vast array of dim sum for mine and the Other Half’s first restaurant-based yum cha in a ridiculous amount of time. We’d missed this.
With bellies bursting with cheung fun and lo bak go, we went on an aimless wander. Passing through Leicester Square, we decided to show the Niece some tourists sights. There was a satisfied malaise amongst us all and the Niece seemed blasé about the Harry Potter statue; she didn’t believe us that the cinema was where all the premieres occur; she didn’t even seem impressed that we were stood where that England fan shoved a flare up his bum…
Soho keeps changing. When I first went there in the late 90s, it was characteristically seedy with glitzy revue bars seemingly everywhere. The last few times I went, it had given itself a hip makeover. This time, the revue bars and adult stores were back. Perhaps it was just that I’d managed to avoid those streets previously, but I was starting to regret my choice of route. Carnaby Street came as a relief. It has undoubtedly changed over the years: from the Swinging Sixties, to Cool Britannia in the 90s, to the laidback, almost-Harajuku shimmer of today. With its glittery Union flag sign surrounded by butterflies, the Rolling Stones store, and the car from the Inbetweeners, Carnaby Street somehow always manages to latch on to or dictate the zeitgeist of cool.
After appearing from an alleyway on to the bustling Oxford Street, we dipped back into the side streets, passing other cultural landmarks such as Bar Italia. Opened in 1949, this Italian coffee shop is still owned by the same family. Before then, it was the location where John Logie Baird first demonstrated his invention, television. However, it is because of another media that I know it. Pulp’s iconic 1995 album, Different Class, contains a song called Bar Italia and, due to the lyrics “it’s round the corner in Soho, where other broken people go”, it also helped me out in my time of need. In the late 90s, a teenage me came down to London to see a gig with a friend. We hadn’t booked tickets or accommodation. The gig was sold out. To quote another Pulp song, “we didn’t have no place to go”. We were lost and getting cold as we bimbled round the corner into Soho. Thanks to Pulp, I knew where to go. We spent some time nursing a good Italian coffee before eventually sleeping rough under a board down a Soho alley.
London is full of finer alleys and side streets than that, and I had wanted to visit a particular one for a few years. I don’t know why, and I’m not sure why I hadn’t previously done. Neal’s Yard is hidden between two of the spokes of Seven Dials. The colourful window frames of the surrounding buildings, dripping with vegetation, gather round a small, triangular court bedecked with lights.
While Neal’s Yard was quiet, our next destination is notoriously bustling. My first memory of Covent Garden was sitting on the balcony of the Punch and Judy while, I think, on my way to France. Looking down on the performers and gathered throngs, I felt like an invisible observer. This time, on the ground, we were part of the shuffling horde. The suspended giant mistletoe and polished chrome apples hanging overhead added a touch of film-set glamour to the antique and collectible stalls below.
Crossing over the Thames via Waterloo Bridge, we were in another world, a world of high-brow arts. The Southbank Centre is home to the National Theatre, the Royal Festival Hall, the BFI, the Hayward Gallery, and a sub-pontine concrete skatepark.
Under Westminster Bridge, our gaze was on the opposite bank and Palace of Westminster, the home of parliament. However, something on our side caught our eye. I had walked from here to Borough Market in 2016 during the Beast from the East and this wall display was new. As beautiful as it looked, it is something we all hoped would not be necessary. On the grey concrete wall beside St Thomas’ Hospital is the National Covid Memorial Wall. Thousands of painted red hearts commemorate some of those that have lost their lives during the pandemic. It was sobering. It went on for so, so long.
The Covid Wall looks out across the Thames to the political heart of the country and we wondered if anyone in the Houses of Parliament looks out and thinks that things could have been handled better.
Home to a Henry Moore sculpture, College Green offers great, close-up views of Parliament and we may have accidentally got in the background of TV crews filming the news. When we visited a few days later – budget day – it was closed off due to the number of reporters.
Our hotel wasn’t far from here but, with a teenager who is interested in politics, we couldn’t give up the chance to stand outside Downing Street and observe any comings and goings. We may even have seen the Chancellor being driven out towards Parliament.
Following on from the visit to Covent Garden, the next morning we decided to visit two more markets. Ugh – the curse of going away with the Other Half and the Niece..! I never consider myself as a fan of markets, yet I visit plenty in Hong Kong and always try to go to the indoor one in Budapest. These two would hopefully be of similar interest.
But first we had to find the Niece. She had gone out for a wander on her own, and it was great to hear. The desire and fearlessness to go out wandering round Trafalgar Square, the Mall and Whitehall by herself is encouraging. It’s what travelling is all about: challenging yourself and reaping the rewards now and in the future.
Reunited, we retraced our steps to the Southbank Centre and carried on eastwards. After seeing, and hearing, the Mayor of London on his morning jog, the Other Half pointed out the Tate Modern. She’s into art, so this wasn’t a surprise and I thought she was going to suggest going in. However, following on from me pointing out the location of Bum-Flare man the previous day, the Other Half carried on this less-than-salubrious tour by mentioning the horrific death of a young French boy. Bearing in mind we were about to head to London Bridge, we needed to change our tour-guide patter – and try not to mention narwhal tusks.
As it was, we were shortly about to visit Borough Market (yes, we didn’t mention that either). Before we could get there, we were thrust into Elizabethan England. The oak-and-thatch Globe is an impressive replica of Shakespeare’s theatre, and the nearby Anchor inn, while just post-Elizabethan, can count David Garrick and Samuel Johnson amongst its former clientele. Indeed, Samuel Pepys hunkered down there while observing the Great Fire of London in 1666. Bankside oozes history. Walking past a colourful mural of the bard, we noticed the Clink. Now a museum, this was one of the most notorious prisons in the country from 1151 to 1780. It has also given its name to the slang term for prison. The Clink prison was owned by the Bishop of Winchester, whose former palace is just down the road – although only the rose window of the Great Hall remains. Soon, we were back in Elizabethan England, viewing Sir Francis Drake’s Golden Hind – the first English vessel to circumnavigate the globe. Originally called the Pelican, Drake renamed it mid-voyage to honour his patron’s crest. As one of the lads-trippers said when we came back here a few days later: “Is anything round here real?” It’s true. Like the Globe and London Bridge, none of these things are real. The Globe isn’t even in the same place as the original; the Golden Hind, while being seaworthy, is a replica; and the original London Bridge is now in Arizona.
The Shard sure did
This toing and froing through history had given us a slight experience of temporal disorientation. We had arrived at Borough Market too early. The famed street-food stalls were only creaking into life. To give them the opportunity to fire up the pans, we continued walking.
The Shard is flipping huge. Designed by a man whose name sounds like an elite musical instrument, Renzo Piano’s neo-futurist skyscraper stands at just over 1,000-feet tall. Standing under it makes you feel incredibly insignificant. Spotting a window cleaner halfway up makes you feel incredibly queasy. It’s the UK’s tallest building and looking up at the pyramidal structure from one of the corners, I couldn’t help but recall a song by Hull’s 1990s indie darlings Kingmaker: Really Scrape the Sky. Having that in my head for the following hours was something I didn’t mind at all.
This was all well and good, but what about a return to dark tourism? Although hopefully not as dark as hours before – if you can call the destruction of 70,000 people’s homes and damage to the tune of £1.7billion in today’s money as ‘not dark’.
The Other Half occasionally reminds me not to leave the oven on. ‘What is the worst that can happen?’, I respond, clearly forgetting about Thomas Farriner. A fire broke out in his bakery in Pudding Lane on 2 September 1666, and so began the Great Fire of London. It is now commemorated with a, quite frankly, ridiculously grandiose monument called The Monument. This 202-foot-tall Doric column now stands proudly near to the starting point of the blaze. If you are so inclined, you can pay to climb the 311 steps of Christopher Wren’s monument to the viewing platform.
Back in Borough Market, the food stalls had come to life. They represented cuisines from all round the world and, not for the only time on this trip, I would find I was too early for the Greek street food. Instead, I went for something I had never heard of: uroog and aubergine from Kubba. This vegetarian Iraqi food comprised of, I think, aubergine and courgette patties similar to falafel, a fresh bread and a stunning sauce. It was all good, but the sauce was something I could happily have on its own.
Another market was calling us: Camden.
What I love about London is how the boroughs all have their own inimitable style and architecture. Here, the buildings were squat and with an appearance of flat roofs, like Brighton or Bristol. They also had 3D sculptures on their frontage. Mainly shoes – Converse and Vans. This gives some suggestion as to the spirit of Camden. It’s fiercely independent and cool, but not as overwhelmingly hip as Shoreditch. Across the Regents Canal and under the iconic Camden Lock railway bridge are myriad stalls selling crystals, hippie jewellery and t-shirts. Last time we were here, I was – quite understandably – suckered in to purchasing a couple of cool tees: a print of Michael Caine with ‘geezer’ written under it; and a print of John Lennon with ‘imagine there’s no Yoko’, which proved surprisingly inflammatory in Rome, of all places. Nowadays, all the stalls are in one vast market labyrinth. There’s a clear style to the area now, away from the risk of being sold drugs, although drugs paraphernalia was a regular on the stalls. I couldn’t complain, as it seemed to fit the vibe.
While the Other Half and the Niece tried to find some sustenance, I legged it away from cool Camden and found somewhere more prosaic. Remarkably close to the bohemian barrio is the genteel ghetto of Primrose Hill. Half a mile’s walk from the alluringly seedy Camden is a overwhelmingly middle-class enclave where chicken shops and music venues are replaced by artisan delis and high-class wine bars. There was a real village feel to the crescent of Regents Park Road but, as much as I enjoyed the almost bucolic charm of Primrose Hill, I was here for one thing and one thing alone.
I would, at this point, like to remind readers I’m a 42-year-old working class, northern British male. And I love the Paddington films. Acting dead cool like as a delivery van got in my way, I sauntered round to Chalcot Square and sat on a bench, all casual like. When that vehicle had departed, I strolled back down Chalcot Crescent to coyly take in the sight of the Browns’ family home in the recent films. I regret nothing.
Reuniting with my fellow travellers outside Lan Kwai Fong (confusingly a takeaway rather than the drinking area of Hong Kong), we then went back to the more familiar territory of Leicester Square. Again, London provided a stark contrast. From market stalls we were thrown into the world of Fortnum and Mason as we strolled along Piccadilly. Regrettably, it was decided we would not go in to the famous foodie department store, nor would we pass Philip Mould’s art gallery or my spiritual home of the Reform Club on Pall Mall – named after an Italian version of boules.
Instead, we would go to somewhere I walked past twice on my trip to Whitstable last year. I mean, Buck House is a worthwhile destination. We even got to see the heir apparent be driven into his Clarence House home on our way there. Standing outside Buckingham Palace, watching the beefeaters occasionally moving up and down, we started to wonder about life behind the gates. There was palpable excitement when the side gates opened under much protection from the armed guards. I’d be amazed if a carpenter’s van has ever been greeted by such an anticipatory throng.
What I hadn’t had the time or, to be honest the inclination, to do last year was explore St James’s Park. With two Geordies in tow, it felt appropriate. It was like a different world. There were squirrels everywhere, herons and mandarin ducks on the water. Fine, so far. What I didn’t expect to see was a scoop of pelicans floating by. Apparently, these pouch-throated waterfowl and their ancestors have been resident here since they were donated by the Russian ambassador in 1664. As far as city parks go, it was a good ‘un.
After a brief sojourn where the Other Half and the Niece went back to the hotel and my phone stopped working so I had to seek solace in central London hostelries (honestly), we were reunited for more Asian food – this time we visited Korea for barbecue beef and bibimbap. I’m starting to get a taste for Korea and hope we can all go next time we visit Hong Kong. As long as we don’t have to compete in a series of games…
Our final day as a trio started in unusual fashion: we dropped the Niece off at her meeting at the Bank of England. Natch. Making our way to the financial centre, each person fixed their eyes before their feet “flowed up the hill and down King William Street, to where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours, with a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.” Or about 9:30am for a 10:00am appointment. The limestone façade of the Bank and the neo-classical frontage of the Royal Exchange, modelled on Rome’s Pantheon, exuded importance. The contrast between these historic buildings and the shimmering skyscrapers that dwarfed them was stark.
Sauntering westwards, myself and the Other Half headed straight towards a flurry of other cultural icons. First was Florin Court, which stands in as the Whitehaven Mansions home of great Belgian detective Hercule Poirot in the ITV series starring David Suchet. We had seen this frontage numerous times, but visiting it really put it in context regarding its position in London. I could easily imagine Poirot getting off his little grey cells at the bafflingly proximate Fabric club.
One of the things about London is that you’re never too far away from a notable place. Hatton Garden is a peaceful street off Holborn that specialises in high-end jewellery and diamonds. That’s probably why, every so often, it stops being peaceful. Such as in April 2015, when a group of elderly men descended on the street and carried out a heist straight out of a Hollywood blockbuster.
We were somewhere on the edge of Bloomsbury when the architecture began to change. Gone was the Portland stone and glass-and-steel skyscrapers, here were sedate dark-brick Georgian townhouses and bright-white stucco-clad terraces. We also passed the British Museum, which contains some of the finest relics from across the globe – but rarely displays most of them. Crates and crates of Aurel Stein’s finds from the Taklamakan desert in western China are stored in the museum, including the Diamond Sutra and other items from the Mogao Caves in Dunhuang. I would love to see them, but – and I’ve definitely said this before – I would much prefer to see them in situ.
From the yellow wedge of history, we went straight for the pink wedge of entertainment. I enjoy people watching, and the Other Half is just nosey. BBC Broadcasting House seemed a good place to plonk ourselves and rest our weary soles. Journalist Hugh Pym, One Show presenter Michelle Ackerley, comedian Shaparak Khorsandi, and Newsnight‘s Lewis Goodall passed our sight. We also saw a beautifully awkward moment where Radio 1 bookends Tony Blackburn and Clara Amfo crossed without acknowledging one another. To be fair, their views were obscured by security guards, but I enjoyed imagining a pan-generation beef. I was relieved the Other Half managed to keep her cool and not approach anyone. As we left, I started to wonder what it would take for me to approach someone for a photo. I think McCartney, Palin and (Coogan as) Partridge together might have done it.
Earlier, we had visited the home of Belgium’s most celebrated sleuth, so it would have been downright wrong to pass up the opportunity to take in the lodgings of Britain’s top detective, Sherlock Holmes. Part druggie, part genius (not that they’re necessarily mutually exclusive), Holmes featured in 60 of Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories and he holds the Guinness World Record for the most portrayed literary human character in film and TV history. However, as I’m quickly learning about London, the building we were looking at was a fake.
I don’t mean that a fictional character didn’t actually live there, I know that. What I mean is that 221b Baker Street is a lie, a phony, a charlatan. When Conan Doyle first wrote about Holmes’ abode, this block of Baker Street didn’t exist. Fine so far… When it was extended in the 1930s, Abbey Road Building Society (later Abbey National) took over the building from 215 to 229 Baker Street. They even had to hire someone to respond to correspondence from Holmes fans. Where the Sherlock Holmes Museum (addressed as 221b Baker Street) is located is between 237 and 241 Baker Street. Outrageous! However, the dark-brick Georgian townhouse looks the part and the costumed copper on the door added to the sense of occasion.
Picking up the Niece from the Bank, we walked east. It was quite impressive how quickly the centre of capitalism turned into bohemian Shoreditch. I would be returning here the following day, so was quite happy to follow my fellow travellers to Spitalfields Market. Another market. There was, in the nicest sense possible, a proliferation of tat stalls. T-shirts, jewellery, that kind of stuff. While we enjoyed sauntering round the stalls, we were here for one thing and one thing only: street food. Inspired by That TikTok, the Niece opted for a Humble Crumble concoction, while we went next door for tasty saltfish fritters. It was my first time having saltfish and, if it tastes like this, definitely won’t be my last.
In classic Hong Kong style, straight after having food we went to… have more food. Our final night in Chinatown saw us return to Taiwan. As good as it was to sample all this Asian food in close-to-appropriate surroundings, it really didn’t help with our wanderlust. Surely next year?!
Part 2: Solo Trip
Having casually said farewell to the Other Half and the Niece on Oxford Street, I dipped straight into solo-travel mode. A historic, hidden alleyway in Soho; Jack White’s new record shop; a train trip to see a football stadium; and beers. Classic.
With no real destinations until the evening, I caught the train to Stratford. Passing through Mile End, I realised “I didn’t have no place to go.” Two Pulp references in one blog? Don’t mind that one bit.
The reasons for going to Stratford were two-fold. The regeneration of this part of the East End since the Olympics were granted to London has been stark and impressive. The shimmering towers give it a futuristic air, and the art installations only add to it. There is one art installation that towers above all others, figuratively and literally. The bendy red structure of the Orbit, designed by Turner Prize-winner Anish Kapoor, looks like an overactive lava lamp. At 376ft tall, this 60% recycled steel monolith is the country’s tallest sculpture. That last bit isn’t much of a surprise, is it? There’s also a helter-skelter style ride. I had by rucksack on my back, so I gave that a miss. Plus, I still had Pulp’s Mile End in my head, I didn’t have room for the Beatles.
Next to the Orbit is the London Stadium, the home of West Ham United. Originally the Olympic Stadium, it played host to Mo Farah, Allyson Felix, Usain Bolt and the likes. Crowds can now witness the exploits of Jarrod Bowen, Lukasz Fabianski and (not-even-kidding-genuinely-serious) the Rochdale Rock, Craig Dawson. It’s an impressive structure, the stadium – and Dawson.
Two things I hadn’t realised: how big the Olympic Park was; and how close to another impressively hip area it was. Eventually passing the Copper Box Arena and crossing the canal, I found myself in Hackney Wick. It seemed fiercely independent with a personality all of its own. Watching the sun come over the yardarm from the fantastic Beer Merchants’ Tap, surrounded by remote workers who clearly were living their best lives, I formulated a plan of action. On the way to Hackney Wick overground station, I noticed an anti-gentrification sticker. As an outsider, this conflicted me. There’s no doubt that the gentrification of this little quarter drew me in, but if people are being forced out to make it a more appealing neighbourhood, that’s not something I can really celebrate.
That wasn’t the only thing that was changing. So was what was going into my ears. I had been listening to Eliot narrate his own poem The Wasteland, but with Hackney and Shoreditch on the horizon, I went with some stereotypically trendy music – or at least what passes as that to me. There was a lot of German electropunk…
It was also time for a few more drinks with intermittent tourism. Without beer we might, of course, merely sink into an apathetic decline, as Eliot nearly said. After checking into my Shoreditch digs, I went to the Czech Republic – or as close to that awesome country as I could figuratively get. The staff at Czech beer hub Pivo have one of the easiest jobs in the world. Their mission is to promote Czech beer abroad. Surely that’s like having to promote French food?
Hackney itself was raw but with some absolute gems. Massive breadfruit, custard apple and soursop sculptures stand beside the 13th-century St Augustine’s Tower and Hackney Tap. Created by Veronica Ryan, they are the first permanent sculptures honouring the Windrush generation.
Down by the railway arches was a little taste of what was coming in the next few days. This little craft-beer haven had a mix of cool and shabby bars, all serving up some of the country’s best modern beer.
On the way back I decided to walk the mile-and-a-half down the A10 from Dalston. There was some sort of method to this clear madness. Down Beechwood Road is a mural to Keith Flint, the iconic Prodigy frontman who passed away in March 2019. Street art is pretty sweet but, apart from Bansky, the only other artist’s name I know is Manchester’s Akse. This remarkable work is by him and was created for World Suicide Prevention Day, and is located just a short walk from the Four Aces Club, where the Prodge played their first-ever gig.
I arrived at the ‘other’ Mikkeller bar in London feeling suitably refreshed. I had been to the brewpub on Exmouth Market on the way to Whitstable last year, but this Shoreditch watering hole, while smaller and much less brewpub-y, did have Hill Farmstead on tap. Widely recognised as the world’s greatest brewery, their lambic/farmhouse saison was just desserts for my recent travails.
After a stylish chicken burger and a run-in with a possibly knife-wielding drug dealer, it was time to get some rest for the weekend ahead and the imminent arrival of the lads-trippers.
Part 3: Lads’ Trip
A greasy breakfast sandwich from a proper builder’s caff (there were people in decorators’ whites in), I strolled up to Old Street station to await the Yorkshire immigration. Perhaps it should have been renamed Owd Street on this occasion.
Like hop-hungry Reservoir Dogs, we moseyed on up to the Old Fountain just as it opened its doors. Conquering heroes with perfect timing. The bar chap, recently football-injured, welcomed us with warming familiarity and even recommended us a place near Borough Market where his friend worked. “You’ll be able to spot her,” he said. There was someone dressed in amazing Dia de la Muertos style. We assumed it was her: this was Halloween weekend, after all.
After checking in to my third hotel of the week, we hit the Bermondsey Beer Mile. Over the course of two days, we only managed to do half of it. There were various reasons for this: a laissez-faire attitude; other distractions; and the fact that the opening times seemed to be 4-10pm due to the proximity of residential areas. Like all first nights on lads’ trips, we gave it a good go. Shortly after a midnight trip to a club in a former subterranean toilet, we succumbed to tiredness.
Returning to Borough Market, my third visit in a week, most of the group gained meaty sustenance. Once more, I was denied Greek street food. Almost blindfolded, I led the group to Bankside. I’ve never felt more like a Londoner. To counteract that, I told one of the group that I had, since coming to London five days earlier, silently remarked on every Pret-a-Manger with an “ooh, Pret!”. It wore thin a long time ago, but regained so much life after spreading the word. Semantic satiation had, as it does, ensured the original words meant nothing to me. Now, I was mainly enjoying the fact the noises sounded like one of Steve Martin’s characters from Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, Ruprecht.
What came next was probably a surprise to all of us. We boarded a boat to Greenwich. The unseasonably warm weather, the gentle lapping of the waves underneath, and the generally laidback nature of pootling about on the water meant I had to fight off the urge to sleep. Sailing down the Thames with the Isle of Dogs and its financial towers flitting left and right as we veered side to side was a great way to spend a morning. After passing the behemoth RRS Sir David Attenborough, or Boaty McBoatface to you and I, we moored in Greenwich. None of us had been here before and it kind of showed. We looked at the Cutty Sark, passed a chip shop with a ropey moniker, Jack the Chipper, and peeked in to Greenwich Market. Yet another market.
Such was our languor that the attraction that caught our attention was a massive tunnel. Construction on this 370m subfluvial structure began in 1899 as a means of south London workers getting to their jobs in the docklands. The entrance and exit are marked by identical red-brick towers topped by glazed domes. We walked down the spiral stairs and through the tunnel, noticing the stern repairs wrought necessary by bombing in World War Two. On reaching the other side, we looked around for a moment, walked down the spiral stairs and through the tunnel, noticing the stern repairs wrought necessary by bombing in World War Two.
It was Halloween on the beer mile, and elsewhere no doubt. The bar staff were taking part and, as such, we got to see Frida Kahlo, a Guantanamo Bay inmate and, I think, Jerry Dammers serving a blood-soaked Tony Blair and a cavalcade of carrots. Who knew veg was that scary?
But surely the most horrific thing facing us this weekend was the British rail network. I had thought that catching the train to London would be perilous, stopping at Rejection, Disappointment, Backstabbing Central and Shattered Dreams Parkway, but it turns out leaving the capital could be every bit as precarious. The southwestern line was soon to be blocked by a crash; the west coast mainline was scuppered by a points failure; and the east coast mainline was damaged by the wrong type of fallen tree. We were only two hours late getting back home, but our friend was delayed by five hours.
I have enjoyed getting more accustomed with my native country, but I’m now starting to get itchy feet again. Will I manage to leave England in 2022?
Black Tar Rivers 