By Phil Jarratt
“When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life,” the eminent 18th century writer Dr Samuel Johnson once famously said, or so he was quoted in Boswell’s equally famous biography of the great man.
When I first lived in London in the early 1970s, I was too full of warm ale and testosterone to take much notice of the city itself, other than the smoke-stained interiors of our favoured pubs on the Harrow Road.
In fact it was only at the turn of the century when my work took me there on a monthly basis that I really began to appreciate what makes the British capital tick and why it remains one of my favourite cities in the world, an opinion only enhanced on recent visits.
So here we are, back in London Town for the most crowded, completely mad holiday weekend of the year, when Brits of all colour and creed lose the plot entirely in celebration of the end of summer.
Yes, we walked slap-bang into August Bank Holiday weekend without plan or intent, and yet from our leafy base in a quiet part of Kensington, just a few blocks away from the craziness of the Notting Hill Carnival, we can walk and cycle the city parks almost in solitude, dropping in for a coffee and cake here, or to peruse a gallery or a secondhand bookshop’s fascinating offering there.
When I was in London in 2012, working on the Olympic broadcast, I shook off the hangover of the crew wrap party (after three weeks of 12-hours a day stress) with a day-long cycle, park-hopping from Battersea to Regent’s and back on a brilliant summer’s day.
Having felt so invigorated by that adventure, I forced the bride to join me on a cycle as soon as the jetlag had subsided.
Six years ago the cycle rental program was very new to London, and having been introduced by then Mayor Boris Johnson, the bikes you could pick up on just about any street corner and return wherever you liked, were known as Boris Bikes.
Now they’ve been privatised and branded – the ones we rented were Bank of Santander, which last time I looked, was an excellent place to hide a bit of black money – and the prices had gone through the roof.
But nothing in London is cheap, so I got over the shock of the new and we cycled off into a chill wind but with the warming sun on our backs.
Under spousal pressure – I’m old, I hurt! – we restricted ourselves to the Royal Parks, linking Kensington Palace Gardens with Hyde Park, Green Park and St James, down the Serpentine and into St James, narrowly avoiding the Changing of the Guards crowd at Buckingham Palace, then back up to Bayswater.
Bloody marvellous, a shade under three hours with coffee stops, and so much better than viewing the city from the top of a bus.
Footsore and bum-weary after two days of exploring, we devoted the third to a hit of culture, taking in a matinee of the hilarious Book of Mormon in the West End, followed by wine and cheese in the Crusting Pipe pleasure pit in the Covent Garden market, listening to a lively student string quintet perform Pachelbel and Vivaldi while we grazed on stilton and cheddar and sipped a Rioja Blanco.
We’d been warned about the craziness of the Notting Hill Carnival, not to mention the gang knife fights and the pickpockets, but we’d also been told that Sunday, our last full day in London, was children’s day there, and that we’d be pretty safe up until dark. (It’s not unusual, these days, to be classified as children, particularly by one’s own.)
Our host, absent in Belgium for the Grand Prix, kept sending me emails and texts outlining pickpocket preventative measures and knife-avoiding body gyrations, but we ventured forth regardless, just as the predicted rainstorm rolled in from the west.
At Notting Hill Gate we joined the poncho-clad, dripping wet throng, heading in the general direction of unspeakably loud doof-doof reggae, emanating from slow-moving trucks, behind which people in raincoats simulated sex.
Now I’m pretty broadminded, but this was not quite what I had in mind for a lazy Sunday afternoon.
I was thinking more sitting in a bar somewhere drinking a pint and chewing on some Jamaican jerk chicken while listening to a Bob Marley tribute band.
By now it was pouring with rain and the high viz cops seemed to have their hands full with wet drunks, so we double-checked our wallets and got the hell out of there, far enough away that we could find a pub with a vacant corner and settle in for the Chelsea home game.
I’m not saying I wouldn’t go back to the carnival, but next time it would be with ear muffs and armour.
Now we’re off to Portugal for a surf festival, which will come as a relief to those of you who think this is a surf column.
I’m sure there’ll be fewer knives and more fun. Full report next week.
FOOTNOTE: It seems like Annie’s Books has been there forever, so much has Annie become part of the life of any locals who love to read.
But no, the Peregian Beach bookshop is only celebrating its first decade.
May there be many more, Annie.
Speaking as an author and a voracious reader, you, Palmyra and Rachel are da best, gals! Happy birthday.
