I took a bus through part of London today, something I rarely do, preferring the speed of the tube or walking the back streets. But it was nice to watch the city pass by.
The city called me/so I
– Emmy the Great
The buildings, some Victorian, some older, some new and glass fronted. The columns of St George’s Church in Bloomsbury, the narrow alleyways you can almost see the Artful Dodger vanishing down.
When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life – Samuel Johnson
I didn’t take photos, blurry through the bus window, I just took it in. The quirky old fashioned gentlemen’s outfitter, the cafés and restaurants serving cuisine from every corner of the globe.
That mix of old and new, those glass fronts amongst brilliant red brick, the people rushing by.
The title of this post is from a song about San Francisco by Vanessa Carlton, but London hums, the trains beneath the streets, the traffic rumbling past. The ranks of black cabs and red Boris bikes, hundreds of languages carried by the wind.
What has always fascinated me is how organic London is, it grew not from plans drawn up in an office somewhere, but from necessity, taking in farmland and spitting out city.
There are hundreds of stories, both real and read in this city. The echoes of Twist and Holmes, the Ripper and Whittington. Soaked into the paving beneath our feet.