At seven bells in the afternoon watch, Charles and I step aboard the afterdeck of HMS Belfast. There is no wailing of bosun’s pipes, sprung to welcome us aboard. No stamp and clash of Marines presenting arms. No doffing of hats, no white-gloved sideboys, no parade of midshipmen. We are simply two more civilian tourists coming aboard. Continue reading Ship of the Line
We climb the staircase to the club’s first floor. From the high-ceilinged corridor, oak-panelled doors lead to discreet rooms and chambers, each one bedecked with portraits of military men and scenes from great moments in military history: the retreat from Kabul, the Battle of Plassey, Captain Oats leaving the tent in an Antarctic blizzard: “…I may be some time.” Continue reading Lunch at the Club
Sleek elevators connect the mezzanine floors where exclusive emporiums — Apple, Armani, Under Armour — are yet to open. The notes of soft, electronic music hang in the air, unresolved. At this hour, the gigantic space is empty. Continue reading Welcome to the Machine: Part 2.
She was the Circle Line train, travelling on a loop unbroken, each station a jewel in her crown, each journey a chapter in her ever-growing tale. Continue reading The Circle Line
Bridges tell stories. They span time and history as well as the waterways of the world. Continue reading On Westminster Bridge
The cobbled street is freshly cleaned and the facades are all free of graffiti. There’s no rubbish blowing along in the gutters and I’ve yet to see a dosser. My coffee is excellent; the conversations at the other tables are all about bike rides, exercise regimes and weekends. I could be on any suburban street in West London. But Lower Marsh Road doesn’t look anything like the street I remember from the winter of 1989-90. Continue reading On Lower Marsh Road
Morning in London. Under a sky of cerulean blue, Baker Street is awakening. It is early when I climb from the tunnels of the Bakerloo Line, pass beneath the WW2 tiles, clock and Art Deco lettering — Wembly, Harrow, Uxbridge, Amersham — of the concourse archway, and out through the ticket gate with an electronic wrist-flick of my watch. A few commuters are on the go; the pigeons are busy. But it is too early for most people. Even the Knights of the Pavement are still asleep in their newspaper and cardboard castles. I step from the station and out into my first day in England. Continue reading Prologue: Baker Street
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