“And the lights on the bridge
William Blake and the grid
And the whisper room that winds around Saint Paul’s
Sir John Soane, found me in his parlor all alone
Weeping at the beauty of it all“
Maria McKee, Right Down To The Heart Of London, 2020
It had been a year since my last trip to The Other City, and I’d missed that aimless wandering on the way to London pubs almost as much as I’ve missed eight goal thrillers at the Etihad and Holt’s Bitter in Manchester.
Under the bright blue skies that follow me around, the mile through EC1 to St Pauls was gorgeous.
Quieter than I remember as you whizz past the courts, the Stock Exchange, the Brew Dogs, towards a decluttered St Paul’s.
Ah, there it is, down that alley past the Paternoster.
I should have nipped in and seen that whisper room, but my GBG target the Prospect of Whitby had insisted I make a booking. For a
So I hummed “Feed the birds“, and set off down Cannon Street towards the towers. In every sense.
I really must make an afternoon of those Fullers pubs some time. Assuming they’re not in Tier 3 and I don’t need to eat a pie to buy a pint of Pride.
But for now, I headed into St Katherine’s Docks, half an hour ahead of schedule.
At least I hadn’t already had two pints and three flat whites in the two GBG Spoons on the way. That route leads to madness, and public humiliation.