Fleurs, Friends, & Clotted Cream

A most perfect jaunt to London

Martin Parr, Ascot, 1999 © Martin Parr/Magnum Photos

Last week, I was in London. It sated me in every which way and was the perfect reminder of why travel is so important. A trip’s ability to lift my spirits, place me in the present, install a sense of wonder, and reframe my outlook is just about the best high because it tends to last well after I return home. As such, I have a penchant to leap at any opportunity to travel. This jaunt to London was precisely what I needed to put some pep in my spring and carry me on till summer.

With three hours of fitful sleep managed on my flight, I took the express train into the city and hopped in a black cab. After making me feel more polished than I looked by assuming I had an important meeting or lunch to get to whilst dressed in rumpled sweats, I assured my cabbie that I was merely in London for pleasure and it had been some time since I was last in the city. Cue a fabulously animated narration of everything we passed for the remainder of the drive. From a story about Admiral Nelson’s Battle of Trafalgar fleet being represented by ships atop lamp posts to a mutual adoration of Westminster Abbey’s beauty, this cab ride turned into a marvelous introduction to London. I brought up my curiosity for what exactly Princess Diana wore in the rain, and he went on about how stunning Parliament looks as it’s reflected in the Thames. The cabbie’s antidotes kept coming up as I spent the afternoon wandering southern London with Lizzie, a stellar friend from college who moved to the city last September to study bookbinding. I only wish I could now tell the cabbie what an extraordinary tour guide he was, and that it was one of my favorite cab rides ever.

On Saturday, Lizzie and I spent hours in Harrods. We smelled botanical candles and perfumes, modeled purses pretending we had garden parties to take them to, and ogled Dior’s devilish display of accessories framing an escalator. But where we really thrived was in the Food Halls. I admit that I’ve become a bit of a jaw dropper in recent years, but it’s simply a fun way to express shock and delight when encountering wildly exciting scenes. And let me say: without question, the Harrods Food Halls are worthy of a jaw drop or two.

There is no food emporium as grand as what Harrods has cooked up. Art Nouveau tiled rooms filled with pristine displays of produce, pasta, pastries, fish, meat, cheese, caviar, bread, tea, coffee, biscuits, mustards, honey, jam, spices, nuts, and prepared foods galore. An entire room dedicated solely to chocolate. The profound joy I experienced whilst traversing each corner of the Food Halls is as close as I’ll ever relate to the golden ticket winners entering Wonka’s factory. It is a sensory overload with a vast array of colors, shapes, textures, and aromas. Everything looks delectable and is exquisitely displayed — it’s just an incredible celebration of food.

We tried Yubari King Melon from Japan — it was sweet and delicious and cost £150 per melon. Alas, I did not bring home a melon, but instead opted for a tin of peppermint tea. We sat at the round marble and brass counter in the center of one food hall and sipped coffee and chai lattes as we nibbled fresh pastries and continued to marvel at the spectacle that surrounded us. Deciding on what to take away for lunch proved to be incredibly challenging, but Lizzie managed to talk me into a sandwich that allowed the glamour of Harrods to extend further into the day: olive bread tucked around artichokes, truffle cream, arugula, apples, and pine nuts. A dream of a sandwich, and I got to savor it aboard my friend Stuart’s canal boat.

I met Stuart a year and a half ago when we were both artists in residence at Villa Lena in Tuscany. He has a magnetic personality, awoke at dawn each day to forage flowers, and immediately intrigued us all as he spoke of his life as a florist living aboard a canal boat in London. The boat quickly became a required site I needed to see whenever I made my way to England. With Harrods sandwiches in our bags, Lizzie and I stepped aboard the tulip covered Briarose as it was moored beneath a willow tree.

Not long after, Annie joined us. She was another friend from Villa Lena who had led mellow yoga classes in the morning on a platform overlooking olive groves, and stunned the group when she read us an excerpt of what she had been working on all those afternoons of casually “just writing.” Maroon and yellow tulips sprung high from a vase while a colorful mix of irises, dahlias, and fresh mint dotted the snug interior of Stuart’s boat. The girls and I never quite got used to the occasional ebb and flow movement of water below us, but it was one of those splendidly surreal afternoons when you’re reunited with old friends and everything about it is wonderful.

That same feeling of elation carried me throughout the trip. From swapping stories in dimly lit wine bars to sharing burrata served by the most charismatic waiter, each day proved to be just as inspiring as the last. I racked up steps as I walked all over town, excited by antiquated signage depicting ink pots and wine barrels. I stopped in a beautiful stationary store where I bought a notebook that will hold my thoughts at dawn for the next few months. I saw an abundance of marzipan fruit, teapots I have no business buying but considered anyways, and lusted after embroidered men’s robes, classy loafers, and silk pajamas.

Feasts of Ethiopian, Turkish, and Chinese delights were had while time between meals was spent drooling over London’s diverse array of art and architecture. One gallery showed a collection of Hockney’s recent drawings and another housed Yinka Shonibare CBE sculptures decolonizing notable monuments throughout London. My friend Deb, posh as can be, took me to a restaurant with an extremely impressive art collection on the walls, but I was most taken by the insanely gorgeous terrazzo floors. We ate onion tarts for lunch and the next day relished a mushroom parfait that I’m still thinking about.

An afternoon was spent getting swept up in the Victoria & Albert’s Cast Courts, taking in details that have been weathered away on the originals, before indulging in a tea break complete with scone, jam, and clotted cream. I was then mesmerized by Islamic ceramics before waiting with a small group of patient patrons to see the Ardabil Carpet, the world’s oldest, be illuminated on the hour. I loved the notion of waiting with anticipation to see a carpet dyed with pomegranate rind and indigo nearly 500 years prior. It gets ten minutes of light each half hour in order to protect the pigments, and the reveal was more subtle than I expected, but alluring nonetheless.

Over in the National Portrait Gallery, I found myself enthralled in the Tudor’s drama and excess, especially the detailing found on Queen Elizabeth I’s gowns. I then went down a rabbit hole of reading about the symbolism of certain objects and motifs seen in the portraits of various important somebodies of centuries ago. I learned about women who finagled their way into influential court positions, and ones who painted and wrote unpublished books about marriage equality in 1670. Mary Beale: look her up, what a badass.

I wandered countless parks and gardens, vibrantly green and blossoming to the gills with Queen Anne’s lace. It was full fledged spring in the bucolic, albeit heavily manicured, natural spaces of London and I cannot emphasize enough how elated I was to be amongst all that fresh growth. This was Hockney’s “Arrival of Spring” in the flesh, and it was sensational. Fresh grass and blooming roses, bushy trees and sprouting poppies. The green and white striped lounge chairs I spotted throughout the Royal Parks were the icing on the cake. To weave in and out of lush fields with tall trees and minutes later stroll avenues resplendent with shops and cafes is such a treat. On my last afternoon, as wisteria trickled down the facades of absurdly charming townhouses, I was tempted to step inside a private South Kensington garden left unlocked but thought better of it.

One evening I caught a cab with a quiet driver over to a pub in Hackney to meet with my writing club. Since early January, I’ve been hopping on Zoom each week to write in commune with a small collection of extraordinary women. It’s run by Annie, and what she’s doing is so simple, and yet so powerful. I’ve gotten to know Holly, Tabitha, and Danielle through their writing before anything else, and as our little coven likes to say, we should all be famous. The inspiration, support, and encouragement amongst this group is phenomenal, and I certainly wouldn’t be feeling as confident in finding my written voice without them. As they all live in London, I thought it was essential to meet in person. We drank wine and lime soda, laughed in abundance, discussed how women get to be celebrated or not, and deemed Samantha to be the most outstanding friend of all the Sex and the City characters. It was perfect.

It’s trips like these that keep me hungry for more adventures. For someone who is obnoxiously organized, I thrive in these windows of existence where uncertainty is king. I may have a rough plan for the day, but the unexpected discoveries that lie behind each corner are the best part of any excursion. That’s the thrill of travel: to revel in whatever odd sights/sounds/aromas/characters/vistas/tastes that wonderfully cross your path, and find some of them truly ineffable. As I learn more about the world through each trip I take, I in turn learn more about myself and how I want to live my life. I find inspiration in revelations large and small, returning home with fresh ideas, a revitalized spirit, and a suitcase of stories. Per usual, I’m energized by what I just experienced while already anticipating where I’ll go next.

This week’s playlist is humming with upbeat mellow vibes. The kind of thing you’d listen to whilst eating a decadent sandwich on a flower filled canal boat, or have on as you catch up with friends knowing your winter coat is safely stored away for many months to come. Whatever the scene may be, savor every last morsel of it.

— Katie