Apr. 13 2026

I had already booked my monthly trip to the London office for March before my company informed me that they would not be requiring my presence in person or virtually for that matter. Bonus Day In Town!

I wanted to see Highgate Cemetary, described by Ian Nairn as the "creepiest place in London." It is in the middle of a very attractive neighborhood but, true to its name, the walk from the Archway Tube station was quite a climb. The cemetary wasn't open yet so I killed an hour in a coffee shop where the proprietary listened patiently to a series of older ladies who seemed to be regulars. They talked at length about their holidays, the jobs they had, the jobs they used to have. On the few occasions where he had an opportunity to offer a fact about himself, these served merely as pivot points for the customers to shift topic in their autobiographical monologue. I had done zero logistical research so learned about the £10 entrance fee when I got to the Highgate entrance. It seems like it would be well worth it if you were going to spend a few hours there, but I hadn't planned on spending that long so I decided to pass. One day, although preferably as a visitor rather than as a resident. In the meantime, I contented myself by peering through the wall. Creeps galore!

Museum of the Home in Shoreditch. Free! It was once an almshouse founded by a man who made his fortune trading slaves. I liked the balance of focus on objects themselves and on how people used them. The room below was set up as it might have been in an Irish immigrant couple's apartment in the seventies, and there were little notes about what their lives there might have been like. Good gift shop but no cafe which seems like a missed opportunity given the museum subject, nice 75 minutes.

I can no longer forestall addressing the Samuel Pepys Issue. Beat his wife, felt up every comely servant girl who had the misfortune to be within arm's reach, slavery enthusiast, overall not the most charming company. But his diary, which I get in my RSS reader, is as vivid a look at the seventeenth century as is possible to get, with his descriptions of hangovers, boring sermons, and agonizing kidney stones. On this trip I wanted to see a few of the locations from Walking Pepys's London by Jackie Harvey Colliss, several also mentioned in Nairn's London which I'd just finished. This is St. Bride's Church in Fleet Street where he was baptized. I was taken aback by the stained glass window.

Come on

The City streets were bustling with bankerboys and bankergirls striding vigorously back from lunch. These sacred buildings are still cherished, but out there was where all the life is lived. This is St. Dunstan-In-The-West. Other than someone who came in just as I was leaving, I seemed to be completely alone. It smelled like incense. Notices about upcoming events like concerts, but not a whole lot of pastoral activity it seemed. How often were these churches a place where people made eyes at each other across the aisle (hopefully not copping a feel like SP), or smiled sweetly at each other while inwardly seething about what happened with the casting of the Nativity play?

Around the corner, the home of Samual Johnson. The Rest is History had just wrapped up a good series about him. Their newsletter had a coupon for a pound off the £10 entrance fee so I thought what the hell. It was fine but you would have to have greater interest in Samuel Johnson than I do for optimal value there. I probably should have spent the money on Highgate instead. Absolutely murderous spiral staircase down to the basement for the ladies' room, so points for authenticity there.

I had a restorative cup of tea and then peeked into The Black Friar pub which had gotten a mention from Ian Nairn for its advanced age and the Edwardian bronze panels on the walls. Pubs are a part of English life that I wish I could better appreciate. After all this time here, I know I'm supposed to order at the bar and then find a place to sit/stand, but somehow I always need to confirm that in my most tenative clueless American visitor voice. There often isn't a printed menu so I get slightly flustered when being asked what I want. Finally, it is very hard for me not to bolt down any cold beverage in front of me, alcoholic or otherwise, especially if I'm by myself. Is any of this really an "England" issue rather than a "Me" issue? Who can say. Anyway, TBF was nice but the tables were full and I wasn't in the mood to stand, which is another reason pubs haven't become a habit. Onward.

Visit to the Fortnum and Mason at the Royal Exchange. Not nearly as much to see as the Picadilly location but I was on a mission: a tea assortment for our babysitter who we were going to visit in Bergamo, and some Earl Grey for T. I passed a few other buildings on the Nairn/Pepys/Johnson circuit. By 4, the pubs were overflowing and crowds of men (mostly) were clustered like sheaves of navy and charcoal wheat on the sidewalk. St. Giles Cripplegate, like several of the churches I'd seen, is far older as a parish on this site than the current structure but previous iterations had been damaged by London's two great calamities: the Great London Fire in 1666, and the Blitz. Closed for an event. I thought that after all these centuries-old buildings the Barbican Estate next door would feel like a very sorry let down, but I found it very inviting. The vines hanging down from all the window boxes were the most greenery I'd seen that day, and with people moving around on all the multilevel walkways it felt social and inviting.

Time to head south of the river. I crossed Thrale Street, named for a patron of Johnson who owned a brewery there. The gate was locked at the Crossbones Graveyard and Garden of Remembrance, a former cemetary for sex workers, paupers, and others who couldn't be buried in churchyards, but I got a look through the fence at the garden and art maintained by volunteers. For dinner I met a former colleague at Camille near Borough Market. She was brave enough for the calves' brains, I was not, but everything else was delicious. Pack of Cadbury mini eggs at the train station and home.