Some journeys begin and end in a departure lounge, and everything worth writing about happens in between. This one starts on the Isle of Man and finishes, eventually, in Washington, by way of Philadelphia, where a great many Freemasons are gathering to mark two hundred and fifty years of American independence. Temple tours, keynotes, a black tie dinner under Corinthian Hall, a meeting at Carpenters’ Hall, and then a coach south to the Capitol, the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress. More on all of that when I get there.
Today, though, was only the first leg. Isle of Man to Heathrow, one night at the airport hotel, and a Terminal 3 departure tomorrow lunchtime. An evening entirely my own, in a city I know well.
Which is no reason at all to spend it in a Heathrow hotel.
So: Elizabeth line, eastbound, and out at Tottenham Court Road.
Soho on a hot Saturday in July is Soho at full volume. At Piccadilly Circus I met the Trans+ Pride march, tens of thousands of people heading towards Trafalgar Square with flags and speakers and a good deal of noise, and the whole of the West End rearranged around them. Crowds, heat, closed roads, sirens, the lot. I can see exactly why people find London too much. On an afternoon like that, it is too much.
And then you turn into Jermyn Street, and it stops. The pavements empty, the shopfronts go from neon to gilt lettering, and you can hear your own footsteps again.
I went straight to my barber. Taylor’s has been on Jermyn Street since the 1950s, and in the business since a Jeremiah Taylor opened his first salon in 1854, which is the sort of continuity you stop remarking on in that postcode. A haircut and a scissor trim of the beard, no clippers, and an hour later I came out looking like a considerably better version of the man who went in.
From there to Maison François, my favourite bistro in London and a five minute potter away. No terrace as such, just a few benches out on the pavement, which on a day like today is the better seat anyway. A gin and tonic, then another, because the first one was clearly a rehearsal. Jambon noir with Charentais melon, and alongside it Ossau-Iraty, a Basque sheep’s milk cheese, pared into thin pale slices, with a little dish of dark black cherries. Nothing complicated. Everything correct.
Next, a short walk to the Royal Over-Seas League. I ordered a beer on the balcony that looks over the garden, and shortly afterwards a pianist was set up on the lawn below and began to play jazz to about a dozen of us. Beyond the railings Green Park has gone the colour of straw after the dry weeks, with people stretched out on it in the last of the sun. No particular reason to be anywhere else, and a pianist making the case for staying.
I would usually call in at the East India Club as well, but the heat and the travelling meant I was not wearing a tie, and today felt much more like a garden day than a club room day.
The night is not over, and there may be one or two more favourite haunts left in it.
Which brings me back to Soho. People tell me London is loud, and busy, and occasionally frightening. Today it was all three. But that is one street. Turn the corner and there is the other London, hidden in plain sight, quiet as a library and twice as pleased with itself. Both are true at once. Some of it takes a membership, admittedly. Most of it just takes knowing which corner to turn.
Tomorrow, Philadelphia.
Charlton Krentz 