British ­Library

My plane landed in the London darkness at 5:30am this morning. The 15 hour flight was extruciating. I took the train to Farringdon to give myself a walk through an old haunt to my hotel in Kings Cross. London has changed a lot since I knew it 30 years ago.

I waited for my hotel to open it’s doors at 8 and left my small suitcase with them. I had time to kill until I could check in at 2pm.

Why I make these difficulties for myself I do not know…

I walked up to Euston and had some breakfast in a Wetherspoons pub. It was full of silent gentlemen my age and older. A few older couples came in while I drank my bottomless coffee. Nobody spoke, I felt watched.

The caffeine with a little ibruprofen began to work and I readied myself with a third cup. I walked through Camden and up to Hampstead. I circled back through the rain and slippery mud of the Heath. Past the ponds I used to swim in and up to Parliament Hill. I sat for a while and watched the dog walkers and considered Karl Marx’s resting place over on the eastern hill of Highgate Cemetry.

My legs were tiring and my backpack was feeling heavy. I picked up an electric bike and sped back over Hampstead and down to Camden Town. A short walk down the canal to the oddly creepy Coal Drop Yard with it’s tech company mavens and private security guards. I preferred it when it was the battlegrounds of the Borribles.

Kicking the mud off my tattered running shoes, I washed up in the British Library. Damp from the rain and puddles. Every table here is laden with laptops lighting up the punters faces. Seems a good place to sit for a bit.