Travel

5 MINUTE READ

A World Vide Web Post (original)

Jason Eli and Nelson Okundaye

30 September 2024

L

ondon is an enigma. To the untrained eye, it’s a city of suits and buses, rainy grey mornings and tourist traps. But to those of us who’ve grown up here, it’s a patchwork quilt of hidden gems, oddball characters, and a kind of raw energy you won’t

find anywhere else. Beneath the surface gloss of the city’s shops and parks, there’s a restless pulse, a low hum of life that thrives in its streets, markets, alleys and cafe corners.


Take a stroll through Borough Market early on a Saturday, before the crowds roll in. It’s not just a marketplace; it’s a theatre. Traders hustle, shout out deals, laugh with the regulars. The air is thick with the mingling scents of baked bread, ripe cheese, and freshly brewed coffee. You’ll find me lingering at the cheese stall, where Stilton crumbles under the knife, sharp and tangy against the sweetness of a honey drizzle. Around the corner, a small bakery sells cinnamon buns so warm they almost melt in your hands.


But if Borough Market is the sophisticated older sibling, Brick Lane is the rebellious cousin. On a Sunday, it’s a festival of smells: salt-beef bagels warm from the oven, steam rising from curry pots, mixed with the musty scent of vintage shops. It’s a mess, and it’s glorious. I’ll often sit outside one of the cafés, sipping chai and watching the flow of people—artists, tourists, city workers shedding their weekday skins. Here, you can taste a different side of London, one where cultures blur and blend, and a meal is as likely to be eaten on the street as in some dimly lit restaurant.

Notting Hill in the morning

Fashion here isn’t about following trends; it’s about breaking them. Shoreditch, for instance, is an exercise in contrast—thrifted leopard-print coats clash brilliantly with tailored trousers, topped off with a pair of battered Doc Martens. The city’s style is messy, thrown together, and yet somehow it makes sense. No one seems to care much if it doesn’t, and that’s the charm. I sometimes catch myself in the mirror of a shop window, wearing a coat from Camden Market and a pair of trousers that might’ve belonged to someone’s grandad. And yet, walking down these streets, it feels right. Here, fashion isn’t dictated by designers; it’s curated by the people who live and breathe this city.


London’s architectural landscape, too, is a scrapbook of mismatched eras. The sleek glass towers of the City rub shoulders with medieval churches and 1970s brutalist icons. I love walking through the Barbican on a quiet morning, letting its concrete structures loom over me like ancient guardians. There’s a serenity to its hidden gardens, tucked away from the relentless pace of the streets below. Not far off, St. Paul’s Cathedral rises in all its Baroque glory, as if reminding the glass-and-steel newcomers of the skyline who was here first.


The Southbank is where I go when I need to slow down, camera in hand. I watch the river, let my gaze wander from the Houses of Parliament to the London Eye, capturing how the light shifts over the water. There’s a strange beauty in seeing London reflected in the murky Thames, the way it always seems to change and yet remain unmistakably itself. Evenings are best spent wandering through Soho, where the neon lights cast a glow over the cobblestones, and the nightlife spills out of cramped bars into the alleyways. It’s not always pretty, but it’s honest—a mix of old pubs, modern bistros, and the odd corner shop that’s been there for decades, selling crisps and fizzy drinks long after the nearby high-end cocktail bars close for the night.


London is a city that defies categorization. It’s polished yet gritty, ancient yet forever changing. It doesn’t care if you don’t “get it.” And maybe that’s why it holds onto your heart if you let it. Because just when you think you know this city, it shifts, reveals a new side of itself—a hidden courtyard in Covent Garden, a pop-up café in an alleyway you’ve walked past a hundred times.

“London is a city that defies categorization. It’s polished yet gritty, ancient yet forever changing. It doesn’t care if you don’t get it. And maybe that’s why it holds onto your heart if you let it.”

Beer garden at Climpson & Sons

The Dove pub, founded in 1723

There are streets in London that breathe

The kind you wander without a map, where time seems to twist and fold into itself. Walk down Broadway Market on a Saturday morning, and it’s as if the city lets out a slow sigh. There’s a murmur in the air, an ebb and flow of voices and the gentle rustle of market tents. Over at Pavilion Bakery, people shuffle in for a warm sourdough loaf, the smell of fresh bread mingling with the sharp scent of roasted coffee. Ahmed, the baker, stands behind the counter with flour dusting his beard, hands moving with an artisan’s practiced grace. You ask about the new pastries in the window, and he lights up, explaining how he’s spent the past week perfecting a pear and ginger tart. “A bit of warmth for these grey days,” he says, his eyes glinting.

Across the way, The Dove pub spills onto the cobblestones, its tables clustered with those nursing pints of amber liquid. A remnant of last night’s laughter hangs in the air, mixing with the smell of wet wood and hops. Behind the bar, there’s Will, perpetually tousled hair and sleeves rolled to the elbow, a grin that suggests he’s got a good story for every drink. He’ll chat with anyone who leans against the counter, asking if they’ve tried the new pale ale on tap, giving a nod toward the brewery in Hackney Wick where he picked it up. “Best in East London, I’d bet my salary,” he chuckles, pouring another pint with the kind of ease that comes from years spent behind the bar.

Wandering further, you find yourself outside Climpson & Sons, the café that feels like an anchor in a sea of ever-changing trends. Inside, the hum of the espresso machine and the hiss of steam. You see Annette, who runs the place with a kind of quiet authority, always dressed in a crisp white shirt, hair tied back in a bun. She nods when you ask for your usual, already grinding the beans. “A new roast from Ethiopia,” she mentions, eyes flickering with pride. “Notes of blackberry and a bit of smoke. Tell me what you think.” You take your cup and sit by the window, watching the world drift by—a mother pushing a pram, a man in a velvet blazer picking out flowers from a street vendor.


From here, you wander south, drawn to the quieter pockets of the city. In nearby Marylebone, the streets have a different rhythm. Georgian houses line the worn out pavements with a kind of serene composure. You step into Daunt Books, its creaky wooden floors and skylights casting soft beams across the spines of travelogues and novels. The shop smells of paper and ink, a faint musk of old wood. John, the owner, is stacking books at the front, pausing to exchange a few words with regulars. He has a quiet demeanor, his spectacles perched low on his nose. “Looking for something particular?” he asks, though he already knows you’ll end up leaving with more than you came for.

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