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The great London stroll (and struggle)

Awake indecently early — not out of enthusiasm, but because my bladder decided to start the day before I did. My body clock, still stubbornly set to continental time, assured me it was a perfectly reasonable hour anyway. So, rather than waste this precious slice of jet-lagged consciousness, I decided to do something useful: write my first London blog post… on my phone… while still under the duvet. (The things I do for my readers.)

Eventually, even the softest duvet must surrender to the lure of the hotel’s full English breakfast buffet — that sacred institution where eggs, sausages, and baked beans come together in cholesterol-harmony. The restaurant, amusingly, was full of French women clearly on some corporate retreat. Nothing says bonjour, London like overhearing heated discussions about marketing strategies over scrambled eggs.

Between two cups of coffee (and possibly half a croissant), we agreed on a plan: Camden Market. And since we are the adventurous, health-conscious, definitely-not-lazy type, we decided to walk there.

Camden Market, as ever, was a carnival of creativity — stalls bursting with quirky design, eccentric clothing, and more vegan food than one could shake a sausage roll at. I bought another cap. (One can never have too many, right?)

From there, the plan evolved — or maybe dissolved — into a leisurely amble along the Regent’s Canal, heading for Regent’s Park. What a gem! A serene, green oasis in the middle of London’s roar. It almost made me forget my feet were protesting the entire journey.

But as all good wanderers know, every oasis deserves a pint, so we stopped at a pub somewhere between “I can still walk” and “I might never stand again.” My legs were tired, my knees mutinous, and my back… well, best not mentioned.

Nevertheless, we soldiered on to Soho, where a proper pub lunch (and another pint, purely medicinal) was had near Cambridge Circus. Spirits restored, we took the Tube back to the hotel for a tactical nap. My watch proudly announced 14.5 km walked, while my body quietly screamed “Are you mad?”

Flat on the bed now, I write these lines before drifting into what I hope will be a restorative coma. Because by 6 p.m., we must rise again — London’s West End awaits, and we have a date at the Arts Theatre.

Stay tuned for Part 2 — assuming I can still walk.

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