I do it my way

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Or how Perpignan turned into 1979

Last night, dear readers, we did something wonderfully reckless: we drove all the way to Perpignan for a concert by a band called CoverTramp. Yes, the name does exactly what it says on the tin — they cover Supertramp.

And let me tell you, they don’t just cover Supertramp…they slip into the songs like a perfectly tailored vintage suit.

From the very first notes, it felt like someone had opened a wormhole straight back to the late 1970s. Three hours — yes, three magnificent hours — of memories, Wurlitzer magic, soaring falsettos, and those unmistakable sax lines that make you want to both dance and reflect on the meaning of life.

You know how some tribute bands simply play the songs?

CoverTramp inhabit them.

They deliver the full Supertramp experience without the air miles, the stadium queues, or the questionable 70s trousers.

And here’s the part that warmed my Occitan heart even more than the venue’s heating: they’re French. A proper French band keeping the legends of the 70s alive, polished, and belted out with gusto.

It’s rather comforting to know that while the world races ahead with AI, quantum bits, and other dizzying modernities, somewhere in France a group of musicians is making sure The Logical Song still hits you right in the nostalgia.

The drive down to Perpignan — which, let’s be honest, can sometimes feel like a quest — paid off handsomely.

We came home to our friend’s house with full hearts, ringing ears, and that unmistakable post-concert glow that says:

Yes, the 70s truly were something… and luckily, they’re not quite over yet.

Supertramp forever.

And for now: vive CoverTramp.

(More about Supertramp below)

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Une soirée avec CoverTramp

Ou comment Perpignan s’est transformée en 1979

Hier soir, chers lecteurs, nous avons fait quelque chose de merveilleusement téméraire : nous avons pris la route jusqu’à Perpignan pour assister au concert d’un groupe nommé CoverTramp.

Oui, vous l’avez deviné : ils reprennent Supertramp. Et laissez-moi vous dire qu’ils ne se contentent pas de les reprendre… ils enfilent les chansons comme un costume vintage parfaitement ajusté.

Dès les premières notes, on aurait juré qu’un portail temporel venait de s’ouvrir vers la fin des années 70. Trois heures — oui, trois heures magnifiques — de souvenirs, de magie Wurlitzer, de falsettos planants et de solos de saxophone qui vous donnent envie à la fois de danser et de réfléchir au sens de la vie.

Vous savez, certains groupes hommage se contentent de jouer les morceaux.

CoverTramp, eux, les habitent.

Ils offrent la pleine expérience Supertramp, sans les aéroports, sans les stades bondés, et sans les pantalons douteux de l’époque.

Et voici ce qui a réchauffé mon petit cœur occitan plus encore que le chauffage de la salle : ce sont des Français. Un véritable groupe français qui maintient vivantes les étoiles des années 70, les polit, les fait briller et les projette avec une énergie réjouissante. C’est plutôt rassurant de savoir que, pendant que le monde s’emballe avec l’IA, les qubits et autres modernités vertigineuses, quelque part en France des musiciens veillent à ce que The Logical Song vous frappe toujours en plein dans la nostalgie.

Le trajet jusqu’à Perpignan — qui, soyons honnêtes, ressemble parfois à une expédition — a largement valu la peine.

Nous sommes rentrés avec le cœur plein, les oreilles qui bourdonnent et cette petite lueur post-concert qui murmure :

Oui, les années 70 étaient vraiment quelque chose… et heureusement, elles ne sont pas tout à fait terminées.

Supertramp pour toujours.

Et pour l’heure : vive CoverTramp.

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Supertramp

The band that put Wurlitzer on the map

(and in our hearts)

Long before streaming playlists and algorithm-approved earworms, there was a curious British band who managed to make progressive rock both philosophical and hummable — a rare feat, rather like finding a croissant in London that doesn’t taste like regret. Their name? Supertramp.

Born in London in 1969, Supertramp spent the 70s doing what all great bands do:

questioning society, selling millions of records, and making the saxophone sexy again.

At the heart of the group were two musical opposites united by genius and perhaps mild creative exasperation:

• Rick Davies, the grounded bluesy realist, whose voice suggested he’d seen things (probably accountants).

• Roger Hodgson, the dreamy falsetto philosopher who sounded as if he wrote songs while floating three metres above the studio floor.

Between them, they forged a sound built on Wurlitzer pianos, joyously wandering saxophones, and lyrics that made you ponder life’s great mysteries — like why school was awful, why logic was overrated, and whether taking the long way home was actually an early form of mindfulness.

Then came 1979 and Breakfast in America, an album so wildly successful it basically became a religion.

The Logical Song, Goodbye Stranger, Take the Long Way Home — tunes so catchy you could whistle them into a void and still echo back with perfect harmony.

Of course, as with all long marriages, the creative tension eventually snapped. Hodgson floated off to a solo career; Davies stayed and kept the Supertramp train rolling. Fans still debate which era is “better,” but honestly, when the music is this good, who cares? Just turn up the Wurlitzer and pour yourself something nostalgic.

Decades later, Supertramp remains one of those rare bands who can make you think deeply and dance awkwardly at exactly the same time. For that alone, they deserve a statue — ideally one you can climb, sax solo included.

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Five days, 44.2 kilometres, two musicals, one disappointed stomach, and countless cups of tea later — London has once again proven that it’s impossible to visit without both falling in love and wearing out a pair of shoes.

My phone tells me we walked an average of 8.84 km per day — though my legs insist it was much, much more. London remains a perfect cocktail of contrasts: the ancient and magnificent perfectly preserved, the merely old in need of a little TLC, and the brashly new waving from every skyline like it owns the place.

That said, a city of this stature could use a few repairs — the roads are beginning to resemble archaeological digs, and the mobile signal seems to have taken a vow of historical authenticity by staying firmly in the 4G era.

We wandered from the famous Camden Market to the gourmet bustle of Borough Market, and even ventured up the Shard for a breathtaking view (and slightly weak knees). I finally set foot aboard HMS Belfast — a ship I used to drive past endlessly when I lived in England but somehow never boarded. Standing on her deck after all these years felt like closing a small chapter.

Battersea Power Station deserves a special mention — a masterpiece of industrial resurrection. The transformation into a shopping and dining haven is spectacular. Sadly, Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant inside didn’t quite rise to the occasion; perhaps he should shout at his own staff a little louder.

A quick ride on the Uber Boat added a splash of novelty (and breeze), while the musicals — The Choir of Men and The Book of Mormon — reminded me why London’s West End will always be a global stage.

London may be expensive, especially when compared to our tranquil corner of the south of France, but it’s endlessly alive — a city that hums, sparkles, and occasionally honks at you.

So yes, my wallet is lighter, my legs are shorter, but my spirits are high. I’m already plotting a return visit — perhaps next May — once I’ve recovered both financially and physically.

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Réflexions londoniennes

Cinq jours, 44,2 kilomètres, deux comédies musicales, un estomac déçu et d’innombrables tasses de thé plus tard — Londres a encore prouvé qu’il est impossible d’y séjourner sans tomber sous le charme… et sans user une paire de chaussures.

Mon téléphone affirme que nous avons marché en moyenne 8,84 km par jour, mais mes jambes assurent que c’était bien davantage ! Londres reste ce fabuleux mélange de contrastes : le très ancien magnifiquement préservé, l’ancien tout court qui aurait bien besoin d’un petit lifting, et le très moderne qui s’affiche sans complexe dans le ciel londonien.

Cela dit, la ville mériterait quelques investissements — certaines routes semblent avoir connu Churchill personnellement, et la connexion 5G reste une légende urbaine : on navigue laborieusement en 4G, un peu comme si le Wi-Fi voulait, lui aussi, rendre hommage à l’histoire.

Nous avons flâné dans les quartiers célèbres comme Camden Market et Borough Market, pris de la hauteur depuis la plateforme du Shard, et visité le HMS Belfast — ce navire devant lequel je passais si souvent autrefois sans jamais y monter. Une petite satisfaction personnelle, tardive mais savoureuse.

Mention spéciale au Battersea Power Station : une reconversion spectaculaire d’un monstre industriel en temple du shopping et de la gastronomie. Seul regret : le déjeuner au restaurant de Gordon Ramsay n’a pas été à la hauteur de sa réputation… Peut-être devrait-il s’y mettre personnellement pour remonter le niveau.

Un court trajet en bateau Uber a apporté une touche d’originalité (et un peu d’air frais), tandis que les deux comédies musicales — The Choir of Men et The Book of Mormon — ont brillé parmi les grands moments du séjour.

Londres n’est certes pas bon marché, surtout comparée à notre paisible coin du sud de la France, mais elle reste vibrante, électrisante, et tout simplement incontournable.

Mon portefeuille s’est allégé, mes jambes raccourcies, mais mon moral est au beau fixe. J’envisage déjà un retour au printemps prochain, une fois les muscles — et les finances — remis d’aplomb.

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London Nachgedanken

Fünf Tage, 44,2 Kilometer, zwei Musicals, ein enttäuschtes Magengefühl und unzählige Tassen Tee später – London hat wieder einmal bewiesen, dass man diese Stadt einfach lieben und dabei seine Schuhe ruinieren muss.

Mein Handy behauptet, wir seien im Schnitt 8,84 km pro Tag gelaufen – meine Beine sagen, es waren deutlich mehr! London bleibt ein faszinierender Mix aus Gegensätzen: das uralt und wunderbar erhaltene, das alt, aber etwas renovierungsbedürftige und das ultramoderne, das sich frech zwischen die Klassiker drängt.

Allerdings wäre ein bisschen Investition nicht verkehrt – manche Straßen sehen aus, als hätten sie den Blitz von 1940 persönlich erlebt. Und was die 5G-Verbindung betrifft: Fehlanzeige. Man ist froh, wenn das 4G nicht ganz in die Themse fällt.

Wir haben bekannte und weniger bekannte Ecken erkundet – Camden Market, Borough Market, den atemberaubenden Ausblick von der Spitze des Shard und schließlich die HMS Belfast, an der ich früher unzählige Male vorbeifuhr, ohne je an Bord zu gehen. Diesmal habe ich’s endlich geschafft – ein kleines persönliches Erfolgserlebnis.

Ein besonderes Highlight war die Battersea Power Station – ein beeindruckendes Beispiel dafür, wie man ein altes Industriewerk in ein modernes Einkaufs- und Gastronomieparadies verwandeln kann. Schade nur, dass das Essen im Gordon Ramsay Restaurant dort nicht ganz mithalten konnte. Vielleicht sollte er mal selbst vorbeischauen.

Ein kurzer Trip mit dem Uber Boat brachte etwas frischen Wind (im wahrsten Sinne), und die beiden Musicals – The Choir of Men und The Book of Mormon – waren schlicht grandios.

London ist sicher nicht billig, besonders im Vergleich zu unserem ruhigen Südfrankreich, aber es pulsiert, lebt, glänzt – und überrascht jedes Mal aufs Neue.

Mein Portemonnaie ist leichter, meine Beine kürzer, aber meine Laune glänzend. Ich plane bereits eine Rückkehr im Mai, sobald sich Muskeln und Finanzen erholt haben.

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Going home (Reluctantly and with style)

Our final evening in London began with indecision — the eternal traveller’s dilemma: Chinese or Indian? After a brief debate worthy of the UN, we took the diplomatic route and went for… French.

A quick hop on the now oh-so-familiar Piccadilly line brought us to Covent Garden, where we stumbled upon Chez Antoinette, a charming little French restaurant that felt like a hug from across the Channel. There, I indulged in the classic duo: onion soup (the real one, not the “bistro reinterpretation”) and a perfectly crisp croque monsieur. Très London, très Paris, très content.

Afterwards, we returned to the hotel for a final nightcap, raising a quiet toast to our London escapade — to the miles walked, the pints poured, and the countless “let’s just pop in for a minute” detours that shaped the trip.

Morning arrived gently at 8 a.m., accompanied by the soothing ritual of tea in bed and the comforting drone of BBC news anchors who still make everything sound like an emergency wrapped in politeness.
Breakfast at 9 a.m., as tradition dictates, and then — the inevitable — packing.

Our route to the airport was executed with military precision:

• Tube from Finsbury Park → Victoria Line → Tottenham Hale (two stops).
• Smooth change to the Stansted Express, which whisked us away in under an hour, door to door.

At Stansted, the queues moved briskly (miracles do happen), though naturally my bag was selected for the customary “random additional screening”. Clearly, I have the look of someone who might smuggle contraband biscuits.

Through Duty Free’s labyrinth of temptation, we emerged victorious into the restaurants and bars area with nearly two hours to spare. Enough time to find the perfect airport lounge for one last celebratory drink — or two — before boarding.

And so ends our second London break this year, a perfectly brewed mix of sightseeing, indulgence, and mild exhaustion. Was it cheap? Of course not. But as I like to remind myself, one of my pensions still lands safely in my old British bank account, and honestly — what better use for it than spending it on life’s finer adventures?

Cheers, London — you’ve been brilliant once again. 🍸🇬🇧✨

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Le retour (à contre-coeur, mais avec élégance

Dernière soirée à Londres, et toujours la même grande question existentielle : chinois ou indien ? Après une longue discussion d’une importance géopolitique certaine, nous avons finalement choisi… français !

Un petit saut en Piccadilly line, désormais notre deuxième maison, et nous voilà à Covent Garden, où le hasard (et l’odeur du beurre fondu) nous conduit chez Chez Antoinette. Ambiance chaleureuse, service charmant et un menu tout droit sorti d’un bistrot parisien : soupe à l’oignon et croque-monsieur — simple, efficace, délicieux.

Retour à l’hôtel ensuite pour un dernier nightcap, ce petit verre d’adieu à nos aventures londoniennes. Santé à la ville qui ne dort jamais, à nos mollets endoloris et à toutes les pintes qui ont vaillamment accompagné notre séjour.

Réveil paisible à 8 h, avec une tasse de thé au lit et les infos à la télé — ces voix de la BBC capables de transformer la météo en drame national.
Petit-déjeuner à 9 h, fidèle à la tradition, puis vient le moment que tout voyageur redoute : faire les valises.

Direction l’aéroport de Stansted, parcours sans faute :

• Métro depuis Finsbury Park, Victoria Line jusqu’à Tottenham Hale (deux arrêts).
• Correspondance fluide avec le Stansted Express.
  Résultat : 1 heure tout pile de porte à porte. Pas mal pour un samedi matin londonien.

À l’aéroport, contrôle de sécurité efficace, sauf bien sûr pour mon sac, choisi au hasard (comme d’habitude) pour une inspection spéciale. Apparemment, j’ai toujours la tête de quelqu’un qui cache du fromage dans son ordinateur.

Nous traversons courageusement le corridor du Duty Free, véritable temple de la tentation, pour atteindre enfin la zone des bars et restaurants. Avec presque deux heures d’avance, nous dénichons un coin tranquille pour un dernier verre avant l’embarquement — une façon civilisée de boucler ce séjour.

Ainsi s’achève notre deuxième escapade londonienne de l’année : intense, joyeuse et légèrement coûteuse. Mais après tout, une partie de ma retraite arrive toujours sur un compte anglais, alors autant la dépenser sur place, non ?

Cheers, Londres — tu as encore été fabuleuse. 🍸🇬🇧✨

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Highs, lows and everything in between

A blissfully uneventful night — no fire alarms, no bladder rebellion, no late-night existential crises — so by 9 a.m. we’re happily seated at breakfast, caffeinating efficiently. Between bites of scrambled eggs and valiant sips of coffee, I manage the delicate digital ballet of booking tickets for The Shard — without spilling anything or swearing at my phone. I consider this a personal triumph.

At 10 a.m. sharp, we’re off — by Tube, naturally — heading for London Bridge. For the geographically uninitiated, The Shard practically grows out of London Bridge Station like a glittering crystal wedged into the skyline.

We’re early, but London rewards the punctual. In no time, we’re whooshed up in the elevator, ears popping and hearts mildly impressed. From the top — the 72nd floor — London unfolds like a living map: Crystal Palace gleaming faintly in the south, my old haunt Croydon standing taller than memory allows. I circle the viewing deck twice just to let my brain catch up with my eyes.

A celebratory glass of champagne feels both obligatory and deserved. As bubbles rise, so does Chris, one of The Shard’s resident guides, who delivers a lively 15-minute talk filled with fun trivia and perfectly timed humour.

A few fun facts worth sharing (and stealing for future dinner conversations):

• The Shard stands 310 metres tall, making it the tallest building in the UK and one of the tallest in Europe.
• It was designed by Italian “starchitect” Renzo Piano, inspired by church spires and ship masts.
• The exterior is made of 11,000 glass panels, enough to cover eight football pitches.
• And yes, the toilets at the top might just offer the best view in all of London — multitasking has never been so scenic.

Back on Earth (figuratively and literally), our next destination lies just 72 metres away — the legendary Borough Market. If temptation had an address, this would be it. Every stall is an act of seduction: oysters flexing their freshness, raclette melting in slow motion, cheeses whispering sweet nothings, and bread loaves practically purring. Frankly, the government should post health warnings about impulsive spending (and waistlines).

We eventually staggered into the George Inn, one of London’s oldest pubs, steeped in history and ale. It was eerily quiet — perhaps everyone was still in Borough Market’s cheese-induced haze — so we relocated to The Mudlark by the Thames for another pint and a bite, to keep spirits (and blood sugar) afloat.

Suitably fortified, we crossed to visit HMS Belfast, that magnificent grey guardian moored since the 1960s. Once a proud Royal Navy cruiser, she saw action in WWII and Korea before retiring gracefully into museumhood. Clambering through her decks is equal parts thrilling and punishing — those ladders were clearly designed for sailors under 25 and made of springs. Still, standing on her bridge, gazing over the Thames, it’s impossible not to feel a twinge of awe (and mild vertigo).

By 4 p.m., I’m done. My legs have filed for divorce. We take the Tube back to Finsbury Park, where I assume the noble position of horizontal meditation, feet elevated at a scientifically precise 45° angle.

From this refined, semi-horizontal vantage point, I catch up on my blogging duties and face the toughest question of the day:

🍜 Chinese or Indian dinner?

The suspense builds. The arguments rage.
Consensus emerges: Indian, of course — in Soho, where spice, noise, and neon lights will round off the day perfectly.

Because in London, even dinner deserves drama.

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Londres – Jour 4

Du somment du monde à la sieste méritée

Enfin une nuit tranquille, sans alarme incendie, sans voisins bruyants, sans rêves bizarres impliquant des bus rouges à deux étages. Bref, un vrai luxe !
À 9h tapantes, direction le petit-déj’ – café brûlant, œufs brouillés et croissants en embuscade. Et là, miracle technologique : j’ai réussi à réserver nos billets pour The Shard depuis mon téléphone, sans renverser mon café, ni insulter le Wi-Fi. Franchement, une victoire digne d’un Marseillais en finale de Coupe d’Europe.

À 10h précises, nous voilà partis par le Tube, direction London Bridge. Faut savoir que The Shard pousse littéralement au-dessus de la gare, comme un pic de verre planté dans le ciel londonien.

On arrive un peu en avance, mais pas grave — les Anglais adorent les gens ponctuels. En un clin d’œil, on nous propulse vers le haut, les oreilles qui sifflent et les yeux qui s’écarquillent. Et là, wow… 72 étages plus haut, 310 mètres de pur vertige. Londres à nos pieds, la Tamise qui serpente, et même Croydon au loin, ma vieille connaissance, qui a visiblement décidé de pousser vers le ciel aussi.

Je fais deux fois le tour de la plateforme pour bien tout absorber (et accessoirement pour éviter de partir sans photo). Puis, champagne obligatoire — on ne va pas regarder la capitale du haut du monde avec un jus d’orange, quand même ! 🍾
Le guide du moment, Chris, un vrai cabot plein d’humour, nous balance un tas d’infos croustillantes :

• Le Shard, c’est le plus haut gratte-ciel du Royaume-Uni.
• Conçu par l’architecte italien Renzo Piano (le mec savait ce qu’il faisait).
• Recouvert de 11 000 panneaux de verre – de quoi couvrir huit terrains de foot.
• Et les toilettes panoramiques là-haut ? Probablement les plus haut perchées d’Europe. (On n’a jamais fait pipi avec une telle vue sur la Tamise.)

Retour sur Terre, direction le Borough Market, à deux pas. Là, mon ami, c’est un champ de bataille gastronomique : huîtres qui te font de l’œil, raclette qui coule comme une promesse, fromages qui te susurrent des mots doux… J’te jure, même le plus stoïque des Marseillais aurait sorti la carte bleue sans réfléchir.

Après avoir survécu à ce temple de la tentation, halte au George Inn. Ambiance fantomatique – trois clients et un serveur qui bâille. Du coup, transfert stratégique vers The Mudlark, un autre pub plus vivant, pintes à la main et petite bouffe de survie.

Ensuite, place à la visite du HMS Belfast, fier navire de guerre amarré depuis les années 60. Ce monstre d’acier a connu la Seconde Guerre mondiale, la Corée, et maintenant… moi, en train de grimper ses échelles avec la grâce d’un poulpe fatigué. Quelle aventure ! J’en ai encore les mollets qui sifflent.

Vers 16h, fin des hostilités. Retour au bercail par le métro, Finsbury Park, Maldron Hotel. Et là, position stratégique : allongé, jambes en l’air à 45° d’angle, pour récupérer ce qu’il reste de dignité.

Depuis ce poste d’observation horizontal, je mets à jour mes notes du jour et affronte la question existentielle :

🥡 Chinois ou Indien ?

La tension est palpable. Le débat houleux.
Verdict final : Indien, évidemment — direction Soho, là où les épices dansent, les néons brillent et où la journée se termine en beauté.

Parce qu’à Londres, même le dîner se doit d’avoir du spectacle.

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The day of false starts and overpriced mediocrity

We were violently catapulted into consciousness this morning courtesy of the hotel fire alarm. Apparently there is an official fire alarm test scheduled at midday. So yes — we had the “pre-test” BEFORE the test. Was it necessary to test the test? Apparently in London… yes.

So we were up far earlier than planned, and treated ourselves to what I can only describe as a fairly Shard-full breakfast. Not quite skyscraper quality… but structurally nutritious.

Objective of the morning: reach Battersea Power Station. The once mighty industrial cathedral is now reborn as… a shopping mall. Welcome to London 2025.

Lunch booked at Gordon Ramsay’s Bread Street with my sister-in-law. Two tube changes required, so plenty of time to explore. First impression upon arrival: somebody has obviously decided that what this landmark needed… was a small city of luxury flats completely wedged around it so you can barely SEE the power station anymore. Urban planning at its finest.

Inside the two huge former turbine halls: totally modern, uniformly Christmassy — and wildly premature for my taste. November. We need at least 3 more weeks before Mariah Carey is legally allowed to be activated.

North exit: and finally a river view where the building actually exists visually. Success.

Aperitif. Because life.

Lunch arrives later… and well… let’s say Gordon Ramsay won’t be putting this one in his Michelin highlight reel. Expensive + mediocre. I shall indeed write to Mr Ramsay. Constructively. Possibly in all caps.

Afternoon mission: go up The Shard. Closed.

Backup plan: Jewel Museum. Also closed.

So — we wandered the South Bank instead. All the way to St Paul’s, where my knees once again reminded me that they gave a clear request this morning: rest. Today: 11.7 km. So no. They did not get what they requested.

Back to the hotel — only to discover: room not made. New room issued. Four floors up. Short nap. Brutally too short.

Evening: Piccadilly Line returned to service and delivered us to The Prince of Wales Theatre — The Book of Mormon. Amusing yes. Hilarious… not quite as advertised.

After the show we strolled Regent Street — glamorous, dazzling, fully London Christmas 360°.

Oxford Street on the other hand… absolutely confirms that it has slid downmarket. The lights even looked cheaper this year.

Finally the Victoria line home — which felt refreshingly exotic after our non-stop Piccadilly maritime service of this entire trip.

Feet up. No nightcaps. I am writing this in horizontal collapse mode.

Tomorrow: either The Shard finally opens… or we surrender ourselves to the British Museum.

Let destiny decide…

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With protesting knees (and frankly a few other anatomical components that have now lodged official complaints with the Ministry of Transport), we bravely shuffle back down into the Underground for yet another southbound glide on the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square. The Arts Theatre is conveniently just around the corner – a luxury detail one appreciates immensely when the cartilage situation is more “vintage museum artefact” than “bounce & spring”.

We are – miraculously – early. This means one thing and one thing only: there is ample time for a proper pint in the pub next door. London efficiency, at its finest. By 7pm sharp we are inside The Arts Theatre, drinks in hand like seasoned West End veterans (no plastic novelty cups required, thank you). We settle into our seats and what follows is pure unexpected delight: a gloriously funny, feel-good musical called The Choir of Man. I haven’t laughed, grinned, foot-tapped and sentimentally nodded this much in ages.

A show that restores faith in humanity, male bonding, and quality harmonies, all in 90 glorious minutes.

Post-show, we are once again catapulted back onto the Piccadilly Line, this time pointed northwards, homing instinct engaged directly back towards our hotel bar for the sacred daily nightcap. Except… the nightcap multiplied. It became three. (I blame the uplifting spirit of the Choir. It would have been rude to stop at just one.)

Finding sleep afterwards was absolutely no problem whatsoever. Let’s just say we closed our eyes and the next thing we knew… Day 3 began.

London remains undefeated.

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Escapade Anglaise

Jour 2 (Partie 2)

Avec des genoux protestataires (et franchement quelques autres parties du corps qui ont officiellement déposé plainte auprès du Ministère des Transports), nous redescendons courageusement dans le métro pour un nouveau trajet vers le sud sur la Piccadilly Line, direction Leicester Square. Le théâtre est littéralement au coin de la rue – détail extrêmement apprécié quand son cartilage est plus « pièce de musée » que « amortisseur neuf ».

Nous arrivons – miracle – en avance. Ce qui signifie une seule chose : il y a largement le temps pour une pinte au pub d’à côté. Efficacité britannique de très haut niveau. À 19h pile nous sommes dans The Arts Theatre, verre à la main tels des habitués du West End (pas besoin de gobelets jetables touristiques, merci). Nous prenons place et ce qui suit n’est rien d’autre qu’un petit bijou inattendu : une comédie musicale feel-good appelée The Choir of Man. Je n’ai pas autant ri, souri, tapé du pied et approuvé sentimentalement depuis longtemps. Une pièce qui redonne foi en l’humanité, l’amitié masculine et les harmonies vocales, tout ça en 90 minutes joyeusement parfaites.

Après le spectacle, retour express sur la Piccadilly Line, cette fois en direction du nord, guidés tel un radar vers le bar de l’hôtel pour le traditionnel dernier verre du jour. Enfin… le dernier verre a eu des petits frères. Il est rapidement devenu trois. (Je blâme totalement le pouvoir euphorisant du chœur. Il aurait été grossier de s’arrêter au premier.)

Trouver le sommeil ensuite ne fut absolument PAS un problème. Disons que nous avons fermé les yeux… et pouf — le jour 3 était déjà là.

Londres reste invaincue.

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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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London calling…

with dumplings and déjà-vu

I shall not rave about yesterday’s Ryanair flight — mainly because there is strictly nothing to rave about — but fact is: we actually landed in Stansted. Late afternoon, but still… on the ground, in one piece. That is already considered Premium Executive Success in Ryanair terms.

We wizzed through the automated passport control like Formula 1 retirees who suddenly remembered they still had reflexes… and ten minutes later were comfortably seated on the Stansted Express zooming towards London. This is one thing Britain always gets right: the fast train from the airport makes you feel like civilisation still exists… somewhere… maybe.

Changeover at Tottenham Hale (or Tottenham Vale as my brain decided to call it at the time…) was painless and then suddenly: the London Underground. Crowded, hot, vaguely humid, Tube-scented. So yes: London proper. A few stations later we arrive at Finsbury Park. And incredibly — I remembered the way to the hotel exactly, as if I had stayed there just 72 hours earlier instead of “quite a while ago”. My inner compass sometimes surprises me. Mostly it doesn’t. Yesterday it did.

But of course… plot twist: we cannot check in. System issue. So the hotel, in a moment of pure British damage control genius, sends us to the bar and offers me my first pint of the day. Free. Suddenly I am very forgiving.

Room eventually sorted, spacious enough, comfortable enough — but we aren’t here for hotel quality audits. Back underground — Piccadilly line — eight stations to Leicester Square.

Now when one says Leicester Square… one must accept that tourist density is measured not by square metres but by cubic oxygen displacement. But very luckily, just around the corner: The Porcupine pub. A familiar one. A second pint. Equally positive. London is going well so far.

Dinner… clearly had to be Chinese. And conveniently: Chinatown is right there.

I had done my diligent 48-hour-before-arrival research and learned that Tao Tao’s dumplings are apparently something that should not be missed. Since leaving Shanghai, dumplings have become one of those things I talk about with reverence and mild melancholy.

150 yards later, we walk in. And immediately I know I’ve been here before. Even better: the head waitress greets me like I was a regular who was there last week. Possibly mistaken identity… or possibly I am now one of those global dumpling legends who leaves emotional traces everywhere. Let us keep that mystery alive.

Food excellent. Wine excellent (and priced as if the grapes were blessed by Ming dynasty emperors). And then back to the hotel for the compulsory large whisky nightcap. Because tradition matters.

End of Day 1. London — still chaotic, still funny, still familiar, still delicious. And still full of tiny déjà-vu moments that make travelling feel like life’s little theatre is constantly reusing characters.

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