Brick Lane Bookshop on my last visit, February 2023
It’s a Sunday afternoon in May, and I’m alighting at London Euston for only the second time in recent memory. Maybe it’s got something to do with the surprisingly warm weather, but my fellow passengers are uncharacteristically relaxed in their attempts to make it out onto the streets and subways of one of the world’s busiest cities. It seems as though along with making my three-hour journey all the more pleasurable, the line on the thermometer passing legal age has shed the hustle and bustle I’ve grown accustomed to when in major stations such as these.
Or, perhaps I’ve changed. When I made my last visit to London back in February, (and first, excluding a year six trip I can only faintly remember), I admittedly ended up sitting in one of Euston’s bathroom stalls for half an hour or so after leaving the train. Overwhelmed by so much happening at once, I found solace in chewing rescue remedy and listening to my headphones until I could eventually pluck up the courage to make my way through the swarms of city folk, navigating my way to meet an old friend at elephant and Castle.
But this time, it felt different. Because in recent months, I’ve had a newfound love for this concept of ‘the city’.
There’s no single reason I can pin that on. But I do know that I’ve seen one of my best friends move to Manhattan and grow into everything she knew she could be, whilst my own brief stints in the likes of Barcelona and Madrid gave breathing space, and offered me the birth of new perspective. Where I used to associate them with danger, isolation, and overcrowding, I now see freedom, life, and exploration. And now, each minute I spend away leaves me with an unfulfilled desire for jam-packed streets and £5 iced coffee, and the fear they once instilled upon me has been replaced by love.
On this occasion, instead of needing to calm myself down in a hectic bathroom, (whilst dozens of strangers are constantly entering, pissing, and not even pretending to wash their hands), I calmly make my way and board the Victoria line, before changing at Oxford Circus towards North Acton.
When I arrive and exit the station, I immediately greet my long-time best friend with a light smack on the head (using a two day old copy of Metro Evening I picked up at Euston). So much for being thankful to the man who offered me his couch for two nights without a moment of hesitation, eh? Pressed for time, we quickly drop-off of my backpack, not after I take a minute to change my clothes in an effort to better accommodate the weather, and we jump straight back on the tube to head across the city.
As we walk along Brick Lane, Matt and I teeter on the line of offensive as we repeat ‘Dutch Pancakes’. as well as the names of various other stalls and shops we walk past, in our strongest cockney accents (an inside joke I won’t elaborate on). Between our jokes, we move between low-ceiling markets that house everything from bootleg records to cheap vintage maps. The last time we visited, I even had the owner pick us out three maps at random, which prompted him to tell me how much he ‘liked my style’.
Inside the unsuspecting former Old Truman Brewery, you’ll find fashion heaven for those who care about either the environment or a good bargain. From past-season luxury goods and suits that are (literally) straight out of the sixties, the seemingly endless space houses almost two-hundred stallholders. Back on the main street, those craving intimacy can lose themselves in the independent Brick Lane Bookshop, a darling space that encapsulates the spirit of everything Brick Lane is.
Vibrancy emanates from every inch of this storied market street, though it’s not just shopping that’s all it has to offer. In front of graffitied walls, you can watch a Syrian man named Norman demolish self-assured travellers in chess, playing anywhere up to four games at any one time. Or, catch a Beatles lookalike playing the fab four’s iconic tunes just a few hundred meters further down. Then if you somehow make it to the end of the street without being tempted by one of the many global food stalls, you’ll see dozens of restaurants offering authentic Bengali cuisine, a product of its long-standing community that have called the area home since the mid-20th century. When you’re on Brick Lane, you’re travelling well beyond the 1207 metres that the street itself lives on.
Alas, you cannot stay in one place for too long, especially when you have thirty or so zines in your tote bag that you want to punt to as many bookshops as you can whilst you have the chance. From Aldgate East tube station, we hop on the Hammersmith and City line to make our way to Kings Cross. Fortunately, I succeed in selling stock of my zine to the incredible ‘Housmans’ bookstore, and we celebrate with one of God’s greatest masterpieces, Taco Bell’s three crunchy taco meal.
Word On The Water, another bookshop located near Kings Cross.
The day begins to come a draw to a close at this time, and even in the big city, most places don’t stay open pass six or so on a Sunday. As we mull over what to do, a quick google search let me know that I could still fulfil my wish to visit the Doc Martens flagship shop, as it doesn’t close till seven. It also offers both of us a chance to visit there for the first time, even though he’s been living here for the best part of eight months. Despite some half-joking objections and complaints it will be ‘too alt’ for him, he happily obliges.
Though the rest of the town as a whole is not quite how I imagine it to be, and tacky London gift shops surprisingly dominate most of the space, the store itself is incredible. Despite the lack of collaborations available, its offerings are still extensive beyond most of their in-person stores I’ve been to, and allow me the chance to quietly dream away about the pairs I will one day buy. Whilst the store is built within the oldest section of the markets, all of them which surround are most certainly worth visiting. Though if you do, try plan so that you aren’t catching them as they are packing up for the week.
The Boot Room, a mini-museum within Dr Martens, Camden.
Despite the area being famed for its pubs and nightlife, neither of us are big drinkers who also have busy Mondays ahead of us. Before calling it a night, we make one last stop.
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The warm air remains perfect well into the evening, countered only by a slight breeze that comes as relief that I’ve not dreamed the past twelve hours, and that I’m not sleeping in and missing my train.
Just as the sun relents and begins to set, we find ourselves sat outside Kensington Creperie, enjoying an oreo milkshake each that would come to cost a total of £15.20. Perhaps if we’d have known there’d be an involuntary service charge on milkshakes that cost £6, we might’ve made like the romcoms and just asked for two straws.
Wandering South Kensington was a far cry from where we were four hours ago. Despite the streets of beautiful buildings, the Natural History Museum, and a relatively large crowd gathered by the tube station, the place feels blissfully quiet. All that is left is us, a few delivery drivers, and the Church of Latter-Day Saints, still, for some reason, open and offering tours.
But rather than head back to North Acton and settle in for the night, I’m given a personal tour of Imperial, one of the world greatest colleges, after hours, by one of its best students.
I make my way past students cramming, peak through doors into huge lecture halls, and exist on the same campus where some of histories brightest minds will study at, and have studied at. And in this moment, I’m taken aback. But not by the fancy buildings and classrooms, but by how proud I am of my best friend.
The Belarussian and Azerbaijani embassies, Kensington
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