In the second half of September, I fulfilled a lifelong dream to visit England, the kingdom of many beloved stories. At last, I would walk the same streets of Austen, Dickens, Tolkein, C.S. Lewis, Shakespeare—the list of British authors who have shaped my imagination and filled my library is very long.
My dear friend and kindred spirit Hannah was the trip’s tour guide, and I am grateful beyond words for her meticulous planning and also flexible, joyful company. From Saturday to Saturday, we flew from YVR-Vancouver to LHR-Heathrow. This detailed account is as much for myself as it is for you, dear reader. I don’t want to forget one moment, so let’s step into a vicarious day-by-day replay, shall we?
Run and put the kettle on. This is a good, long read.
DAY 1 - FAREWELL
Our flight didn’t leave until 5:20pm, so I had a leisurely morning with the kids. Fortunately I’d had the sense to pack the night before, and I only had to grab my phone charger and toothbrush before zipping up the luggage. The little guy insisted I take a photo to remember him by. My dear mother-in-law accompanied us to Richmond and Landsdowne Centre for lunch. I figured the kids would be distracted instead of distraught with the allurements of Daiso and Miniso acquisitions—and yes, it worked pretty well.
They dropped me off at YVR, and shortly thereafter I was called by British Airways asking me to visit the front counter. They offered me $2,400 to defer my ticket one day, as they had oversold the flight. Without hesitation, I said, “This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip, and I’m not going to miss a minute of it.”
Hannah and I found the Visa Companion lounge—my first-ever lounge experience, courtesy of my TD Avion card. How have I not previously taken advantage of the superior seating and free food? There was a salmon bowl, baked to perfection, Chinese congee, butternut squash soup, and fresh orange juice. Next time I travel, I’m arriving early so I can eat here.
Our flight boarded without incident, and I took two Dramamine. They worked, but I did not sleep. The flight over was uneventful, 9.5 hours complete with unsuccessful napping, overcooked beef roast, and an amusingly British safety announcement.
DAY 2 - LONDON
It is such a gift to have a simpatico travel companion. One who is considerate, similar in interests and temperament, and is prone to problem-solving instead of panicking. I couldn’t have asked for better than Hannah!
England’s customs and security is wonderful simple; a self-scan of your passport, provided that you had the foresight to purchase your travel visa in advance, and out you go. Heathrow Express trains leave every 15 minutes, equipped with device chargers and washrooms. It was 30 minutes to London, and we walked through the distinguished district of Marylebone to The Columbia, our hotel at the quiet edge of Hyde Park. We were too early to check in, but they stored our luggage in a room guarded by skeleton key.
Then, off to Zetter House, a hotel whose rooms we could not afford, but made ourselves comfortable in their charming tea room stuffed with antiques, textures, a cheese board, golden chai. This is one of Hannah’s secrets, and I am telling you now because it will forever transform my city travelling; when you are footsore and need a break, find a beautiful hotel into which you would never otherwise afford entry and order a pot of tea from the bar. For less than $10, you can rest in a sumptuous setting, charge your phone, use the loo, and emerge re-energized. It’s brilliant.
Marylebone charity shops were somewhat overpriced, and I only browsed. Having been awake for more than 24 hours and hopped up on anti-nausea medication, that first day is a bit blurry. Sézane was packed with shoppers and squishy textiles, far out of my price range. Daunt Books was incredible—and if you can believe it, so overwhelming that I didn’t buy a single thing. I admitted to Hannah that I was too tired to make any decisions, so we went back to the hotel. I failed to nap. Like the child in the Disney commercial, I was “too excited to sleep!”
We trained to King’s Cross and walked to Granary Square. Everywhere I looked, there was a photo worth taking: brick buildings melding into modern steel and plate glass, ornate iron, ancient cobblestones, and a melting pot of cultures festooned in classy, fashionable patterns. Moreso now than ever, I am determined to resist Vancouver’s drab neutrals, and squeeze every drop of colour out of my wardrobe.
Our dinner party was a mini reunion of Hannah’s Cambridge classmates. Lina Stores was decked in my favourite celadon green, and I had the best pasta of my life: 30-yolk taglioni with truffle and parmesan. By 9pm, I was fighting to stay upright, and we trained home to bed—but I was awake from 2:30-5:30am. Darn that jet lag.
DAY 3 - ballet & bard
Hannah woke up at 7:15; as planned, I was to keep sleeping and text her when I awoke. That wasn’t until 10:20, but I was grateful for the rest and packed up my luggage to check downstairs. Thank goodness I’d packed a pair of shorts as an afterthought, as what I imagined would be a leisurely stroll through Hyde Park to meet Hannah was a 45 minute trek—yes, even a cosmopolitan vacation requires excellent walking shoes, breathable clothing, and ample water breaks. I must have looked quite the yokel, backpacked and agape at the Victorian mansion blocks encased in tight streets, historic churches, and hidden parks.
I was late to Liberty—there was only time to gasp at the multi-level horde of design and beauty before we had to dash to the Royal Ballet and Opera to meet a friend for brunch (had my first Scotch egg) and take a 75 minute backstage tour. We had hoped to attend a student rehearsal, but this tour exceeded my expectations.
1,000 people working across 9 floors, a building so labyrinthine they painted colour zones so you can find your way. From conception to opening night, FIVE YEARS. We watched two principals practice with seasoned repetiteurs in a warm studio (even the pros have much to learn), saw the props shop with piles of black skeletons, the pinned ribs of a boat, and a latex severed head of John the Baptist from the last Salome. They have their own sewing studio, where the print AND dye their own fabrics. We got to peek at a costume “bible” with detailed photographs and fabric swatches, so shows can look consistent if re-run. This building is the third; the first two burnt down after a cannon was demo’d indoors and an indoor fireworks show. They were quite protective against any backstage photos, but we managed one of the red velvet seats and iconic ceiling.
Through the gift shop, we exited into Covent Garden square—the pillars of which I immediately recognized from the My Fair Lady film, and felt like I was living in the pages of my storied childhood. We were in search of a particular coffee shop; one whose carousel picture coffee cups had gone viral… not that I am the sort to be so easily influenced, of course, but it did happen to be close. With little enthusiasm, the barista informed us that the cups had long since sold out, an announcement which she makes 50 times a day, but I was only too happy to see that the café was Ukranian-owned, and I enjoyed a wonderfully refreshing cup of kvas; a slightly bubbly bread-fermented drink.
We strolled through Trafalgar Square, the fountain unfortunately dry, the Canadian Embassy looking very distinguished, the Royal Gallery (Canada ought to have more free museums). We strolled in and out of Toast, an upscale all-natural clothing brand known for its quality. There may or may not have been judgey eyes when we took a free magazine.
With very little arm-twisting, I convinced Hannah to let me return to Daunt Books, where I was readier to part with my money having been better rested. I purchased one of their iconic canvas totes, and judging by the quality it may well outlive me.
We were feeling peckish, and stopped into Ottolenghi. Their service may have been a little neglectful, but all was forgiven when we tasted their fabulous salmon and roasted aubergine salad. I don’t know what sorcery they used on their roasted tomatoes, but mine never taste like that. Every bite was supremely fresh and flavourful. Regaining our luggage, we picked up a few groceries and used Stasher to store them at a hotel near King’s Cross. This was so we could, after our evening event, take a straighter route to our accommodations.
Our event was none other than… Much Ado About Nothing in The Globe! In university, I studied Shakespeare with the renowned Dr. Katherine Sirluck, but this play was not one of the 12 in our curriculum. We had a great view from the third floor, right against the railing to watch the players’ enemies-to-lovers ribaldry. What a spectacularly elemental performance, with water, fire, earth, and smoke special effects accompanied by a string quartet. It is amazing to hear 500-year-old words alive with meaning, modern interpretation, and personality. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. My seat neighbour was visiting from Cologne, to my delight a fellow sci-fi fan who was also reading Ursula K. Le Guin to review on his German podcast. I confess, I shied from giving him my card, but it was good practice to share my book’s “elevator pitch” with a stranger.
It was quite late when we grabbed our groceries, luggage, and train to Harpenden (the milk delivery greeted us at the front step), but I couldn’t resist unwinding on a 100+ year-old piano with drowsy jazz tunes. Then, of course I had to call the kids, and show them the Harry-Potter-esque cupboard under the stairs, and the dumbwaiter, and the William Morris curtains. To bed at 2am.
DAY 4 - HARPENDEN + Southwold
My room was in the garret, and I opened my pocket-sized window to floral wallpaper, the morning dew, and the sight of Nick the gardener cutting down the lilies. I met the house staff (that sounds grand, doesn’t it?), and had breakfast in the garden amongst fallen apples and sprawling salvia. We walked down Nicky Line, a repurposed train route, into Harpenden proper, past charming Arts & Crafts & Victorian homes buttoned up in brick, the town recently voted as the prettiest in England. Many treasures in the charity shops; vintage chinaware, floral dresses, and a complete set of L.M. Montgomery books that will delight a certain 8-year-old this Christmas. I was strongly advised to buy greatly underpriced Seasalt tops, an organic brand that seems to have a cult following here (now that I’m back, I wish we’d visited the store!).
Some of our accommodation plans needed adjustment, as our sailboat hotel was in recent need of repairs. Off we journeyed to Southwold, a leisurely drive through Suffolk’s tiny historic wool district through which we were regaled with Hannah’s aunt’s marine exploits (she sailed the sea between Scotland and Iceland!). She told us the story of England’s Atlantis; the church in nearby Dunwich was a victim of erosion and fell into the sea. Some say they can still hear the bell tolling when the surf pounds against the rocks. What a picture!
We paused in Peasenhall for a deli and tea break, enjoying the sight of thatched roofs (but not the thought of insuring them). By the time we got to Southwold, some shops were closed, but we did patronize the bookstore and found the gravestones of Hannah’s great-great-grandmother in the gold-lit churchyard. The churches were built with flintstone, which I had never seen in person. It’s as common there as quartz is here, but I was fascinated by the polished interiors with unique pockmarks and petrified blooms.
The beach, and beach huts, and Gun Hill. The harbour in Boat Builder’s Bay. Josephine, our floating hotel! I have many fond summer memories of the Gulf Islands, and it felt like home to step aboard and tuck into the polished cherry interior. We had smoked haddock fish ’n’ chips (best I’ve ever had!) for dinner at Harbour Bay Inn; later, a chat over cryptic crosswords, then to bed in the v-berth.
DAY 5 - OXFORD
Early to rise, so we could visit 2 Magpies Bakery for a morning matcha and sausage roll (I don’t know why people say Brit food’s no good—the only bad food I had was the airline’s!) before we caught the train from Darsham to Ipswich, then Ipswich to London, then London to Oxford. There were some delays due to a gas leak, so what was supposed to be 3 trains ended up being 5 trains over 4 hours. Ugh.
Eventually, we landed in Oxford and settled into the Young Pub for lunch—in a back room that only started admitting females in 1978. I had a chicken Cobb salad; Hannah, a cauliflower hazelnut soup. Then to the “Rad Cam” (Radcliffe Camera), a circular library closed to the public. We had hoped to sneak into the Bodleian by way of a friend and fellow, but he’d forgotten his student card, and so we had to content ourselves with the Victorian-era library of his college.
They say that Cambridge is a town with a university, and Oxford a university within a city, and I can well see why. I pictured narrow medieval roads, untouched by time—but Oxford was zipping with bicyclists in every direction, 600-year old buildings with modern lorries and trash trucks outside, creeping vines and ancient doors. Every building we walked into disabled our cell service, so if Hannah and I got separated we were forever trekking back into the streets to triangulate each other.
Broad Street hosts Blackwell’s, notable for their 150,000 titles and 3 miles of shelves. I could have spent hours in there, and many dollars. It is fortunate that I considered how far I would have to carry these purchases, and so tried to buy lightly. A peek at All Soul’s College, of which Katherine Rundell is a hallowed fellow, the Bridge of Sighs, and many gift shops. When we wearied, we tarried in the Morris Tea Room at the Randall Hotel.
I stepped out on Hannah’s recommendation to visit the Ashmolean Museum—and was utterly blown away. I only had 25 minutes to look around; it could have been easily ten times that long. I have mixed feelings about the British kingdom’s many colonial acquisitions, but I can’t fault their care and free-for-the-public display.
Meeting up with a friend afforded us a quick tour of Harris Manchester College’s chapel and library, then we dashed to Christ Church for a traditional Angelican Evensong. I expected to sing, but this one was a little different: we were invited to participate through listening, and allowing the voices of the choir to commune for us. It was an utterly unique experience, and the sweet pre-teen sopranos mixed with the organ made for an awesome (in the original meaning) experience. It made me think of my Roman Catholic grandmother, and how much she enjoyed Mass and music. She would have loved it.
Dinner was at the Old Tom. We went in expecting pub fare—but no! Their chef was Thai, and we had some of the best green papaya salad, Pad Thai, curry duck, and Tom Kha soup ever. What a respite, as our 2h 15min return turned into 4 hours with the ongoing gas leak issue. To Harpenden, to bed.
DAY 6 - BATH
A slow morning, a necessary hour to repack our luggage with all our acquirements, and strategize how to manage for the next two days without accessing the suitcase again. I couldn’t resist a pass through the shops, and I found a clothbound, gold-foil edition of A.A. Milne’s poetry, and a brand new botanical print duvet set from the V&A (I was advised it retailed over £300). Yes, I bought bedding in Britain!
I took the train to King’s Cross, and stashed the luggage in a nearby hotel for $20. It’s good for 24 hours, and much more convenient than hauling your bag around. Grabbing some Pret À Manger food to eat from M&S (incredible marinated artichokes, Spanish cheese & dry sausage, and Tunisian lentils; how does everything taste so amazing?), we took the train to Paddington, and then from there, to Bath. The countryside is drought-gold, ready for fall, undulating hay fields and the occasional sheep. I wonder what a train ride would have looked like 100 years ago. One sight I’m glad to see, are thick hedgerows and zero barbed wire or chainlink fencing.
Yes, Bath is a famous locale for England’s only natural hot spring—but it is also a shopping mecca, too. The Roman baths were £30 to look at, and another £30 to swim in the building adjacent, so I eschewed all the traditional tourist photos and concentrated on the unique shop offerings. Humanity Studios carries incredible artisan dresses and jackets in hand-blocked fabric (see the dress above), Anthropology had a few collections not available online, and, of course, there was Persephone Books, the primary purpose of this pilgrimage.
As we had arrived mid-afternoon, and intended to spend the morrow there too, we went in for reconnaissance. I bought their catalogue, so as to dog-ear which 6 of their 150 titles I planned to bring home (far more pleasant than browsing their website), and marvelled at this tiny-but-mighty shop that had been recently awarded by the King for their literary contribution. If they are new to you, Persephone reprints forgotten and neglected female writers of the early 20th century, in distinctive grey covers that reveal coloured endpapers in patterns designed by female artists of the book’s era.
Then, to gracious friends hosting us in a late 19th century mason’s rowhome. A blessed shower, books with the curly-headed toddler, and a delightful dish of gnocchi and haloumi, followed by apple almond cake. Early to bed, I did my Persephone research.
DAY 7 - BATH + LONDON
Capaccinos and croissants with our hosts, then a tour of Alexa’s print studio, and a peak into her new model Riso. It’s a Japanese photocopier that can do multi-colour screenprinting; very niche, very cool technology. It sat at the end of their apple orchard, a modern end-cap to a “pretty bit of wilderness” at the edge of their Georgian home. A lovely juxtaposition.
We Ubered into Bath, and shopped in earnest. Having slept on the decision, I returned to Anthropolgy to buy a waxed cotton jacket with herringbone trim. I will need to add another coat of wax to make it Vancouver-ready, and then I think it’ll become a regular piece. I found a haberdashery and bought silk ribbons, feeling very Bennett-like. There was British bunting with the Wales dragon, but it would have been $100 with the exchange, and I had to hold back.
Persephone! Back we went to our primary pilgrimage, but instead of bringing offerings, we left with theirs, each accompanied by a bookmark matching the endpapers. Our parcels getting rather heavy, we stopped at the Raven pub. Our hosts had recommended the rooftop patio, which, now that I think of it, we never quite got to. Their house ale was marvelously dark and flavourful—I am such a fan of half-pints. Enough to quench your thirst before feeling bloaty. Their Ploughman’s board had fresh, chewy rye, fizzy tomato chutney, the best blue cheese I’d ever tasted, pickles, Irish butter, and onions.
There was also The Worldbuilders of Queen Street, a very unique concept in which a single maker in residence showcases all aspects of their craft. In this season, it was the triumvirate K.M. Moke, who had recently released their first sci-fi novel complete with original art, immersively stretched across canvas and print materials. I regret not lingering longer, or picking up a copy—though the day’s shopping was already weighing both shoulders, and the thought of another hardcover book felt de trop.
A little sight-seeing, but none of the traditional photos of the Crescent or Bath. Perhaps it seems crazy to go all that way without, but ours was a different mission.
Train back to London, where Hannah and I split up. She would recover our luggage from Stasher, and I would pay homage to the Victoria & Albert Museum. I paid $10 to check my backpack, relieving me of the weight of my book purchases, leaving just two lighter bags to carry. The coat clerk was surly, and I felt sorry for him to have to spend his entire shift next to the washrooms in a windowless corridor. But my sympathy drained when I went into the museum proper to find that 90% of it was closed due to “industrial action”. The 10% that was still open had lights dimmed and monitors quietly ushering people back into the foyer. The cafe was open, but the world-renowned gift shop was not. If staff wanted more wages, shouldn’t they facilitate the greatest possible revenue? I was “most seriously displeased”. Hannah suggested I make use of my checked backpack and hop across the street to the Natural History Museum or Science Museum, but a quick perusal reminded me too much of recent museums I had attended. It’s hard to beat Science World and the Drumheller institutes.
Poor Hannah. While I was foiled by a strike, she was stuck with a locked box and silly customer service. We had returned at the 26-hour mark, and while my luggage could be retrieved with the hotel front desk, hers was blocked in Stasher’s white compartments. The hotel did not have an override code (ridiculous!) and she was on hold for 90 minutes before finally convincing someone to open her locker. When I met up with her at the Hyde Hotel across from the Old Bailey, we were grateful for a shower and refresh.
It being our last night in London, we donned our new dresses and decided on a food crawl—starting at the Humble Grape. Our waiter was the Upseller Supreme, slipping in an offer of olives which of course were not complimentary, and the roasted cauliflower and squid dishes rather bland. The organic Sauvignon Blanc Grillo from Italy was superb, however. Next was laksa from Chi Noodle, decent flavour and portions. Then a leisurely walk along the Thames, a distant view of the Eye, and finally to our terminus, Zedel!
From Prohibition days gone by, this basement retreat was full of class, live jazz, and excellent people watching. We had more Sauv Blanc with scallops in a shell and delightful Pêche Melba. What a way to end our trip!
Day 8 - Home
How nice to have a slow morning. The hotel staff brought up their luggage scale, and thank goodness because my suitcase was 60 lbs. I got it down to 50.04, and stuffed my carry-on duffel with 22 lbs of books, cushioned by my new coat. British Airways does not seem concerned with volume, as they allow 50 lbs in carry-on and another 50 lbs in personal items. Following Hannah’s example I planned to bring 3 bags onto the plane without incident, and check my main luggage.
We visited the British Museum; the clock room showcasing human ingenuity powered by gravity, the pillaged Egyptian and Assyrian marvels hewn from rock. I felt a lump in my throat at the display of artistry from an age so far gone—how many lives had looked upon these stony faces and hoped for more than sun and toil? We had such limited time, but we blitzed through the gift shop. I picked up a magnet that mirrored a Viking-era chess queen, her wide eyes and hand resting on her chin the very picture of a troubled ruler.
Liberty next. Patterns abounded, and unaffordable clothes, jewelry, perfume, and everything beautiful. I found some items that I could enjoy daily, such as an embossed water bottle, cotton neck scarves, William Morris pens, and tea towels. Their Seventy Five cafe was a decadent dish after another; marmite focaccia, heirloom tomato salad, butternut squash gnocchi with toasted sage, and golden beet salad—all washed down, of course, with milky British tea. Hannah made friends with an Israeli grandmother, speaking the fifth language I heard her use on this trip. London was full of friendly people. I left feeling very rich—never mind the bill.
Then to King’s Cross, to stock up on Fortnum & Mason teas and pick up a fold-out Bayeux Tapestry book for Kyle. I must commend M&S for their affordable to-go food options. Perfect for commuters (you’ll see a $4 meat pie below, which is so dense it must be eaten in two sittings). Burdened with plunder, we taxied back to our hotel to pick up luggage, deciding to keep the meter running and go straight for Paddington station. Unfortunately, this driver decided to take a suspiciously circuitous route, us being two (assumed) unsuspecting females. This caused us considerable delay and expense. We were later able to reduce the charges after proving to the cab company of the issue.
The Heathrow Express leaves every 15 minutes, but we had just missed one, and were feeling short on time as we pulled into the airport. We agreed to meet up after security, but were foiled by the bafflingly inefficient BA check-in system. Kiosks to scan your passport and print your ticket? Fine. But then to expect you to process your checked baggage? Weigh your bag; measure your bag—too tall, please rotate. Time out. Start over. Print the luggage tag. Oops, did you forget to tear off the bottom stub before attempting to stick the two red sides together? Ah well, do your best to smooth out the wrinkled barcode. Scan the barcode, with a faulty scanner. Error. “Kiosk temporarily unavailable”. Twenty kiosks, dozens of bottlenecked, bewildered passengers, and a single attendant helping at the opposite end of the row. I waited 15 minutes for relief, but after none came, I hauled my bag off and bundled over to a handicapped counter. “Listen, my flight leaves in less than an hour, I’m supposed to be meeting my friend, and there is absolutely no one to clear the kiosks over there. Can you just scan my bag in? I’ve already got the tag.”
That done, security had a line-up, and of course my 22 lb duffel was randomly selected to be swiped for explosives. “That’s a lot of books,” she says. “Christmas presents,” I say, omitting the fact that most of them are for me. Then to the gate, but while 8 and 9, and 11 and 12 are just down the corridor, 10 is down two escalators. Then there is gates 10a, b, c, d, e, f—I find mine almost obscured from view by no fewer than 100 passengers alarmed at the repeating messages on the above screens that advise our flight’s boarding is closing soon, despite only just having opened. Outside, there are two city buses with our flight’s name on the side display. They fill up and drive away. Half an hour later, I’m scanned through and loaded onto a bus as one of the last, and I just glimpse Hannah still stuck in the line as the bus pulls away. We had discussed the possibility of considering a return delay if we’d been offered more than $1,200 credit, but after such an ordeal, I was very glad to be going home. By the time we had driven across the airport to a different terminal, past a dozen giant airbuses, I was struck by the sheer scale of this airport, and how small YVR was in comparison. How London is the beating heart of London, pumping culture, travellers, and commerce into all artery lines. I found my seat with 10 minutes to spare, but in the end the flight was delayed over half an hour, no doubt caused by their kiosk kerfuffle.
9.5 hours with no leg room and no sleep is very long, but the yellow curry chicken meal was considerably better than the beef, and I had a pleasant seat-mate who extrapolated on fiber technology, and how information could be sent at the speed of light, which I found very enlightening, mind the pun.
Home again, with two very excited kiddos and trinkets to bestow, and an hour’s drive home to finally stretch out and sleep. It took a few days for my body to get back to this time zone, and I feel like I’ve awakened from a dream. That was the most bustling, saturated, joy-filled trip, one with photos and textures and textiles to touch and reminisce. London is clean, and beautiful beyond description—so full of history and beauty and bountiful window-boxes lovingly watered by hand from second-story windows. Visiting there felt like the culmination of so many things, and also the inspiration to live broader.
The trip would not have been possible without the support of my family, and the generous organization of dearest Hannah—and, of course, the generous assistance of my dear mother-in-law. If you’ve made it to the end, I hope this trip has inspired you to dream up a similar adventure with a kindred spirit! Where would you go?
