England Day 3
England Day Three
Westminster Abbey is the eternal resting place of many monarchs, writers, and other famous figures. We paid our respects to the entire Tudor line, except Henry VIII. He’s conspicuously absent because he abolished many monasteries, which barred him from Westminster Abbey. Actions, as they say, have consequences.
To get from Westminster Abbey to Tower Bridge, we decided to take a boat. "Let's sit on the top deck," we said, unaware of the impending roast—and I’m not talking about the Sunday kind. The sun blazed down, and the umbrella in my adventure backpack proved useless against the wind. But the breeze did help, especially after my wife materialized with a beer. Who knew she did delivery? While she snapped photos, I quietly sneaked off for a second beer. Tipping isn’t a big deal here, and they even resist giving you small bills as change. Unlike in the U.S., where bartenders hand you five ones, hoping you’ll leave two behind, here they hand you a crisp £5 note. I tipped anyway, feeling like a benevolent tourist.
The views from Tower Bridge were spectacular. We crossed over to The Shard, Europe’s tallest building, which got its name because someone thought it resembled a shard of glass. It offers breathtaking views from the 68th-floor viewing platform, complete with astroturf floors. The maintenance question nagged me—who mows fake grass? While enjoying the view, I, of course, found the bar. Their beer selection screamed 1950s: four options, one of which was Peroni. Fine, I’ll take it. I considered ordering Dom Perignon for my wife, but her spider-sense tingled, and she intercepted me. House champagne it was.
The bartender, noticing my cracked glass, offered to transfer the beer to a new one. When I jokingly offered to drink carefully, he sweetened the deal by gifting me an extra bottle. Now double-fisting, I soaked in the views with the sophistication of a frat boy.
Lunch beckoned, and we headed to The Anchor, a charming pub we’d spotted earlier from the boat. Fish and chips, round two. This batch was superior, perfectly crispy, and paired with a delightful beer selection.
Sufficiently fueled, we embarked on another bridge crossing—the Millennium Bridge, the one destroyed by Dementors in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Walking across, I half-expected to see a cloaked figure swoop down.
Next up: St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the Duke of Wellington and Admiral Nelson rest. Both were celebrated for defeating Napoleon, a detail I appreciated more with each retelling. The cathedral’s ceiling was mesmerizing. The uppermost part remained colorless in the Protestant tradition, but the lower sections shimmered with gold and vibrant hues after Queen Victoria criticized its dullness.
After braving a jam-packed Tube, where my wife got booed attempting to board, we recalibrated. A taxi was the answer, and I executed this plan perfectly—with a full-on nap.
Dinner at Oxo Tower’s French restaurant was unforgettable. I devoured pork wrapped in prosciutto, a salty masterpiece. We shared a bottle of wine, and my wife, ever the negotiator, secured the summer menu special, which included dessert. The lemon blueberry cake we split was divine.
The evening promised adventure at London’s oldest wine bar. Hype levels were high until we encountered the dreaded words: “Summer Bank Holiday.” The bar was closed for this enigmatic occasion. “What holiday?” I asked. “Just Summer Bank Holiday,” they replied cryptically. We regrouped at an Italian wine bar, where we savored a bottle of Barbera d’Asti. Next to us, a petite woman demolished six plates of food with the energy of a competitive eater. Pasta, chicken, something resembling a gourmet Hot Pocket—she crushed it all, even chatting with the head chef. Dessert arrived: Ferrero Rocher. She had two; I had none. I’ll admit, I felt envy.
Content from the wine, I drifted to sleep dreaming of being a food critic—the kind who samples without writing reviews. And thank goodness dementors aren’t real.
