Nothing thrills my blood more than a trip into central London. The bustling crowds, the centuries old architecture, the bright lights. Black cabs and door men in top hats and coats. The glimpses of the Thames and the towering skyscrapers dotting the skyline. Rows of buildings with subtle plaques noting previous inhabitants; poets, authors, politicians, inventors. Gucci and Stella McCartney, tiny alleys featuring bespoke tailors by appointment to Her Majesty the Queen, all along side cockney street vendors shouting deals and two-fer-one offers. Every view a scene from countless novels. Every cobbled street a glimpse into the past. I can just imagine the passage of templar knights returned from the crusades. The quiet plash of barge oars bearing traders up the city’s river. The stews of Shakespeare’s South Bank. The bombed out buildings of the Blitz. I feel like I’m really in London. Not another grinding city. But a city at the centre of it all.