I can walk for hours through surprise city squares. There’s the gems I mentally store away for future visits: the Horniman’s museum and gardens, and there’s Charles Dickens’ house, not far from Great Ormond Street – how come I’ve never visited? There’s the new Everyman at King’s Cross – when will it be safe to visit? Questions that enjoyably buzz around my head.
London provides a familiar welcome home. It’s not necessarily cheery. I’m not talking about a warm cuddle or a reassuring back-rub. It feels more like I’m being greeted by a nonchalant wave
It seemed there were millions of people in South America in this challenging position – of recycling scrap metal, be it transistor radios or chicken wire. And their already challenging situation got a lot worse as soon as lockdowns were imposed.
I think there’s still some way to go until all the relevant authorities and agencies understand the psychology of men who fall victim to abuse – how stubborn and proud some can be, and how reluctant therefore, they can be reaching out to or responding to social services.
In my summer series reminiscing about previous holidays and travel both before and during the pandemic, my latest post is on post-lockdown life in one of France’s most sparsely populated regions.
Trying to forget my stomach (for at least one afternoon), we headed further east to genteel Pasadena, where the stunning Huntington Botanical Gardens are located. With the handsome peak of San Antonio rising high into the distance, we needed at least a couple of hours to explore the sixteen themed gardens – and to walk off the Reuben and Skipper sandwiches.