The relationship changes as soon as you realise you’re not taking the last flight home. London wraps itself around you. The buildings are so tall you can make it to the Tube in the rain without getting wet. It’s mesmerising how much time you spend underground. Nobody talks, as if it’s some sort of secret place.
London quickens your reflexes: you perch on the end of a row like a heron, watching for signs of movement, the minute a seat becomes free you dive. Strangers ask can they lift your bags as you struggle up the steps at Liverpool Street station. You love the immediate intimacy, awright daarlin.
The city has its own rhythm. Commuters file out of the train and up the escalator like a ballet troupe. If you lifted up your feet you might be carried along by the crowd, an Evening Standard thrust into your hand. Some days, though, it surprises you how much effort it takes to make your way through a sea of faces. It’s easy to get left behind here like the marathon stragglers limping behind the van at the halfway mark on Tower Bridge with a sign reading COURSE CLOSED: PLEASE FINISH ON FOOTPATH.
Transport for London maps out your route by tube, bus or boat, it emails you a map and estimated arrival time. Every journey is traced over layers of history. Blue plaques show you where Shakespeare drank and where Chaucer’s pilgrims set out. You feel like you’ve been photoshopped onto a postcard as you sit at Evensong in St Paul’s, the music swirling up towards the dome.
The word British is much less complicated on its own soil, the Union Jack splashed innocently across tourist tat. The Royal family are public property, the heir then the spare lifted triumphantly, like the Sam Maguire.
The priest comes out to shake your hand at the back of the church after Mass. Radio 4 presenters interview guests without talking over them. Nobody jumps the queue. It’s as though there’s an invisible barricade straining to hold everything in place. You come to love the sense of tension. You imagine if one person raised their voice, chaos might break out. It feels like good manners are papered over a fault line.
Sometimes you’re the only one not wallpapered in tattoos. One man has a gun inked onto his forearm, when he scratches his face he looks like he’s about to shoot himself. There’s a sense of survival of the fittest. You never forget the first time there’s a person on the track.
Here in London, I’m exploring where grapes grow and why, where they make their home: terroir and territory. I have plans charted all over the wall and a carpet of notes arranged geographically across the floor. I’ve harvested in Suffolk and planted on virgin territory in Kent, the GPS system logging each vine onto the system. The exams wine students sit across the world are issued from London. Winemakers gather from across the globe, the mountain comes to Mohammed. There’s an invisible choreography at tastings. Sorry, says the man in front and I lean towards the spittoon, as if bowing to a dance partner.
I’m here on a bursary, so the relationship will come to a natural end. It will become a long distance thing. The truth is, I love London but it’s not home. The city shelters you from the elements but sometimes you miss the stars.
