London swings like a pendulum...

Ahh! I do like to be beside the seaside.  Blithely partaking in the sea air with those near and dear in Whitstable this past week has been a tonic for the soul.  But one really does miss the hurley burley of a bustling city so it is with some pleasure that I find myself back in old London town once more.  The colours, sounds and the life of London can hit you like a sledgehammer but it can also nurture you in a way that only a large metropolis can.  Too soon, I know I will be far away in other climes so a quick whip around the streets to take my fill is totally in order. But one can not be sated by sights and sounds alone, so what better accompaniment to the senses than a large brandy (a Courvoisier Exclusif in this instance) at Buck's in Mayfair...an old favourite club, deliciously warm and chocolatey, a hearth of sublimity that only London can provide. 

Dominating domes and...happy funerals?

You always know where you are in London when you can spy the magnificent dome St Paul's Cathedral.  A casual and often mindless wander through the lanes and alley ways of old London town can leave one totally flummoxed as to one's exact whereabouts. But once you spy the dome of St Paul's in the distance you can find your place in the world again. Sitting proudly on the 'highest' point of London, it is indeed...a bit difficult to miss! While not the tallest structure in London, it does apparently have, the highest of celestial influence.  Deep in contemplation of said celestial influence and hence, the hereafter, I was spookily but not unpleasantly surprised to find myself before...a funeral parlour...not just any funeral parlour mind you, but one purporting to be "Happy-Go-Lucky". What larks! What high jinx! Chancing upon such an establishment deserves more than just a passing reference and what better drop to consider the opportunities such an establishment offers than a reflective dram of Benedictine; that delicious liqueur distilled from herbs, roots and sugar with a Cognac base...heavenly.

A night...and day on the tiles.

I survived the cellars and, might I say, it was like frolicking in a vat of mead except, thank goodness,  it was port. After some considerable and serious recovery,  and a great deal of reflection, it occurred that one can't go past a Good Friday without some sort of pilgrimage to a construction of God.  I have never seen such suffering and blood letting than I did in the churches of Porto. Amazing iconography...so dark, portentous and reminiscent of my old gothic friend Nick Cave, the old churches of Portugal are indeed amazing. The tiles that embrace each haven of worship tells a story of epic proportions that one can only marvel at the skills of the craftsmen that dedicated themselves to the construction of these glazed wonders. In benediction and supplication, the only suitable honour is the consumption of a sweet dram of Benedictine...that sumptuous liqueur made of herbs, roots and sugar with a base of Cognac.  These churches must be seen to be believed...and I feel blessed.