I was in London for work this week. I am always grateful for the chance to visit, but I find my tolerance for the city’s speed and noise diminishes every time I’m in town. Twenty-four hours in the tumult of capital life is often more than enough for me. This place moves at a relentless pace, and I can barely keep up.
It seems incredible to me that I survived London during my 20s and 30s. But in my urban years, I felt at home on busy streets as I moved with the crowd. Now, rather than being carried along by the momentum, I am too often overwhelmed.
Stripping my life back to its essentials and stepping away gave me the chance to slow down. But visiting the city is a much-needed reminder that so many others do not share the privilege of my choices. So I arrive in the capital with a simple question: Can I find peace in the busy streets?
The pace of the city
Stepping off the train at Euston is a dizzying experience. Over 90,000 people pass through the station’s ticket barriers every day; if I step out of my front door in Fleetwood and go for a walk along the seafront, I’m lucky to see fifty. There are more people on the platform than I might encounter in a month.
Instantly, I’m thrown into the jumble of humanity. People jostle to get moving, to find their way past fellow passengers who are struggling with cases and bags. The rush is palpable. I don’t need to get anywhere quickly - my work engagement isn’t until the following morning - but I’m carried along at speed. I hear my footsteps quicken to match the rhythm of the crowd.
Instinctly, I pick up the pace and weave through the throng. The exit from the platform narrows, and I’m keen to get to the end before I’m stuck in a bottleneck. Beyond the pinch point on the station concourse, people are poised like sprinters on the blocks, scanning departure boards for their cue to rush towards departing trains. Cutting through the fast-moving lines takes determination. Stepping outside and seeing the sky is a release.
Night walking
Hotel rooms can be a sanctuary, and I’m fortunate that mine is just across the street from the station. The rumble of Euston Road reaches me through double-glazing. I shelter from the noise for a while, lying on the bed and drinking tea.
By the time I steel myself to venture out, the sky is dark. But the streets are bright as daylight. Soft drizzle has turned into persistent rain, and I duel with umbrellas competing for space. Walking confidently through the crowd means looking up, down and around simultaneously, and every step holds the risk of collision. Once again, I find myself moving at a pace I seemingly cannot control, forced to make split-second decisions with every footfall.
Eventually, sweaty, I reach one of my favourite places in London. Foyles on Charing Cross Road occupies a huge building that previously housed Central St Martin’s Art College. It is now a temple to books. Up on the fourth floor, in the far left corner, is the best section. Travel. I find a collection of books about walking and pull a sample off the shelves to flick through. Perched on a kickstool, I am transported to other worlds.
Sitting for a little while gives me time to compose myself as I read about other walkers and the paths they have trod. I remember that, even if I have been hurried along, my next steps can always be at my own pace. I don’t have to move with the crowd. I can stop and notice.
A leaf on the pavement
I deliberately slow my feet as I step out of the store. I sense people at my back, frustrated to overtake me. I feel the crowd urging me to move with them, but I am determined not to be hurried. I want to take my time.
Charing Cross Road glistens after the rain. Light from shop windows, bus stops and streetlamps glances across the pavement, and I am struck by the signs of autumn that shine on my path. One particular leaf stops me in my tracks. It has been trodden on so many times that it has taken on the shape of the concrete it lies on. But it is remarkably intact.
If a leaf falls in a forest, its passing enriches the soil. This gift of nature will turn into a slippery mess, dissolving into a slime of cellulose. It is an inconvenience waiting to be swept away. Yet here it is, out of place, dissolving into the wet pavement, crushed under the feet of a thousand Londoners.
I stop to take its photo. As I do, I become one of the people I used to hate when I lived in the city a lifetime ago, before I learned to slow down. I am the dawdler, the tourist, the one who obstructs a busy pavement, the one who blithely ignores the urgency of the crowd and becomes an obstacle to progress.
“Oh, for fuck's sake,” a woman sighs as she nearly collides with me.
Slow morning
The noise of the road keeps me awake into the early hours until exhaustion finally pushes me into the silence of sleep. I am tired, but I wake with a new appreciation of the possibilities of moving at my own pace. My work location is less than half an hour from my bed, and I have time to experiment with being slow.
My walk to work takes me through the heart of Bloomsbury. The district is a historic centre of writing and learning, and it was home to Virginia Woolf, E.M. Forster and Lytton Strachey. I went to university here, attending Birkbeck College, and the surrounding streets feel so familiar to me. Away from the busy main roads, Bloomsbury offers spaces of stillness.
Many of London’s garden squares are locked behind railings, but Gordon Square is open to all. Its towering trees block out the surrounding buildings, and the noise of the city seems to ebb away. It is a tranquil place to sit, think and make friends with squirrels.
This is no wilderness, of course, and I am not alone. Still, Gordon Square is a beautiful reminder that there is life in the city beyond the roar of main roads and the bustle of crowds. But although this square is theoretically open to all, it also acts as a painful prompt that access to green spaces in urban environments is not equal. Bloomsbury is, and always has been, a place of privilege.
The privilege of walking
London is exceptionally green, with over 3,000 parks and public gardens and more than eight million trees. But twenty-one million people in the UK don’t have a green space within fifteen minutes of home. Recent research from the National Trust identified 295 deprived neighbourhoods around the country that they describe as “grey deserts” with no public parks or even trees.
I am profoundly grateful for the opportunity to slow down in the city, visit beautiful parks and move at my own pace. It is hard to hear the rhythm of my feet when the city roars, but I can give myself the gift of time to listen and learn. And I can return to the wide open space of Morecambe Bay, with easy walking on my doorstep.
Yet too many others don’t share this privilege. Finding time is an impossibility, and green space is beyond reach. Neglected parks and quiet streets often feel unsafe. All of us should be able to wander, but few of us can.
I’ve come away from London with mixed feelings, and I’m not sure if I answered my question. I want to believe it’s possible to find peace on busy streets, but the injustice of unequal access to walking in cities disturbs me. I hope it disturbs you, too. And I hope we can find answers, together, so that walking can be for everyone.
The privilege of having green space so close to home is one I take for granted. Thanks for the reminder of the gift of living in such a verdant place.
I like the bit about stopping to photo a leaf & getting barged - sounds exactly right!