Sentimental Journey

My wanderings take me through the Temple many evenings. I enjoy this. It could not, I think, be anywhere but London, yet it is quite unlike most of the City.

Those of you who, for some bizarre and unaccountable reason, are not familiar with the History and Geography of the City of London, should understand that the Temple is a large walled area between Fleet Street and the Thames, once the property of the Knights Templars, and thereafter the home of another parcel of deviant and heretical rogues, namely the British legal profession.

It constitutes a little town, entire unto itself, being a highly agreeable series of narrow cobbled streets, fountained courtyards shaded by London Plane or Mulberry trees, and exquisite lawned gardens. The majority of the buildings are 18th or 19th Century but some 17th Century courts exist, despite the best efforts of the Luftwaffe, damn them.

And of course it is the home of the Templar Church - a veritable magnet for credulous idiots the world over who believe that some great secret is to be found there (I hope I do not need to discuss Sauniere and the Priory of Sion - or the nonsense associated therewith).

I consider it, on long reflection, to be even more beautiful than Lincoln's Inn, its great rival - but it's a damn close thing. However, I digress...

This evening, I walked through the Temple in the chilled November darkness. It takes only a few yards before the noise of Fleet Street fades away and it grows quiet. I walked along empty lanes as little gusts of wind stirred the fallen leaves around. They chased each other in circles at my feet and their sussurations sounded like the complaining murmurs of generations of failed plaintiffs. After four hundred years this is not an entirely incredible thought.

I passed Victorian clerk's offices lit incongruously by strip lights, the inevitable and unversal PCs glowing on every desk. A strikingly attractive young female lawyer, white-bloused, dark haired and sloe-eyed, worked at her desk in one office.

She stared out at her reflection, thinking on her case, as I walked past, unseen in the damp blackness outside. Did she sense my passing, I wonder?

It began to rain. Thin skeins of drizzle drifted in front of street lamps. The stone flags of the courtyards grew glossy with water. I coughed, and wheezed, and tucked my chin down into my collar against the jarring cold gusts of wind. And I found myself smiling. I found myself feeling rather fond of London. On nights like this, I think I love the Old Place.

God knows, I hate most of the inhabitants with a passion and if anyone is willing to drop a neutron bomb on it, I would welcome this, but despite the odious and despicable nature of its associated humanity, its streets heave with history - and it is alive with such opportunities for serendipitous discovery; such disparate beauty;and such moments of profound and simple pleasure, simply in being there, that it captivates one's imagination and captures one's heart. When you understand this (and only then, I think) you can understand what Dr Johnson truly meant when he said "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, for there is in London all that life can afford."

My head stuffed with such thoughts, I walked out of Temple onto the Embankment and rejoined the grim reality of cars and crowds and noise and the modern world (curse it). But it was a pleasant interlude.