Stay, I promise won’t. I’ll take you on another walk instead. It started with D waking me up at 6.30am on Sunday morning with a ‘Happy anniversary!’. When that failed to wake me up completely, he said ‘Breakfast at Ottolenghi!’. And, that woke me up.
We took the train to the best breakfast in London. And the day that followed kind of sums up our marriage. It was Sunday, loose-limbed and relaxed. The sky was absurdly blue. We decided to pick tube stations on a whim, then get off the trains without a plan. Surprise ourselves. Do whatever took our fancy.
It was a day that we wouldn’t change an hour of.
8.30am. An early morning walk through Islington when the streets were as bare as the trees. When the flower shops were just waking up for business, and the bakers were baking their breads.
11.30am. A few stations and a couple of miles later, we found ourselves walking by the river in Richmond, sitting at a Bavarian cafe, and stumbling into a little courtyard market cooking fresh Morroccan food.
2 o’clock. Tapas for the tired, vino for the thirsty. Grilled chorizo and rocket. Gambas, soaked and sizzling in roasted garlic and chilli olive oil. Wilted spinach with raisins and pine nuts. Bread that reminded me of my childhood – toasted directly on fire, and burnt around the edges. Eggs with artichokes and serrano ham. And of course, patatas bravas.
4pm. Coffee by the roadside. A walk to work off that patatas. A train home. And just in time for Sherlock in ‘The Reichenbach Fall’.
A day that we wouldn’t change an hour of.