There was not a single item on our agenda this morning, so we decided to take a walk. In the middle of this lovely tree lined street we came upon the oddest of things:

It was smack dab in the middle of the road and cars were driving around it. My theory it is part of the sofa installation crew from the truck in the background and somebody recklessly threw a lit cigarette away. I just can’t explain why it was perfectly in the middle of the street, but it was gusty today.

It was about an 8 minute response from the crew for those keeping track.

We continued on to the Abbey Road crosswalk.

Paul’s got nothing on Michele although I did try to get her to walk barefoot, not a chance.

By the time we got back to the flat is was time to head out for our long-awaited Sunday Roast. It is a lovely tradition in England to gather at a local pub and have a big Sunday meal with the family. I booked with the Windsor Castle Pub on Campden Hill Road in Kensington. Next week they are celebrating their 200th year in operation. We got the sharing platter:

It was a massive plate of beef, chicken and lamb with all sorts of roasted veggies and Yorkshire pudding. We ate nearly every bit, so good.

And in hopes of getting Traci off my back, I ordered the sticky toffee pudding. We were underwhelmed. So just in case it was simply a bad dish, later when we went to the Castle Pub in our neighborhood I ordered another one purely in the interest of science, and the results are in:

The manager chatted us up and pointed out a few things; he showed us the private room (really an alcove) where Agatha Christie used to take her meals (she lived on Sheffield Terrace just around the corner for 7 years) and they drew a curtain across the opening so she could have some privacy as she was pretty famous in the day. The women dining in her private room were unaware of this.

He pointed out the tiny doorways around the bar area, ostensibly to keep the riff raff in their place if I understand the posted sign.

This is the house Christie lived in.

After lunch we found the 452 bus and rode it to Knightsbridge Station to visit Harrods.

It’s big, the largest department store in Europe.

Each luxury line has their own boutique with enclosed walls, so the feel of a large department store is lost.

But you go for the service; it is impeccable.

There are escalators everywhere, but we found the Georgian Stairs that date back to the 1911 origin of the store.

After we shopped until I nearly dropped, we took the Tube back to Notting Hill Gate and wandered home, this time going up Ladbroke Road to see the more tony side of Notting Hill; stately row houses with their famous private green spaces. I wanted to climb the fence just like Anna Scott did.

Later on we had light dinner at The Castle Pub – I finally got my Scotch egg.

Across the street from The Castle is the front door where the famous paparazzi scene from Notting Hill was shot; even on Google Maps there are tourists posing in front of it.

Now it just looks like a used prop – on one of the columns is written “Sick of Tourists”. I don’t blame them, we are the worst.

And at lunch Mother’s Day did not go unrecognized as Michele got a ring of grandson Ash’s birthstone, aquamarine.

With love,

M&T