We begin the day with a brisk, cool walk over Westminster Bridge to the Churchill War Rooms, where a short line waits for the museum to open. We chat with a group of Americans from Colorado until the line begins to move, and soon we descend into the bunker, collecting our audio guides along the way.
Like many London attractions, it’s a popular one—crowded and a bit slow to navigate—but fascinating. We move through the narrow hallways where Winston Churchill and his small but mighty staff planned during the war.
Though never directly hit, the bunker withstood heavy bombing above, and Churchill—reckless as ever—often had to be talked down from going up to the roof during air raids. I’m definitely no Churchill, but it reminds me of how I always want to go outside during tornado warnings.
The preserved bedrooms and offices feel frozen in time. One particularly odd and delightful discovery: Churchill’s fondness for velvet zip-up jumpsuits. Apparently, he had them custom-made for ease of wear.
The attached museum, packed with artifacts from his eventful life, is almost overwhelming, but worthwhile. By the end, we’re ready to breathe the fresh air again and give our feet a break from the shuffle-stand pace of the museum.
We stroll through St. James’s Park, where tulips are blooming in large cheerful bunches. Looks like we’ve arrived just in time for London’s Tulip Festival.
A short walk brings us to Buckingham Palace, complete with marching Beefeaters. I had forgotten about the grand fountain with the gold statue atop it. Crowds sit around it, enjoying the elevated view.
We continue along the palace wall and eventually reach the Hyde Park Corner Underground Station. The Tube doesn’t take us too close to The Fox & Pheasant, where we’re headed for lunch, leaving us a 20-minute walk past rows of cream-colored townhouses with colorful doors.
We marvel at the tiny, twisting stairs leading to basement flats and wonder how anyone moves furniture down there. We spot a Royal Mail delivery person and feel for him; delivering to these walk-ups and walk-downs must be quite the workout. Many letter slots bear handwritten signs that read “No Junk Mail,” which leads us to wonder: who decides what qualifies as junk? Does the mail carrier make the call? A mystery I may never solve.
We turn onto a quiet lane, and there it is: The Fox & Pheasant. Covered in blooming flowers and a classic sign, it’s the picture of English pub perfection.
We’re seated downstairs in the garden room. At first, we’re disappointed not to be in the main dining area, but our cozy corner table in the sunny, plant-filled space quickly wins us over. The waitress brings us an amuse-bouche—sliced carrots and cucumber with a beetroot hummus purée. Salty and refreshing.
We both order fish and chips, and they arrive with impossibly light, flaky batter. The fish has skin on, which seems to be the trend here, but it flakes right off. The chips are the best we’ve had so far—definitely “chips” and not “fries.” I order my first Guinness of the trip, and Kenny opts for Inch’s Cider. Both are excellent, and it’s clear: American Guinness is not the same.
Upstairs, I visit the Ladies and choose a stall with an old brick fireplace behind the toilet. Thankfully, the fireplace is not in use, but it gives the room a Harry Potter vibe. I half expected to be floo powdered straight to the Ministry of Magic when I pulled the ceramic chain.
After lunch, we head to Harrods Department Store. I didn’t get to visit on our last trip, so I’m excited to experience it. We wander through the expansive food halls, pausing longest in the chocolate and coffee sections.
The smell of roasting coffee lures us to the bar–an Americano is exactly what I need.
We explore the lower levels, stopping in the bookstore and gift area. We wind our way through rooms devoted to whiskey, wine, and travel accessories, and then take the Tube back to Westminster for some rest. But first, a quick visit to the Bonvoy Lounge at County Hall for tea and a scone with clotted cream and jam.
Refreshed, we head out again, walking toward our dinner reservation at The Ship Tavern. To avoid the increasingly chaotic crowds on Westminster Bridge, one of the hotel staff shows us a shortcut through Gilray’s bar, leading to a footpath along the river.
With time to spare, we wander through the Victoria Embankment Gardens, where even more tulips bloom. Turning a corner, we spot The Savoy Hotel and can’t resist popping in for a peek. It’s lovely, but not overly grand, though the history is palpable.
Finally, we arrive at The Ship Tavern, barely visible behind a lively crowd of post-work Londoners enjoying pints and conversation.
We squeeze past into the packed bar and find the stairs to the Oak Room dining area above. There’s no host, and after an exploratory loop through the space, we finally get help from the bartender, who sees our confused wandering and gets us seated.
Now—an admission. From the hotel to this very moment, my tights have been falling down, dragging my underwear with them. It’s maddening. Once we order ciders (Cornish this time), I bolt for the restroom, where I remove my boots, wrangle off the offending tights, standing one leg at a time like a teetering flamingo, and toss them into the bin. Good riddance. I emerge sweaty but triumphant, and return to the table with far more comfort and confidence.
We start with Welsh Rarebit, our first ever, and we love it—bold, cheesy, flavorful. Kenny orders the Beef Wellington, and I go with the Halibut Parcel, which turns out to be one of the best fish dishes I’ve ever had. It arrives looking like a roulade, wrapped in thin slices of butternut squash.
The fish practically melts in my mouth. Perfect texture, clean flavor, beautifully presented. Kenny’s Wellington is good, though I think the Halibut was the clear winner. We sip glasses of Spanish Rioja, and for dessert, share our first—and best—Sticky Toffee Pudding, topped with chilled clotted cream. I order a Glenmorangie 10 to go with it. Heaven.
Full and happy, we descend the Oak Room steps for the final time. The crowds have cleared, and we walk off our meal with a detour to Trafalgar Square.
The National Gallery glows behind Nelson’s Column, and the fountains shimmer in colorful light. We walk slowly down Whitehall Street, Big Ben glowing in the distance, leading us home.
The streets are quieter now. The vendors and pink and purple pedicabs have disappeared, leaving the city soft and hushed. We cross Westminster Bridge, soaking in the night.
Sleep finds me more easily tonight. Good thing—tomorrow is going to be an even longer day.
