In early December 1952, London — a city accustomed to its pea-soup fogs — found itself swallowed by something far darker: a wall of toxic, sulphurous smog that lingered for five days and changed the course of urban environmental policy forever. It began, as catastrophes often do, with something ordinary — a winter chill, a kettle’s hiss, the sound of coal crackling in the grate.

If you’ve ever ambled along Regent’s Canal on a rare sunny afternoon—perhaps dodging cyclists, lapping up overpriced coffee, or pretending not to eavesdrop on couples arguing outside houseboats—you might have spotted something decidedly unexpected: a terrapin, sunbathing like it owns the canal. Yes, really. Terrapins. In London. Not in a zoo or aquarium, but living their best semi-aquatic lives right here in the capital, quietly thriving in the murky waters between Limehouse and Little Venice.

If you were to draw a map of London’s criminal underworld in the middle of the 20th century — the real one, not the movie version — it would begin in Mile End, snake through Whitechapel, cross Petticoat Lane, and end beneath the neon buzz of Soho. And standing astride that route, somewhere between myth and man, would be one name: …

There’s a giant chunk of ancient Egypt plonked in the middle of London, and most people barely give it a second glance. Cleopatra’s Needle, an imposing 21-metre (69-foot) obelisk covered in hieroglyphs, stands on the Victoria Embankment, looking slightly out of place among the joggers, pigeons, and traffic fumes. It has nothing to do with Cleopatra, it nearly drowned on its way to Britain, and a time capsule buried beneath it contains, among other things, a portrait of Queen Victoria and a set of ladies' undergarments.

In the clatter and coal-smoke of Victorian London, amid the swirling soot of empire and exploitation, there lived a man whose story feels ripped from a penny dreadful — if penny dreadfuls had known how to tell the truth. Alec Munroe, born in Kingston, Jamaica, around 1850, was a boxer, a lion tamer, and an East End legend whose tragic end lit up the London night like a match to gaslight.

There they go again—two suited men, shuffling in lockstep through the East End fog, as if summoned by some arcane urban spell. Gilbert & George: not quite a duo, more of a double-headed myth. A singular entity split in two, eternally wandering the piss-slick pavements of Spitalfields. Victorian undertakers lost in time? Performance art pranksters? Living ghosts with excellent tailoring?

There’s something intoxicating about London’s flea markets — part nostalgia, part archaeology. They’re the city’s slow heartbeat beneath the glass towers and chain cafés: places where time frays, and the past feels almost affordable. Forget the glossy world of “pre-loved” boutiques. These markets are where the word vintage still means “someone else’s problem, now yours.” The reward is in the rummage, the haggle, the strange beauty of the slightly broken.

On a quiet patch of land off the Old Kent Road once stood a Soviet tank—yes, an actual tank—graffitied in pinks, greens, and slogans, facing down the local council like a stubborn Cold War relic th…

There’s something intoxicating about London’s flea markets — part nostalgia, part archaeology. They’re the city’s slow heartbeat beneath the glass towers and chain cafés: places where time frays, and the past feels almost affordable. Forget the glossy world of “pre-loved” boutiques. These markets are where the word vintage still means “someone else’s problem, now yours.” The reward is in the rummage, the haggle, the strange beauty of the slightly broken.

The West London area Park Royal is the city's kitchen — a place that clatters and steams long before the rest of the city wakes. It’s not a beauty spot or a brunch destination; it’s the vast backstage where the capital’s appetite is prepared. Every city needs somewhere to get its hands dirty. Park Royal is that place: sprawling across 1,200 acres, housing more than 1,200 businesses, and quietly feeding around a third of London’s population every day.

Step out of Russell Square station and the Kimpton Fitzroy doesn’t so much appear as announce itself: a full city block of thé-au-lait terracotta, turrets and swagger, like a French château that took a wrong turn at Calais and decided London would do nicely. This Grade II* listed grand dame has been many things since 1900 — a byword for Victorian excess, a wartime survivor, a conference haunt, a 21st-century reboot — but never, ever shy.

If you were to design a pub to impress a Victorian banker, it might look something like The Counting House on Cornhill — only you’d probably tone it down a little for fear of gilding the lily. This is a place that doesn’t just whisper “old money”; it serenades it under a domed glass ceiling. The marble gleams, the brass glows, and the bar is so polished you half expect to see your overdraft reflected back at you.

A laundrette with soul Hidden among the sculptural concrete of the Barbican Estate hums a survivor from another age — a place of warmth, rhythm and stubborn beauty. The Barbican Launderette, is that rarest thing in London: a utility that became an icon. It’s been running since 1973 and looks it — in the best possible way. A mint-green time capsule where nothing has been upgraded, refitted or focus-grouped.

A laundrette with soul Hidden among the sculptural concrete of the Barbican Estate hums a survivor from another age — a place of warmth, rhythm and stubborn beauty. The Barbican Launderette, is that rarest thing in London: a utility that became an icon. It’s been running since 1973 and looks it — in the best possible way. A mint-green time capsule where nothing has been upgraded, refitted or focus-grouped.

In Mayfair, that district of polished limestone and quiet money, there stands a building that refuses to behave. At 22 Farm Street, a half-timbered fantasy squats between the restrained façades like a time-traveller who missed the memo on modernity. It’s called The Farm House — though there’s nothing agrarian about it except the faint whiff of myth clinging to its name.

Every day, millions of Londoners descend into the city’s underworld — that humming labyrinth of tunnels and timetables we call the Tube. For most of us, the journey is mundane: headphones in, Oyster tapped, brain switched off. But for a small, unseen number, it’s the final journey they ever plan to take. And standing between them and the tracks, quite literally, is one man: …

Every day, millions of Londoners descend into the city’s underworld — that humming labyrinth of tunnels and timetables we call the Tube. For most of us, the journey is mundane: headphones in, Oyster tapped, brain switched off. But for a small, unseen number, it’s the final journey they ever plan to take. And standing between them and the tracks, quite literally, is one man: …