I have done absolutely nothing this past year except pound away at a book. For complicated logistical reasons that are far too boring to go into, I discovered last summer – rather in the manner of a Bank of England economist blindsided by the inflation rate – that I had badly miscalculated how long I had to finish it. A deadline that I had initially thought was February 2023 turned out to be July 2022. As a result, I have done nothing these past 12 months except write about the Romans. I have incinerated the Temple of Jerusalem, destroyed Pompeii, inaugurated the Colosseum and built Hadrian’s Wall. What I have not done, however, is much exercise – and so no sooner had I breasted the tape of my deadline than I was off for a 20-mile walk across London.
The capital is so infinite in its fascinations that during the lockdown my wife and I found our appetite for travel perfectly satisfied by going for long, themed treks across the immensity of its sprawl. The theme for last weekend’s walk was animals. We visited London Zoo, of course, but also a farm in Vauxhall and a riding school in Brixton. At the Tower of London we remembered in our prayers the elephant kept there by James I and which, poor creature, was never given anything to drink but wine. At Gough Square we paid our respects to Hodge, Dr Johnson’s beloved cat, and at Carlton House Terrace to Giro, a dog owned by Hitler’s first ambassador to London, and which, after an accident with a rogue electricity cable, was buried at the top of the steps leading to the Mall. Most moving of all was the memorial in Park Lane to the recipients of the PDSA Dickin Medal: the animals’ equivalent of the Victoria Cross.
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