From the glory of the Victorian age and empire, to the teeming streets, train and tube stations, to the art, architecture, theatres and museums, to the river, the stately homes and the picturesque pubs, London is endlessly interesting. We’ve visited Ham House, crossed the Thames in a little ferry and caught a much larger ferry down the river to Greenwich, marvelled at the V & A collections, ridden the tube multiple times, taking the opportunity to observe Londoners in their natural habitat, and taken in a riveting theatre production (Giant at the Harold Pinter Theatre starring the wonderful John Lithgow).

London is also literary. There are blue plaques commemorating when and where a writer lived, bookshops everywhere and the newspapers and magazines available in news agents are numerous – from the frivolous (Hello! OK!) to the serious (London Review of Books, The Economist). It’s a good place to be a bibliophile and I have enjoyed reading hard copies of publications I usually read online. Though most commuters on the tubes seem mesmerised by their phones, there are plenty who read actual books. I sat beside one who carefully placed her bookmark, then wrapped the book in a fabric envelope, which she stowed in her briefcase before alighting.

A poignant sculpture in the forecourt of the Liverpool Street Station commemorates the Kindertransport. It immediately made me think of the marvellous Judith Kerr, who came to England via the Kinderstransport, and went on to write When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit, The Tiger Who Came to Tea and the Mog series. How much the poorer we would have been if she had not survived the Holocaust.