Since Thomas Blood was pardoned by the king for trying to make off with the Crown Jewels, it seems a small imposture to act tourist and cross the Liberties in search of wealth. I mean knowledge, of course (may course the Thames until I end my song). The White Tower will keep another 1000 years but not so Will. I love the Gherkin, Shard and Tower Bridge nearby, and inside gleaming armour ranged in patterns putting the jewels in the shade. The walls of Henry III and Edward I essential for Mint and Armouries alike. But what about abounding shades, amores? Sad Edward V and brother, disappeared. Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard and Jane Grey. Inside St John’s Chapel, beneath barrel vaulting, I sit and meditate on all these things, while trying to imagine former richness, the 13th-century stained glass, cross of gold. The women come and go, the children play. Outside, the ravens’ black throws beefeaters’ blood red into relief. Relieved, I step out into a London winter, Romanesque and proud Londinium fading like a dream. I stand and watch the Thames then turn to see hordes of tourists queuing up to enter the London landmark I’m grateful to have left.
