Besides pubs and theater, other musts for any worthwhile,
thinking traveler to London, are the array of not-to-be-missed bookstores. I’m not talking about the grab a novel
newspaper stands in the airports, or the thin selection in American malls. London is blessed with tome filled islands of
wonder that lure you inside and steal your hours, soaking in the smell of
printed works, reveling in the atmosphere of rebounding knowledge, in the
presence of brilliant minds. Speaking of
brilliant minds, in my benevolence, as you might guess, I have a few personal
treasures to share.
Foyles Books on
Charing Cross Road. Five stories
high. There are Foyles outlets all over
London. But, you’re going to Leicester
Square to pick up theater tickets anyway, so why not wander down Charing Cross
Road, which is noted for its array of second hand bookstores. Forget the musty stacks for now…although they
do have the charm and elegance of gray haired men, with frayed cuffs and
knotted ties. Time is short. Let’s keep going down a few blocks and step
into the Foyles flag ship.
 |
| Used books on Charing Cross Road |
Teenage brothers, William and Gilbert Foyle failed their
Civil Service Exams and decided to sell their textbooks. The rest of the story reads like a script for
a Hollywood movie. Bought used textbooks,
sold them for a profit. Opened a store,
outgrew it, opened another, etc. Finally
settled in the current location in 113-121 Charing Cross Road (1929!). See, even in a depression, there are those
who roll their money to the bank in wheelbarrows! Foyles has branches all over the world, but I
always prefer the original. By the way,
Foyles is still family owned and operated.
(http://www.foyles.co.uk/about-foyles)
You step through the door into the world of books. First thought. This shop isn’t so big. Hahahaha…you’re only
in the new book section, surrounded by a few thousand selections. Traipse upstairs, or downstairs. There are more worlds to conquer. Now, get to it.
Hatchard’s has been selling books from the shop on
Piccadilly since 1797! Prime location,
right next to Fortnum & Mason. Now
owned by Waterstone, Hatchard’s is still a fabulous bookstore of high,
polished-wood shelving, and there’s no way I can think of stepping into the
food emporium next door before I gaze over a few new titles, and browse the
never-ending stacks that stretch through fiction, non-fiction, art, travel, and
god only knows what else. It’s a
wonderful place to get lost in your dreams.
Hatchard’s often features book signings, with significantly famous
authors. (http://www.hatchards.co.uk)
Daunt Books,
83-84 Marylebone High Street , is not easy to find. (http://www.dauntbooks.co.uk)
By the way, the street is pronounced Mar-lee-bone. Nearby are Marylebone Road (huge), Marylebone
Rd (small), and Marylebone Street (tiny) Follow my directions closely: Take the underground to Marylebone Tube
Station. (Baker Street Station is closer, but who knew?) Get out of the
underground and up to the road. Look
perplexed. I scratch my head. Ask a few people for directions. Watch them scratch their heads. Unfold my map
and notice that London is a tiny dot, while the rest of England unfolds endlessly. Notice the huge Landmark Hotel. Race
inside. Get a better map from the
concierge and let him mark the spot.
Walk down Marylebone Road until I’m blocks past Madame Tussaud’s. This isn’t turning out well. Did the concierge say to turn at Madame
Tussaud’s? Maybe. Memory isn’t what it used to be after that
last pub. I wander the several blocks back
to Madame T’s. Turn at the spot I think
I remember and find myself on Luxborough Street. Keep walking he said. I had several pints of beer an hour ago. This is beginning to be troubling. Rain with a chance of soggy socks.
Luxborough Street is a looooong street. I pass the point of bladder control and am
headed toward the abyss of self-control.
I hurry back to the Landmark Hotel, which is several blocks behind me,
but offers the only faint hope I’ve got.
The Landmark gents room is a lovely place. All polished marble and mirrors. I spend an hour there, holding my own, idly
watching people come and go as I continue to unleash a torrent of after-market
beer.
I begin again. Past
Madame Tussauds and a hard right turn.
Looks familiar. Oh, yeah, been
here before. Seems like only moments
ago. Luxborough Street, check. Somewhere, the hip bone has got to be
connected go the thigh bone. I run into
Crawford Street. But, since this is a T
intersection, I’m faced with a dilemma.
With great trepidation (and half my brain calculating how far it is back
to the Landmark), I chance a left turn.
This may be the longest walk since Chairman Mao took his first step on
the thousand mile journey.
My need to find Daunt Books has changed from sunny joy, to
golden rapture (at finding a men’s room), to steel gray determination, to the
red heat of passion.
I once again stop and ask directions. The lady backs off a few steps and wraps her
arms protectively around her child. It’s
over there, she points and I hear the click of her heels as she speeds the kid
to safety. Was it my tone, or the
perhaps the way spittle flew in wide arcs?
It’s getting dark. If this
fucking place is closed…
I catch a glimpse of heaven.
The magic words, Marylebone High Street.
I ask again, just to be sure.
Daunt Books, I say so calmly I don’t recognize my own voice.
Right over there. The
man points across the street and down about fifty paces.
I race. Blessed sweet
mother of angels, it’s open! I gander at
endlessly long oak shelves, stare up at the high gallery, peel back a few
covers, browse until my eyes ache. Find
tales I simply cannot live without. Daunt Books specializes in travel, but they
have everything. Although parts of the
building date to 1912, the owner and the name date only to 1990, when the shop
was purchased by a former banker, James Daunt.
No matter the date or pedigree, this is another London treasure.
It’s now pitch black outside and I have no remote idea how
to trek back toward any known tube stop, or bus stop, or where I might find a
frightened mother and child to clear the path ahead.
Ah, but all is well.
Diagonally across the street is a championship pub. Prince Regent, reads
the sign over the heavy stone front.
Better yet, the bar is not crowded and they have my favorite, DOOM Ale
on tap. It may be raining outside, but
in here it’s sunny as a warm day on the beach with a bosom buddy, and the gents
toilet is only a short glance from where I’m celebrating with a few pints.
Before I finish this thumbnail sketch of London booksellers,
I must mention one small bookshop that never makes anyone’s list. South
Kensington Books is just steps away from the South Kensington tube
stop. It’s small, it’s independent, but
two things make it really special: price
and selection. Most of the books, which
include best sellers and many prominent authors, sell for half price or less. We’ve all seen half-price bookstores, but I’ve
never seen one that grabbed me and made me walk out the door with three books
under my arm. Only an iron will and the
airline’s baggage limit stopped my free-fall toward financial ruin.
Don’t for a minute think the South Kensington underground
station is out of the way. Right on the
Piccadilly, District, and Circle lines.
Very artsy, quaint area surrounding the tube stop, including pubs, coffee
shops, restaurants, and ice cream parlors.
As was famously said, A man who’s tired of London is tired
of life.
Remember this short list of bookshops. They’re my favorites.
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