Sometimes you’ve gotta leave a place behind to realise what it really means to you. And it’s the little things—the memories, the community, your roots—that make home feel like…home.
My grandad moved to London from Jamaica in the ’60s. He didn’t have Google Maps or anything fancy like that, but somehow, he knew every corner of the city. Every hidden gem. He’d take me on these spontaneous trips when I was little—just the two of us. We’d hop on the Tube at Seven Sisters and ride all the way to London Bridge, still dressed in our Sunday best.
Some days, we’d walk off grandma’s Sunday dinner along the River Thames. And if I’d been good (which was most of the time)—we’d stop by an ice cream van for a 99—with a flake, of course. But the highlight was always Tower Bridge. ‘Watch this,’ he’d say with a grin, waving his hand toward the bridge like he was casting a spell. As if, somehow, he was the one making it open. And I believed it—every single time.
To me, London felt like a place where magic was real. But as I got older, the city started to lose its spark. I began working in the City, taking the Tube every morning, rushing through dark tunnels where you can’t see a thing until you reach the stations.
On weekends, I was too exhausted to explore the city. But, really and truly, who wants to go back near work when you finally have time off? I’d see tourists snapping pictures of Tower Bridge or the Shard, and I’d wonder what drew them here—to this grey, gloomy place.
So I left. I travelled to other cities, other countries, in search of something I thought London had lost. I felt a bit like Santiago—you know, from The Alchemist? Off I went, thinking somewhere else would bring me excitement, happiness—something new. But even with all my travels, something kept pulling me back…
When I returned, I wasn’t sure what had changed—whether it was time away, getting older, or slowing down, maybe. Who knows? It’s hard to pin it down to just one thing. But I started to see London differently.
Not by visiting the famous landmarks like Tower Bridge, London Bridge or Big Ben (though I did pop by). Nah, the real magic was in taking a stroll through the neighbourhood—the endz, as we call it.
Walking past old haunts, like my grandparents’ house, where my grandad lived. It’s different now. The house, that is. Bright and funky. But everywhere’s different—that’s gentrification for you.
And that’s when I got it. It’s the everyday things—the bits of London people don’t always talk about (unless negatively in the rags)—that really make this city what it is. As corny as it sounds, it’s all a part of me.
So, maybe my grandad wasn’t casting spells on London after all. Maybe he was casting them on me—so just like Santiago, I’d always find my way back home.