My London: Simon Callow

The Salisbury in St Martin’s Lane, which has had several lives – once an actors’ pub (all the agents were in the area), then a gay pub, then just a regular pub. Through all the changes of identity, it has maintained its magnificent cut glass mirrors, its polished wooden bars, its glittering ambiance. Just next to the Noël Coward Theatre. The pub is named after the original landlord, whose descendant, the 7th Marquess of Salisbury, still owns the block. His ancestor, the 3rd Marquess, was one of Queen Victoria’s Prime Ministers. History is everywhere in London. 

The Royal Albert Hall, now restored to its original glory, but with vastly improved acoustics, is a monument to the Victorians’ belief in the power of music. But there is nothing formal or stuffy about it – it’s an arena, a great public space – and when the BBC Proms moved there in World War II, it became a gathering place for the nation. The mood is both festive and rapt; nobody dresses up, but there is a huge sense of occasion. The Proms are legendary, of course, but anything done there – concerts, operas, ballets, even boxing matches – immediately becomes dramatic and cheering.

From the top of Primrose Hill, on the edge of Regents Park, the whole city is spread out before one, through the gauzy prism of Lord Snowdon’s Aviary in London Zoo, on, on across to St Paul’s and the City and majestic Canary Wharf beyond that. The hill itself was partly created out of the rubble excavated to lay down the railway lines; to the left, the little village of Regent Park’s Road is a warren of  cake shops and cafés and a French farmer’s market at the weekend. All very civilised.

Kensington Gardens: trees, boating, the Serpentine Gallery and on the other side, coming from Paddington, is the Royal Albert Hall, and beyond it that extraordinary concentration of museums – Science, natural History, V&A – which the Queen wanted to call Albertopolis after her late, culture-crazy consort. You could spend a week in the area, just mooching about and ending up much the wiser.

Breakfast at home in Highgate, looking out into the garden and counting the different birdsongs; morning at the London Library, in St James’s Square, with its superb collection, dating from the early 19th century; madly buzzing lunch at the Delaunay in Aldwych with a director or a designer or a publisher; afternoon boating in Hyde Park, followed by an exhibition at the Serpentine Gallery; a concert at the Albert Hall, supper at the sublime Ledbury Restaurant in Portobello; late night gig at Ronnie Scott’s. Bed. 

There are at least twenty buildings I’d like to rip out, some – like the Queen Elizabeth Hall, from the brutalist 60s, which get uglier with every passing year, and they weren’t winning any beauty competitions when they were new. And I’d protect areas like Charing Cross Road, where, astonishingly, a few booksellers manage to cough up the vast rents that their landlords charge them. But too many go under. The original Foyle’s building was demolished the other day; I shed a tear.

I have lately fallen in love with the Tube. This is partly because Highgate, where I have recently moved, is very well served by it, but also because the revitalisation promoted by Ken Livingstone during his Mayoralty.   

Harry’s Bar in Mayfair, which as far I know, is not connected to the ones in Venice and Rome and elsewhere. It’s simply the best Italian food anywhere outside of Italy, and possibly inside it too. Utterly ravishing, and like all the greatest Italian food, never greater than when simplicity itself. The wine list is quite a  thrill, wines from regions of Italy that I can’t even find on the map. Men can now go there without a tie on, which I think is probably a good thing.

Walk as much as you can. Every three minutes, there is a change of atmosphere, of style, of class, of wealth. And as you walk, look up – the tops of the buildings are glorious. Our ancestors didn’t stint on anything: they decorated every last detail of their houses. Just experimentally walk along the Strand, say, and look up – there’s so much wit and imagination and history up there which nobody knows about. Be careful of course not to bump into people on their mobile phones, because they won’t be looking where they’re going either.