London Calling…
- Amy Digges
- Jul 4
- 11 min read
Ever heard of Play Airlines? Yeah… neither had we. Until we booked tickets. Flight attendants strutted through the terminal in head-to-toe bright red suits like they’d been recruited straight from the Big Top. I briefly wondered if we’d accidentally booked the inaugural flight of Cirque du Soleil Air. Spoiler alert: this airline is not entertaining in the slightest.
In fact, Play Airlines is as bare bones as air travel gets. You want water? That’ll be extra. A tiny snack? Nope. Ginger Ale to calm my mid-Atlantic nausea? Not unless I was willing to remortgage the house. There’s no in-flight magazine to distract you — unless you tap your credit card first. The only complimentary item? A vomit bag, charmingly branded in cheerful red script with the slogan: Return the Flavor! Ew. Just…no. That wasn’t necessary.
So there I was, wedged into my cardboard-thin seat, shifting positions every seven seconds from Baltimore to Reykjavik and then from Reykjavik to London, while our kids tried to watch their downloaded movies with subtitles and zero sound. Who left the headphones sitting on the kitchen counter? I won’t name names—but let’s just say the finger-pointing was subtle but ever present.
Final destination: Greece. So why, you ask, are we stopping in London first? Excellent question. The answer comes in two parts:
1. My brother Matt and sister-in-law Megan recently moved to Nottingham for a two-year adventure with Capital One, and we were determined to visit their new UK stomping grounds while we were in the “neighborhood” (meaning close continents).
2. Our friends Shannon (far right) and Roy left Baltimore for London exactly 11 years, 10 months, and 6 days ago. Very specific, I know. And if it seems I haven’t gotten over their departure, well, it’s because I haven’t. Their departure is forever etched in my memory—not just because they abandoned us for scones and afternoon tea—but because it happened to be the day Gaelan came home from the hospital.
I still remember standing on the corner of Randall and Covington Streets, Shannon leaning over to peek at my newborn, all of us making those heartfelt, slightly delusional promises to definitely stay in touch. You know how that goes. Sometimes friends move 20 minutes away and it feels like they’re on Mars.
But, to Shannon’s credit, she’s never let the Atlantic get in the way. Thanks to the magic of WhatsApp voice memos and a few meet-ups in Spain and Ireland, we’ve managed to stay connected. And now, here we were, in her neighborhood—ish.
We tumbled out of our cramped taxi (to be honest it’s always cramped with six people) in a cute suburb outside of London, bleary-eyed, and jet-lagged. But what a joy to finally see this crew of friends who feel more like family.
There is honestly nothing better than catching up in someone’s kitchen, fueled by a bucket of “crisps”, some homemade sandwiches, and the overwhelming pressure to squeeze 500 hours of life updates into 48 hours of reality.
But there was no time to lounge—we had to stay awake if we were going to beat the jet lag. So, after lunch, we rallied to pick Roy up from work and sneak in a whirlwind city walk. Our first stop? The Sky Garden rooftop, where you can soak in sweeping views of iconic London sights: The Gherkin, Tower Bridge, and the ominous Tower Dungeons.
We also got a peek at the infamous Walkie Talkie building—more modernly known for its architectural blunder than its skyline charm.
During construction, the building’s concave glass created a solar death ray so powerful it melted cars parked on the street below. Yes, really. That day, every descendent of a tortured ant, gone by way of magnifying glass, stopped carrying their load and saluted the Walkie Talkies.
The incident earned the building its well-deserved nickname: The Walkie Scorchie. They’ve since added window tinting and reflective panels so unsuspecting vehicles no longer suffer molten casualties.
The adults sat out on the patio that opens from the kitchen in a grand, full-wall reveal, while the kids sat inside. We tucked into a gorgeous home-cooked dinner—salmon, roasted potatoes, and a fresh green salad. Dessert was a proper British Eton Mess: strawberries, meringue, and clouds of whipped cream. Afterward, full and happy, we tumbled into bed in their beautiful home, content in every way that matters.
We were up early the next morning and on the Tube, heading toward Little Venice. If there's one thing London might consider investing in, it’s air conditioning. Everywhere. Thoughts of London usually conjure images of fog, rain, and a brisk chill—even in summer—but our version of the city, was sun-soaked and surprisingly warm. Especially on the Tube. In those moments, you learn to covet the precious sliver of breeze that slips through an open window between train cars. Normally, I’d blanche at the thought of underground wind... but on this day, I said: bring it on.
We hopped aboard a London Canal Boat, slid open the windows, and settled in for a peaceful, slow-paced cruise. This low-slung boat glided smoothly through Little Venice, past moored houseboats and under ancient tunnels so tight the roof nearly kissed the ceiling. Back in the Industrial Revolution, before motors were a thing, canal workers would literally lie on top of the boats and “leg it” through the tunnels—pushing off the ceilings of the tunnel with their feet to move the boat forward. Some of the larger tunnels could take more than 30 minutes of exertion before exiting out the other side. Imagine the calves on those guys.
As we drifted along, we passed rows of mansions, houseboats (and one Chinese restaurant) owned (or rumored to be owned) by British celebrities—including members of The Rolling Stones. Some of these floating homes look a bit rough from the outside—bathtubs perched on the roof, laundry flapping in the breeze—but if they're selling for £600,000, you can bet they're stunning on the inside. London’s version of canal-side glamping.
Just as I was starting to fuse with my seat and let my eyes droop to the soothing sound of the boat captains British accent, we arrived at Camden Market. Suddenly, tranquility gave way to sensory overload: a bustling dock, a maze of wooden food stalls, the scent of global street food, and crowds surging around the canal, with a hodge-podge of wooden slatted shacks filled with every manner of lunch you could think of. It felt like a carnival stitched together from staircases and shipping pallets, all cobbled together with stairs to other levels that all bordered the canal’s brackish water. Winding our way through the throngs of people, we sought out smoothies for a quick pick me up before walking to Regent’s Park.
Seeing as London is the birthplace of Punk Rock, with bands like The Sex Pistols and The Clash, it seems fitting that our walk to Regents led us through city streets with men in black full leather with electric blue Mohawks standing tall and fighting the breeze. Their tattoos have tattoos and thick silver facial piercings obscure their features. One in particular, carried a strangely poetic sign, “Help a Punk Get Drunk.”
Then, just as suddenly, we stepped into another world entirely. From 1976 - 1881. Regent’s Park. From punk to painterly perfection in a single turn.
The park was a scene straight out of a Renoir: soft green lawns, sun-dappled trees, families sprawled out on blankets, and people renting classic green-and-white striped deck chairs by the hour. The British, it turns out, take picnicking very seriously. And it’s not just a tourist thing—it’s a full-on Saturday tradition.
The café in the park does a mad business. As the only source of food, it basically holds a monopoly. “If this café doesn’t survive,” Liam quipped, “that’s on them.”
We opted for pizza on the grass, laughing and chatting with our wonderful friends. Avery—Shannon and Roy’s eldest and once Liam’s infant playmate—joined us after work. Watching her confidently navigate London’s streets and the Tube alone felt surreal. How is she old enough for this? Yet, here she is. And honestly? It’s impressive.
We kicked off our evening in true London style—with a ride on a red double-decker bus, naturally. And not just any seat: front row, top deck. If you're going to introduce kids to London transport, might as well do it with flair and a bird’s eye view of the city.
Our destination? A charming little spot called The Albion, tucked behind a terrace shaded by trees and twinkling string lights—straight out of a rom-com, honestly. The grown-ups scored a golden moment of peace at one table, while the kids entertained themselves at another. On the menu: risotto, fish and chips, and a few shareable starters. Spirits were high, beers were cold…oh wait, no they weren’t. We’re in England…but it all felt just right.
After dinner, we took the scenic route home, strolling through the quaint neighborhoods and quiet grounds of Arsenal Stadium.
If Shannon messages me on WhatsApp while she’s walking Ziggy, I can often hear the roar of futbol chants in the air.
We were nearly home, thinking about getting the kids tucked in so the adults could enjoy a well-earned nightcap, when things took a turn. The scent of jasmine and wisteria on her back terrace, which earlier had seemed so enchanting, suddenly hit me like a freight train. My stomach flipped, and I sprinted to the bathroom, where I dramatically lost the risotto.
Turns out I wasn’t alone—Roy had made the same desperate dash minutes before. And just when we thought the worst was over, Shannon went down too. All three of us had ordered the risotto. Coincidence? Hardly. The great Albion Incident of 2025 had struck.
I won’t dwell on it except to say two things:
Dogs have an uncanny ability to know when you're feeling wretched.
I am eternally grateful it was over in under six hours. It could’ve been so much worse.
Our original plan for the next day—an early trip to the British Museum—was swiftly abandoned in favor of some much-needed rest after the previous night. The kids, bless them, were more than happy to sleep in. But by mid-morning, the nausea had lifted. We said our long goodbyes, wishing each other a speedy recovery, and promising a call soon.
We dragged our luggage down the sidewalk and into the Tube for the next part of our adventure: A much-anticipated Digges family trip to the Warner Brothers Harry Potter Studio Tour.
Each of the kids had their own turn to read the books so when Onora learned about our trip to London this Spring, she made it her mission to plow through all seven books in a month. She needed to understand what all the fuss was about—and oh, did she ever.
Let me say this: if you're even remotely a fan of Harry Potter (or if you’ve ever loved any story that mixes wonder with detail), go. Seriously. But dammit, read the books first!
The experience is a love letter to the artistry of filmmaking—creature effects, jaw-dropping props, intricate sets, green screen demos, costumes, and the real-life Great Hall.
It’s the magic behind the magic. So, yes, the previous night might’ve ended in a gastrointestinal disaster, but the next day? Pure, magical redemption.
Now, it was time to see Matt and Megan for the last leg of our British journey. Late in the evening, we met up at our rented apartment near Kings Cross station, a perfect example of how location determines value, not the condition of the place itself. The pictures were misleading to say the least. It hardly mattered though because to see my brother peer into our living room window with a stupid grin was worth it.
A sticky morning start led us to the Tube from King’s Cross to Tower Hill for a Yeoman Warder tour of the Tower of London.
To tour or not to tour: That is the question. We usually opt to go it alone in most places, saving money for the food our older kids inhale along the trip. “I’ll have two appetizers and an entree, please.” So, my go-to move is to look up the most interesting facts and history about a place while we wait in line to get it. It serves two purposes: Gives us a bit of immediate background knowledge while passing time in a meaningful way. And sometimes, other families in line might say, “Keep going, this is interesting!” However, in this case, the Yeoman Warder tour is free so we decided why not. When something is without a cost, you never know what you’re going to get. But, man, was this guy worth it. Yeoman Warders are NOT tour guides and don’t you forget it. Each have served at least 22 years in the British Armed Services and, since the Tudor period, are the official guardians of the Tower and the famed Crowned Jewels. They are also known as Beefeaters, possibly due to the fact that, as the royal guard, they had the rare opportunity to eat beef right from the royal table. Decked out in full regalia in what looked like boiled wool, the poor guy was surely cooking himself in the London heat that day.
And, yet, despite his initial gruff exterior, he had a flair for expression and humor mostly taking a well-deserved “piss”, as they say, at Americans. I’ll say he does quite a “great…really great…the best in the world,” impression of Donald Trump. He took us through 900 years of British history in approximately 30 minutes, giving the run down of prisoners, beheadings, scandals, and political maneuvering of England’s royalty.
While we were sweating it out in line to see the sparkling Crowned Jewels and solid gold treasury as well as the White Tower’s enormous selection of armor, swords, and lances, Matt and Megan had quit the heat and headed to a pub or two to cool off. We met up later at the best Indian restaurant in the history of the world: Dishoom.
I don’t know if I’ll ever make it to India—though I’ll keep trying—but this spot might be the next best thing to experiencing its rich culinary traditions. Inside a soaring, double-decker space with swaying palm fronds and wicker chairs, the setting evokes a bygone era. What I can say? The food speaks for itself. Tins layered high with blistered naan, flaky roti, aromatic biryanis, jasmine rice, tender lamb kabobs, and sauces and chutneys that deliver both heat and complexity. Every bite demanded to be savored.
Later that evening, after a leisurely few hours chatting at the apartment or some of us napping (Matt) while I laid on a hard wooden bench (really, the place had such limited seating), we headed to the oldest part of the city for a two hour Walking Ghost Tour with Michael.
Michael led us through the city’s oldest streets (well, except for the oldest of old - the Roman ruins that sit beneath the city some 8 meters down).
Not much escaped the Great Fire of 1666, which destroyed nearly four-fifths of London in just four days. However, we did see one of the few places that remains standing since it was built in 1555.
The great fire, sparked in a small bakery on Pudding Lane, tore through the city, leveling over 13,000 homes, 87 churches, and even St. Paul’s Church, thanks to tightly packed timber houses and a fierce wind. What remains are pockets of history—twisting lanes, ancient hospitals, prisons where hangings, burnings, beheadings, and tortures were just another day in London Town (Sir William Wallace being one of them)…and where the living and dead still seem to cross paths.
Michael shared stories of ghost sightings, and centuries-old taverns where objects rattle and move on their own or the staff might get locked in the cellar from time to time by a prankster ghost.
As the night grew darker, Onora stood closer and closer until we ended the tour at 10:20 pm in a poorly lit, treed courtyard, standing on top of the graves of 20,000 bubonic plague victims. By then, she was virtually standing on my toes.
Ok, kids goodnight!! Sleep tight!! Maybe this wasn’t a good idea?
We left London in the morning, giving hugs to our Nottingham family and heading for the land of ancient ruins, olives, gods and goddesses, and feta cheese. Greece! Stay tuned.
OMG!! I’ve never been so entertained from 4:30 AM to 5:22 AM!! Your new entry to the Rowhouse Roamers blog was just the thing I needed this early sleepless morning! Loved every word and every picture! You totally should be an author, ….or a comedian.