Midnight: the Witching Hour. The city is handed over, from the people of the day to the creatures of the night. Outside the West End and a few satellite pockets, the metropolis quietens down.
London looks different. While the streets slumber, the skyline comes alive as indifferent skyscrapers blaze in glory. The upper floors of the Shard become a towering beacon, its distinctive summits sparkling like aureate tweezers. The jet black Tower 42 is bejewelled with lambent cinctures and a beryl crown. In the distance, the main Canary Wharf tower flashes like a latter-day lighthouse, alerting pilots heading into City Airport. The illuminated skyline is repeated in a shimmering Thames reflection.
London sounds different. Plane trees sussurate in the absence of engines. The chimes of Big Ben carry across the town – I’ve heard the bells from as far away as Hampstead Heath. No pigeons trouble the streets, and no gulls shriek overhead. The occasional reveller bellows on a nearby street. Vehicles, when they do appear, move with a speed not possible during the day. Or else they dawdle: council vehicles sucking up litter or washing down kerbs; night buses decelerating to a stop. The Thames itself can be heard, lapping against its embankments in the wake of a police launch or returning pleasure cruiser.
London smells different: the smog of the day lifts, drawing in fresher air. Around the West End, the whiff is of perfume, aftershave, vaporised alcohol and frying onions. The back streets around Chinatown stink of fermenting food waste, and all alleys broadcast a suspicion of urine. In the City, on a drizzly evening, you can smell the stones themselves.
To be out at night was once an offence. For many centuries, those found on the streets after dark were treated with suspicion, open to challenge. A walk through the night can still feel felonious. With so few rival distractions, your passing presence becomes the momentary highlight of every bored security guard. There is mutual suspicion between any two strangers who pass in the night. Why are you here? Why am I here? What business can anyone have on Lombard Street at four in the morning?
AT THIS HOUR:
It’s still possible to indulge in some culture during the Witching Hour. In the summer months, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre (21 New Globe Walk, SE1 9DT) puts on ‘Midnight Matinees’ of the Bard’s plays. Load up with caffeine first, or you might find yourself nodding off to sleep (perchance to dream?) during the three-hour performances. All’s well that ends well, however, with a warming breakfast in the neighbouring Swan restaurant for anyone who attends.
These anxieties exhilarate. We become uneasy with the familiar. A street walked 100 times by day can feel entirely new by night. Such are the attractions of night walking. Are you ready...?