London - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Pavements move as a great river of humanity, the roads rivers of cars. These buildings that have seen the modern age pass, standing in silent witness, weathered rocks stretching toward blue sky. Here in our capital, in this canvas of life, the art of each face is something to savour. We are one nation in all our colours and faiths, all British under this spring sunshine, appreciating the golden daffodils who wave from beneath the trees. There is a pride in my chest, for my country who fought nazi ideology, to be one family, to choose love over hate and discrimination. And so, I join the flow, one of millions, connected and separate, in liberty with a sense of belonging.
London. Now that was quite the throwback. She could almost smell the old apartment, and the cheap school uniforms that she detested so much. The newspaper sellers, the dreadfully long walks home from school, the taste of the cheap lemon sherbets that the corner shop owner always had on his counter. The eternal sound of traffic bustling towards the next great destination, with a single minded purpose. Her first kiss, teenage lips and teenage angst; concocted into something wet, awkward, and sickly. London was a place of freedom and experimentation, if only for a year. Coco turned back to face Rose, who was still rambling.
“London sounds wonderful, thank you.” Coco said, cutting off Rose’s nervous babbling.
Somewhere, up high, the stars twinkled, and the moon shone, but they were obscured by the ethereal veil of fog cast across the London cityscape. Rushing hurriedly, the wind hissed and beat at the windows of homes. Houses were draped in the new-fallen snow; a white canvas, waiting for the artist to begin. Lining the streets were the charcoal outlines of winter trees with icicles hanging from the barren boughs. The trees had shed their last scarlet tears over the warm and pleasant summer – lying bare in the face of winter’s wrath. Lampposts glowed in the living darkness, coating the alleys and streets with a faint golden light that pierced through the fog. Not even the faintest hoot of an owl could be heard in the thick silence; they stayed silent within their hollows. It was certainly not a night to be reckoned with.
The London sun shimmered above like a polished shield, as if it could shelter me from my past. Yet the buildings dominating the land and skyline were cold, monochrome - not a hint of green anywhere. This city was so different from my home, so claustrophobic. I abandoned looking upward to gaze through the crowd: business people, tourists, students, kids and dossers (just what I hoped not to be). Everyone knew what to do... except me.
London greeted Alex like an old reliable friend. Red buses, black cabs, blue-uniformed policemen, and gray clouds...could he be anywhere else?
The tone of the painting is muted, the style reminiscent of Monet. Each stroke had a smudging quality that rendered the image watery, like a reflection in a rippled puddle. The scene is a street, London I'll bet, the umbrella bearing pedestrians battle against rain and the red double-deckers and black cabs rumble by. It reminds me of Oxford Street, looking out of a rain-splattered window at the rivers of people that moved in each direction. Like in this painting they moved so randomly, pushing against one another, flowing, like water. Perhaps to this artist that's what we are, small drops in a sky full of rain, each one looking out and saying to ourselves “Wow, that sure is a lot of rain.”
Suddenly the clouds rolled back and the late morning sun brought the whole city, shining, into view. There was Battersea Power Station, standing proud with it's four great chimneys still intact, even though much of it's roof had long ago been eaten away. Behind it, Battersea Park appeared as a square of dense green bushes and trees that were making a last stand, fighting back the urban spread. In the far distance the Millennium wheel perched like a fabulous silver coin, balancing effortlessly on its rim. And all around it London crouched; gas towers and apartment blocks, endless rows of shops and houses, roads, railways, and bridges stretching away on both sides, separated only by the bright sliver crack in the landscape that was the River Thames.
Life, movement, noise. Stone, brick, churches, monuments, bridges spanning the Thames, murky brown water, tourists, crowds, Buckingham Palace, London Eye, rivers of traffic, Nelson’s column in Trafalgar square, flocks of pigeons, immense blackish stone lions, red double decker buses, tube stations, London underground, hustle, bustle, Oxford Street shops.
The street was glorious in its inception. The sidewalks were smooth grey stone, joined with such precision that the joints were almost invisible. The walls were concrete, but not like a villa in rural Spain; they were more the construction of a modernist skyscraper, all sharp edges and corners. The buildings were nothing short of monoliths.