Coffee Cup Executive

_{Disclaimer: This post may contain affiliate links. If you book through one of them, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you.}

I landed in London on what can only be described as zero hours of sleep and too much excitement. My friend and I planned a short trip back into her family’s past. Her grandfather once lived near Kensington and worked at Harrods, though from her retelling, not very successfully. After one too many poor sales, he was quietly shipped off to Canada to spare the family any further embarrassment. Naturally, the plan was to trace a little of that story, where it all began, before heading off to Malta.

By the time I arrived at Gatwick, I was functioning purely on caffeine and adrenaline. Normally I fly into Heathrow, so Gatwick felt smaller, almost provincial by comparison. I remember sitting on a bench near baggage claim, fiddling with my eSIM and silently cursing my lack of foresight. My Wi-Fi connection was the only thing giving me hope, and I didn’t want to leave the terminal until my eSim worked.

The man sitting beside me was waiting for his girlfriend, who was flying in from Austria for their first in-person meeting. He had a bouquet of flowers and the most infectious energy I’ve ever seen. When he found out I was a content creator, he laughed and said he worked in IT, then proceeded to help me troubleshoot my phone. It took over an hour, but by the end, I had a functioning data plan and a front-row seat to a very sweet reunion.

With my phone finally online, I followed the airport train to the nearest terminal and switched to the Tube. The rhythmic “Mind the gap!” announcements echoed through the tunnels like a mantra for the travel-worn. I repeated it under my breath, half-asleep, like a spell meant to keep me upright and moving forward.

When I surfaced in Kensington, it felt like walking into a sepia photograph. The buildings looked timeless, their ornate facades quietly bearing the weight of centuries. Every corner whispered stories of another era; even the modern glass storefronts seemed to reflect ghosts of the past.

My friend and I met up thanks to the wonders of modern technology and after the hostel check in, we aimlessly wandered toward what would become the highlight of the day: an unplanned walk through Brompton Cemetery. We hadn’t planned to go, but curiosity pulled us in as soon as we saw the stone arches guarding the entrance. The air was still, the headstones tilting in soft defiance of gravity and time. As we walked, she suddenly froze. There, among the ivy and weathered stone, was a name she recognized: her family’s own. Later research confirmed it was her ancestor’s resting place. To stand in front of it, so far from home, was an almost cinematic moment. I swear the world slowed down.

Afterward, we rewarded our accidental discovery with dinner at The Blackbird Pub, where I had what I am still convinced is the best meat pie in existence. I might have been delirious from fatigue, but that buttery crust and rich gravy felt like a spiritual experience.

By the time we headed back, my body was ready to collapse. Unfortunately, so was my sense of direction. Kensington’s quiet streets, beautiful in the golden light of evening, became a maze when I most needed a bathroom. Every turn seemed to lead us further from civilization. It was the kind of comedy only jet lag can write. I remember muttering something about melatonin and Canada’s time zones as we made our way back toward our hostel.

The Barmy Badger Hostel was exactly the kind of place I love: full of character, tucked into a Victorian flat that once housed a single family. The kitchen sat at street level, where today’s guests shared continental breakfasts of toast with Nutella and mugs of tea poured from an enormous kettle. The rooms had been reconfigured over time, and though the furniture was interchangeably solid and squashy, the open sash windows invited both the night air and the soundtrack of the city.

The showers offered privacy, unless you forgot the window behind you was wide open to a dozen back gardens. I learned that lesson at exactly the same moment I realized how inadequate a travel towel is for coverage.

The hostel had its quirks, but that’s part of its charm. Some long-term guests had turned it into temporary housing, and the management seemed to handle it with creative diplomacy. Still, I met a few fellow travellers over breakfast who were passing through London just like me, each with their own reason for being there, each with their own story about why they couldn’t quite sleep either.

I was assigned the top bunk and, after climbing the ladder with all the grace I could muster at my age and girth, I collapsed into the kind of sleep that only comes when you’ve pushed your body past reason. I did wake up once in the middle of the night, disoriented and in need of a restroom. Navigating a ladder half-asleep was an adventure all its own, but somehow I survived without injury or scandal.

When morning light filtered through the curtains, it felt like the city itself was exhaling. I made tea, sat by the kitchen window, and watched people hurry by. London felt familiar and foreign all at once, a city that doesn’t wait for you to catch up, but welcomes you anyway when you do.

If you’re looking for affordable accommodation in a central location, Kensington and the Barmy Badger Hostel are hard to beat. I’d stay again in a heartbeat. Just maybe bring some melatonin for a full night’s sleep.

Tomorrow we set out for something grander or at least shinier.

Day Two: A Visit to Buckingham Palace and THE HOSPITAL?