Two thousand years of footsteps, each one landing on the bones of the one before. Romans built the wall. Vikings burned what was inside it. The Normans rebuilt it in stone and called it theirs. London has been doing this ever since — absorbing its conquerors, outlasting its fires, and waking up the next morning as if nothing happened.
The river bends through the middle of it all, tidal and indifferent, carrying the same water past medieval docks and glass towers. Every neighbourhood holds a different century’s argument about who belongs here. Every pub sits on top of a plague pit or a monastery or both.
This is not a tour. It’s an ear pressed to the city’s walls — the stories London carries but rarely tells aloud.