Thursday’s weather was immeasurably improved: We only needed three layers under our technical gear and, after an English breakfast whose ingredients cover two sides of the hotel’s dining room, we swiped our Oyster cards on the 14 bus in front of the V&A across the street and rolled to the Wallace Collection in Marleybone. As the bus sways north on Glouster Street, we see a plaque set beside the door of a rather well-heeled house. The plaque reads “Major General Benedict Arnold American Patriot resided here from 1796 until his death June 14, 1801.” (Makes us wonder if, years and years hence, our ancestors might visit St. Petersburg and read “President Donald Trump, revered American oligarch ….” Ugh, enough, back to Wallace.

The Wallace Collection is another long-dead, rich, and artistically sensible and knowledgeable guy’s mansion converted to a museum and proving that really wealthy long-dead English bastards — he was likely the illegitimate son of the 4th Marquess of Hereford — can accumulate remarkable amounts of stuff to suit their weird sensibilities.

Not really giving him enough credit. The collection was remarkable. Beyond the usual artwork — portraits by Franz Hals, Rembrandt, etc. — a collection of hundreds of palm-sized hand-painted porcelain miniatures, in glass cases and under leather flaps you must lift (there to protect the watercolored and enameled miniatures from sunlight) stretch for about 100 feet down one side of the first floor. The other side is given to armor and weaponry … and a room of the recent queen’s corgis through the ages: see the photo of their lineage from the first she had, Susan, given to her by her father at age 18.

A bit of smoked salmon for Cynthia and a G&T for David prepared us for the windy but remarkably dry trip to the British Library in the afternoon. Where else can one see the Magna Carta (five made, a few destroyed by time and incompetent restorers), the first printed book of the Bard’s complete works, put together by his friends, a smattering of original musical scores by Mozart and Hayden, Monty Python scripts by Michael Palin, and hand-written lyrics of Beatles songs.

We are knackered by five and too lazy to agree on restaurants so we go to Harrod’s where we wander aimlessly through its labyrinthine corridors pursuing different directions from different concierges to its four-room food court where we avoid the caviar, truffle and champagne counters and get ourselves some take-away, which we eat with G&Ts in our hotel room. As we munch, we try to select restaurants for the remainder of our time in London, our sojourn in Glasgow, our treks on Skye and Cairngorms and our final few days in Edinburgh.

Why are we doing this research now? Because we have to. It’s impossible to get a seat at a “nice” restaurant at a reasonable time if you don’t have reservations and at least three-quarters of the places we try are totally booked. Easter holidays? Sudden post-COVID travel mania? School’s out? God knows ‘cause the crowds are not only Brits. The mix, the display and the wealth of languages and people here in London make DC seem like an inbred provincial backwater. We feel like it puts America’s “melting pot” meme in propaganda territory.

We sleep, hoping for our first completely dry day with sustained sunlight.