First things first: A cup of tea.

It was a Saturday morning in November, misting with London's signature drizzle, the kind of rain that doesn't feel like a threat until you realize you're absolutely drenched. Umbrella popped up, I skipped over a puddle at the end of the walk and headed toward Portobello Market.

Harrow Road is full of cars and bendy buses, so I slipped behind the brick wall that follows its contour and moseyed through the paths of Kensal Green Cemetery, the aroma of wet dirt playing on the breeze. There was instant peace and calm in the faces of the stone angels and the slow movements of the tree leaves scuttling along the trails. That's what's beautiful about London: There are so many places to escape the bustle of city life.

Past rose bushes and cracked old stones that listed the names of people who were once loved, who may have even walked those same paths, I neared the middle of the cemetery grounds. I was alone in the silent little oasis of peace besides one man. He resembled my grandfather, bent over a wooden bench dedicated to the memory of his wife. He was dressed respectably in a black suit and tie. Gently setting down a bouquet of yellow flowers, he kissed his hands three times and wiped his eyes. Kneeling on the grass, he put his forehead on the bench as I walked by. I caught a glimpse at the plaque which said she had passed away six years ago.

It's a sombre, slow walk, but Kensal Green Cemetery is a place of beauty and peace, marked by the gradual decay of headstones and moss-covered angels standing beside rose bushes.
The only sounds are birds singing, crickets chirping or the rustle of wildlife in the bushes.
I even saw two foxes.

Approaching the exit, I was tossed back into the noise of city streets, the exhaust and chug of red double deckers and the pounding feet of motivated early morning joggers. I walked over the canal bridge, past the council houses and the old fire station and eventually saw the beginning of Portobello Market's row of stalls.

I've always loved Portobello Market where the movie Notting Hill is based. There's an unusual honesty in the smiles of the vendors and I found a pair of Prada heels for 40 that I would have bought if I had the money. It's an antiques market, mainly, full of knick-knacks, pottery and vintage prints, second-hand boots and books with yellowed pages. There are Beatles records and pearly hair clips, stuffed moose heads and the smell of spicy falafel on a certain

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