Portobello

So I took that long-delayed stroll down Portobello Road.

At sundown, the pretty pastels of the little terrace houses fade into a pallor, their pinks and lavenders and blues barely distinguishable against the sombre greyness of the night. I love the understatedness of the designs of houses in Notting Hill Gate, each unit a single monotone - dull and uninteresting on its own - yet so pleasingly quaint when set in a row of other similar ones. Such charm in such uniformity.

A whiff of yuletide, a clattering of silver baubbles. Pretty pots of poinsettia blooms line the curbs of the road. It's Christmas in Portobello, where no bright lights scream Christmas greetings inyourface, and the liveliness is subtle, not loud.

Portobello Road in the evening is intimate and unimposing. The road winds meanderingly; climbs and descends in turn. We are transported from Parisian to Persian settings in a matter of a some yards, vintage cowboy boots to Venetian masks, bone china to rustic earthenware, feathered quills to rickety rocking horses... Portobello Road, like much of the merchandise the majority of its tenants offer, is immortal in its own right.