WIMBLEDON VILLAGE - The Crew and a Fortnight of Tennis

There is a particular kind of happiness that only exists in the first hours of a trip, before anything has happened and everything still might. They had a few days before the tennis started, no schedule and no plan, or so Leo and Henry thought, because August always quietly has one.

The flight came into Heathrow a little after three, early enough that there was still a day to do something with. They dropped their bags at the hotel in Wimbledon Village, and because the Crew packs smart and light the way they do, there was nothing to sort out and no need to change, so they went straight back out.

They walked the streets without saying much, just taking the place in. Dinner was a small local spot, rustic and well kept, famous for its Dover sole, the dish Henry had been looking forward to since the plane. Almost as soon as they sat down he was chatting with the couple at the next table, and before long they had made friends in a city they had been in for only a few hours. On the way back they stopped to watch the sun go down, the calm, golden light elegant in a way that felt right for the days of tennis ahead. Over the years it has become a ritual of theirs, the first sunset of every trip, a quiet minute to mark the start of something good.

Early the next day they caught a train into London, August in the lead as he always is, set on getting the most out of the day. Westminster Abbey first, then Big Ben, then the London Eye turning slowly over the South Bank. They had a late lunch at a place August had quietly booked days before and pretended to stumble on by accident, then carried on up through Trafalgar Square to St James’s Park. Leo took more photographs than he will ever have a chance to use, because the one he doesn’t take is always the one he would have wanted. Henry kept the group stopping at the blue plaques along the way, the little markers that note where someone famous once lived or worked. He likes to know the story of a place while he is standing in it.

Later in the day they headed back out to Wimbledon Village for the Lawn Tennis Museum. They took their time with it, the trophies, the old rackets, the bits and pieces of a hundred and fifty years of the game. An old match film played on a loop in a corner, and it put them right in the mood for the tennis to come.

With two weeks of tennis ahead of them, they gave themselves one day to stay in and slow down. The suite had a generous living room, and the afternoon went to working out the matches and the moments none of them wanted to miss. Leo was in his element and insufferable about it in the best way. He had ten ideas before the tea arrived, which is the thing about Leo, there is never a shortage of options. He wanted the big days, Centre Court, the show courts, the photograph from the top of the stands with the whole crowd watching the screen and the sunset behind it. As his ideas drifted toward the grand, even for Leo, August dozed off, then woke a while later to a plan that now somehow involved a helicopter. By early evening he had a real schedule going, which match on which day was a must, when to turn up early, which afternoon to leave open to meet new friends for tea with strawberries and cream. Henry mostly listened and made notes, thinking a day ahead, matching the right look to whatever each day asked of them, so that a street food lunch, a grand court match, or a long elegant dinner all found them already dressed for it, with no outfit change needed.

They argued and they laughed, the way you only can with people you have known a long time. The first match had not even started, and already the trip was one for the books.

One short each, a couple of shirts, packed into a backpack, and never once a worry about the right thing to wear.

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Leo's Pick

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August's Pick

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