Every book lover that comes to London can’t miss this precious jewel located in the famous and trafficked Piccadilly, a few yards next to Waterstones store. Hatchards is the oldest bookshop in the United Kingdom. Before entering, allow me to do a little bit of history: John Hatchard founded his small bookshop in 1797 at 173 Piccadilly. After a few years, he moved to 189-190 because of the building of the Egyptian Hall, and, in 1820, it moved again to no.187 where nowadays it still is and trades books.
The atmosphere you can feel entering the shop is completely involving; the stylish wooden bookshelves and the soft light green carpeted floor bearing dark green lilies seem to transport you back to an ancient epoch. The wooden floor screeches rhythmically at every step. The shop expands on four floors, respectively dedicated to a kind of literature. The ground floor covers history; Kings, Queens, Emperors, notable politicians, and famous revolutionaries’ biographies are alphabetically and neatly displayed. Climbing the stair to the first floor and trying to avoid curious tourists and passionate readers, I reach the huge first floor. Fiction rules this section, and the immense wall reserved to Agatha Christie’s works catches my total attention. Quite surprisingly, I found numerous crime novels written by Andrea Camilleri. I carry on wandering around books, and the third floor leaves me completely stupefied. The amount of essays, works, and books regarding photography and art is astonishing. I can’t believe this field can have such a rich and interesting literature. Two hours fly literally away. On my way out, I stop in front of a shelf I didn’t expect at all. This is the most unusual and interesting display I’ve ever found in a bookshop. The first editions of British and international authors occupy the shelves. I spot “Satan in the suburbs” by Bertrand Russell, then “The constant gardener” by John le Carré, but what really astonishes me is the first edition of “The house on the hill” written by the Italian author Cesare Pavese. While I get out, a smile grows on my face. Currently, Piccadilly is a trafficked road, full of noisy buses and roaring vehicles. My imagination jumps back to the Eighteenth century, and I imagine the place at that time. Silence, then a few shouts, and a well-dressed gentleman raises his arm to stop a two-horse carriage. He has just walked through the threshold of Hatchards, and, under one of his arms, he holds a small stack of books he has bought in the shop where I’ve just been.
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November 2020
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