In the Square Mile’s hard-edged world of glass towers and market skirmishes, Jess Baldwin checks into Vintry & Mercer to uncover a more civilised side of the City. Between the steps of St Paul’s and a well-earned rooftop steak, she finds history, humour and a hotel that makes a persuasive case for staying east…
You’re never far from a fight in the City. Not the usual beer-fuelled fisticuffs, but the money-making, fortune-breaking, bell-ringing market warfare that plays out in its amusingly named glass towers — bankers sparring over soaring stocks, their weapon of choice: the humble mouse. Down below, in the shadows of these titanic trading floors, the stakes have always been far higher: losses counted in people, not points.
The Monument (photo by Golden, courtesy of Unsplash)
This single square mile — the seed from which London, and Londinium before it, first sprang — has always been fuelled by battle and bravado, its streets still bearing scars to prove it. Born from Boudican ashes, today’s Dickensian backstreets wear these war wounds with pride. The Monument shoots skyward as a vertiginous reminder of the Great Fire; roofless churches still clutch shrapnel from the Blitz, while discreet plaques whisper of the plague. The City has been burned, bombed, flooded, and infected — yet each time it rises anew, ready for whatever life hurls at it next.
And yet, despite the City’s perfectly pickled streets, cluttered with jaw-droppingly beautiful Wren masterpieces and bustling Victorian market halls, today’s tourists — lured by glitzy theatres and gargantuan museums — often head west, missing this fascinating kernel of the capital entirely. Nice enough, granted. But those who base themselves here are rewarded with a taste of the contagious British stoicism baked into every brick. Resilient, stubborn, faintly masochistic, visitors often leave just a little tougher than when they arrived. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I coax my lactic-acid-laden legs—and my waning six-year-old — skyward, from St Paul’s Whispering Gallery toward its vertigo-inducing dome.
Rebuilt from ashes, St Paul’s is the ultimate monument to not being beaten. From its Corinthian columns and magnificent mosaics to the galleries that halo its world-famous dome, these particular bricks provide living proof that persistence pays off. At least, that’s the theory. But on step 520, Alice — the proud owner of rolling-pin-length legs — remains unconvinced, certain that only divine intervention can save her.
St Paul’s Cathedral (photo by Samuel Isaacs, courtesy of Unsplash)
Still, we press on. Past wheezy inhaler-hunters and delusional grannies, and finally, we’re there, floating above it all. Panting, eyes wide, we watch golden hour spill across the city. London glitters beneath us like a jewel box, the Thames cutting through it like liquid gold. Alice scans landmarks she knows from books, then turns sharply to me, eyes locked on mine. She’s realised what comes next: 528 steps back down.
Downwards is far less of a trial — not thanks to gravity, but because each step is one closer to Vintry & Mercer and Alice’s promised steak supper. As we reach the final stretch, evensong drifts up the staircase, a kind of celestial carrot for the flagging and faint-hearted.
Calves burning, we meander along the area’s knotted streets, each bearing a name echoing its former life: Fish Street, Milk Street, Bread Street. Quiet reminders that long before Bloomberg terminals and Bitcoin, this square mile was built on bread and butter — quite literally.
Perched at the riverside end of cobbled Garlick Hill, next to Wren’s lesser-known gem St James Garlickhythe, the five-star Vintry & Mercer sits perfectly poised between past and present. Behind its modern glass façade, the award-winning design pays homage to the wine traders and silk merchants who once thrived here: hand-drawn vintage-style trading maps grace the bedroom walls, and bespoke carpets echo historic textiles — little touches celebrating the craftsmanship of earlier generations. Even the colour palette — claret, saffron, and honey — subtly references the goods that once passed through these streets.
Yet for all its historical reverence, Vintry & Mercer is unapologetically 21st century. Glass-fronted suites open onto Southbank balconies, but the real prize is higher still: the Mercer Roof Terrace, scene of Alice’s coveted steak dinner. Panic flashes across her face — another rooftop, another climb! — before relief dawns at the sight of a lift. Once delivered skyward, we settle into a cosy Champagne cabin, candles flickering, fur throws draped just so, the perfect perch for lactic-acid-laden legs to rest and steaks to be devoured. For larger groups wishing to dine outside above the city, a twinkling rooftop igloo awaits.
While Alice savours ice cream, her eyes linger on St Paul’s, trying to comprehend how her tiny legs carried her up to its world-class dome. “We could climb The Monument tomorrow,” I suggest. “It’s much smaller.” Perhaps not.
Guests not ready to call it a night can slip off to Vintry & Mercer’s subterranean speakeasy, ‘Do Not Disturb’. Alice and I, however, had a date with a bubbly bath and a golden Vintry & Mercer rubber duck. As Alice soaked, I started to plot our next adventure — with The Globe, Tate Modern, and Borough Market just a short stroll away, the conundrum was where to start, rather than what to do. Ready for bed, Alice murmured that she needed a nightlight, only to clock the entire wall of glass perfectly framing London’s showiest skyscraper, The Shard, colourful lights shooting up and down its tip.
Sunday morning is crisp and frosty, the sort that pinkens cheeks and turns children into dragons. While the hotel slumbers, Alice and I slip out in search of another landmark lifted straight from her storybooks: the Tower of London, a veritable hoard of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. Against a fiery sky, its burly ramparts rise as the sun turns the Thames to molten gold.
Eventually the cold wins, and we retreat to the warmth of the hotel. Bidding Traitors’ Gate farewell, we trade tales of rebellions, executions, and sieges on the bone-chilling walk home — each step carrying us closer to Vintry & Mercer and Alice’s promised pancakes. Even my most rousing pep talk about never being defeated falls flat as we pass The Monument; the only tower Alice now cares to conquer is drenched in maple syrup.
Luckily, there are no stairs between us and breakfast. Served downstairs in the foliage-filled Vintry Kitchen, it’s a relaxed affair, cooked to order. Guests tuck into classic eggs, pancakes, and pastries within its Instaworthy jungle-like interior. Post-lunch, it sets the scene for their circus afternoon tea—a veritable feast of chocolate clowns and edible big tops.
After checkout, we stroll to the Barbican, also famed for its jungle-like conservatory, and stumble into Postman’s Park — though in truth it’s more of a grassy pause than a “park.” Hiding in the shadows is yet another monument: the Memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice. Lined with modest ceramic tiles it commemorates Londoners who died saving others; from the the 11-year-old boy who stepped in front of a train to save his brother to the eight-year-old who pulled his sister from a burning house. No soaring domes, no ringing bells — just quiet acts of defiance, each of their painstaking sacrifices summed up in one tiny plaque.
And here it is, the true fabric of the City, it’s relentless fight; not the one waged in glass towers, but the stubborn, unshowy refusal to give in, whatever the personal cost. British stoicism quite literally baked into the brickwork.
Vintry & Mercer is a 5-star boutique hotel close to Cannon Street station. For more information or to book visit www.vintryandmercer.com.
