And so our walk draws to its close, though St Albans, I suspect, is not quite finished with you.
What began with painted signs, old beams, and busy thresholds became something richer: a way of seeing how a city stores its memory. In brick rubbed smooth by passing hands, in timber darkened by smoke and story, in names that outlast arguments, owners, fashions, and even the streets around them, you have heard how one place can change its face without surrendering its past.
Perhaps you noticed it in the clink from behind a door, the scent of malt and polished wood, the uneven lines of ancient frontage set against the rhythm of the modern street. Here, memory and reinvention do not cancel one another. They live side by side.
So as you leave, keep this lovely thought near at hand: in St Albans, even the most familiar doorway may be holding several centuries in quiet reserve.
