22/11/2025
There’s a bus in London that feels less like transport and more like a moving diary of the city. The number 15 — red, familiar, steady — glides through Central London as if it knows every story ever whispered along its route. And maybe it does.
It starts east, where the river feels wider and the city still remembers its industrial heartbeat. Then it rolls toward the centre, past the Tower of London, its stones heavy with old secrets, and over streets where history and office workers weave around each other like they’re part of the same dance.
Climbing the upper deck feels like stepping into a private cinema. Through its tall windows, St Paul’s Cathedral rises like a calm thought above the chaos. The bus leans gently around corners near Monument and Cannon Street, places where the past brushes against your coat as you pass.
Bus 15 doesn’t rush.
It moves with the rhythm of London life — the slow, steady breathing of a city that has seen everything and still finds ways to surprise you.
Sometimes, the sky is grey and the windows turn into soft watercolours. Other days, sunlight streaks across the bus like hope finding a gap between buildings. And on rainy afternoons, reflections on glass mix the present with the past in ways only London can manage.
Many people ride it simply to get from one place to another. But if you look closely — really look — you’ll see a different story: schoolchildren leaning into laughter, tourists falling in love with their first glimpse of the skyline, Londoners quietly daydreaming as the city flickers by.
And then, almost without warning, the journey ends near Trafalgar Square. You step off, the doors hiss shut, and the number 15 carries on without you, collecting more fragments of the city’s soul.
Because in London, even a bus route can become a poem.
And Bus 15 is one of the city’s softest ones.