Love Is All You Need: July–August 1967

The heat had settled over London like a saffron robe. The pavements shimmered and the hazy air smelled of petrol and sandalwood. The newspapers talked about flower power as if it were a new religion. In Soho, the shop windows glowed with psychedelic posters in swirling reds and yellows; the faces of pop stars rendered in impossible colours. The world felt tinted, as if everything ordinary had been painted over.

In a cramped flat above a record shop on Wardour Street, Anna sat cross-legged on the floor, painting a banner for the coming weekend’s Love‑In at Hyde Park. The radio was tuned to Big L; the voice of Pete Drummond warm and relaxed. “And at number one again... The Beatles.” The opening brass of La Marsellaise burst through the static, triumphant and unstoppable.

Anna smiled and hummed along as she wielded her brush.

Her flatmate Michael  leaned against the window frame, poised with a Gauloises in one hand. “They could record themselves sneezing and it’d go to number one.”

She laughed. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of people who believe in something.”

He exhaled a plume of blue smoke and watched it drift toward the ceiling. “Belief’s overrated.”

♥

The city came alive that summer. Carnaby Street was packed with tourists, gawping at girls in mini-skirts and white boots, at boys in paisley shirts and velvet jackets. The air smelled of patchouli and warm PVC. The Rolling Stones had just released ‘We Love You’, The Monkees were on television and Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was represented everywhere, its cover staring from every shop window like a manifesto.

Anna worked at a boutique called Tomorrow’s People, selling embroidered shirts and Afghan coats. The customers were mostly students and musicians, talking about peace and art and LSD. She liked the noise and the colour, the sense that something new was happening.

Michael worked nights at a printing press near Fleet Street. He came home in rumpled overalls, smelling of machine oil and sweat, his hands blackened by ink, his eyes bloodshot. He’d studied art once, before his grant ran out. Now he only sketched for his own amusement.

One afternoon, he woke to find Anna sitting on the floor, surrounded by candles and a small group of friends: Jenny, Tom and Raj. All four were laughing as they passed round a bottle of Bull’s Blood. The room was thick with incense.

Michael said, “What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing,” Anna said. “Just being alive.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s a new one.”

♥

On Saturday, they went to Hyde Park. The grass was dry and the sky pale blue. Thousands of people had gathered: students, poets and musicians, as well as couples with babies in prams. The smell of grass and tobacco hung in the air. Someone strummed a guitar; someone else blew bubbles that drifted like tiny planets.

Anna spread her banner [ LOVE IS ALL AROUND ] painted in swirling letters. She lay back on the grass with her eyes closed and the sun pressing warm on her face.

Michael sat beside her, watching the crowd. “You think this means anything?”

She opened one eye. “It means people want to be kind.”

He laughed softly. “That’s not the same as being kind.”

She turned her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Realistic.”

“Cynical.”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

A group nearby began singing Hare Krishna, their voices rising and falling in a hypnotic chant. The sound carried across the park, bright and imperfect. Anna listened and allowed herself to drift with it.

♥

That night, the city seemed to have an ethereal glow. The pubs’ clientele spilled onto the pavements, thickening the air with laughter and cigarette smoke. Anna and Michael walked through Soho, past La Chasse, The Marquee Club and Ronnie Scott’s. Music drifted from every doorway: jazz, blues and pop, all blending into a single throbbing pulse.

Outside The Bag O’ Nails, a crowd gathered around a black Mini. Someone said Paul McCartney was inside. Anna craned her neck, but saw only reflections.

Michael said, “You’d think he was the Messiah.”

“Maybe he is.”

He laughed. “You really believe music can change the world?”

She looked at him. “It already has.”

They walked on, the garish neon lights almost rivalling Southend illuminations. Somewhere, a siren wailed, distant and lonely.

♥

The next morning, the papers were full of news about Vietnam: photographs of burning villages, soldiers in helmets, children running. Anna stared at the images, letting the coffee in her cup grow cold.

Michael said, “That’s the real world.”

She folded the paper. “Then we need to make a better one.”

He shook his head. “You can’t paint your way out of this.”

“Maybe not. But I can try.”

He looked at her, seeing the determination in her eyes. “You’ll break your heart.”

She smiled. “It’s already broken.”

♥

Later in July, the weather turned humid. Thunder rolled over the city and the air became heavy and electric. Anna spent her evenings painting faces, flowers and spirals, their colours bleeding into one another. Michael watched, attempting to sketch her without her noticing.

One night, she said, “You should come to the UFO Club.”

He frowned. “That place with the strobe lights?”

“Yes. It’s beautiful.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

The club was underground, hot and crowded. The walls pulsed with projected multi-coloured lights. The air was thick with sweat, joss sticks and marijuana. The Soft Machine performed, playing long, hypnotic notes that seemed to stretch time. A few people danced with their eyes closed, but most simply laid on the floor, their faces glowing with bliss.

Anna moved through the crowd, her hair hanging loose and her arms raised in surrender. Michael watched her, hyper-aware of the music vibrating through his chest. For a moment, he felt something shift in his mind: a sense of connection, fragile but real.

When they left, the air outside struck cool. She smiled. “See? Beautiful.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

♥

August arrived with rain. The pavements gleamed and the air smelled of wet concrete and petrol. The newspapers talked about Swinging London as if it were a tourist attraction. The Daily Express ran a feature on ‘The New Youth’, full of photographs of girls in mini-skirts and boys with long hair.

Anna cut out the pictures and pinned them to the wall. “Look at them,” she said. “They’re free.”

Michael looked closer. “They’re posing.”

She laughed. “You’re hopeless.”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

♥

One evening, Jenny came to the flat, her eyes bright with excitement. “We’re going to Brighton this weekend. You coming?”

Anna said, “Of course.”

Michael hesitated. “I’ve got work.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “You always have work.”

Anna touched his arm. “Come with us.”

He looked at her, then nodded. “All right.”

♥

Brighton was alive in its own way; the West Pier gleaming above the dark and restless sea, the air redolent of salt and chips. They walked along the promenade, laughing as the fresh breeze tugged at their clothes. Anna wore a white dress that fluttered around her knees; Michael carried his jacket over his shoulder.

Jenny bought candyfloss; Raj took photographs with his new Kodak. The group felt like a small universe, self-contained and shining.

Later, they sat on the beach, the pebbles cold and hard beneath them. The tide crept closer, whispering its ancient secrets.

Anna said, “Do you ever think about the future?”

Michael shrugged. “Not much.”

“You should.”

He smiled. “You sound like my mother.”

She laughed. “Maybe she’s right.”

He looked at her, at the lights from the pier reflecting in her eyes. “Maybe.”

♥

The next morning, the sky was clear and the sea calm. They ate a breakfast of tea, toast and marmalade in a café near the station. Radio Caroline played ‘Waterloo Sunset’ by The Kinks. Anna hummed along, smiling in her familiar way.

Michael watched her, feeling something he couldn’t name. Not love exactly, but something close. He wanted to tell her, but the words felt too heavy.

On the train back to London, she fell asleep against his shoulder. He watched the chalky slopes of the South Downs slide past the window, the sweeping view of the Ouse Valley Viaduct, the rural woodland of the Sussex Weald, grazing sheep and small villages partly veiled by trees, all set to the rhythmic clacking of steel wheels on the track.

♥

Back in the city, the mood began to shift. The newspapers talked about protests, about drugs, about the end of innocence. The News of the World ran stories about ‘hippie corruption’. The headlines felt colder now the novelty was wearing off.

Anna kept painting. Michael kept working. The days blurred by: heat and rain, laughter and silence.

One evening, she said, “You think it’s all falling apart?”

He looked at her. “Maybe it’s just changing.”

She nodded. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

♥

One afternoon, they went to Hampstead Heath. The air was warm but restless, the sky streaked with thin cloud. Anna carried a picnic basket; Michael a sketchbook. Jenny and Raj followed behind, laughing; the sound of their voices rising above the hum of traffic.

They spread a blanket near the top of Parliament Hill. Below them, the city stretched out, the waning light shimmering on cranes, rooftops and the faint ribbon of the Thames. The smell of freshly mown grass mingled with diesel fumes. Somewhere a transistor radio played ‘Itchycoo Park’ by The Small Faces, tinny and bright.

Anna lay back with her eyes closed. “It is beautiful,” she said.

Michael sketched her profile: the curve of her cheek, the way her hair caught the light. “You look like you belong here.”

She smiled without opening her eyes. “Maybe I do.”

Jenny said, “You two should get married.”

Anna laughed. “Don’t be daft.”

Michael looked up. “Why not?”

“Because marriage is old‑fashioned.”

He grinned. “So am I.”

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of impending rain. Raj pointed toward the horizon. “Storm coming.”

Anna sat up, watching the clouds gather. “Let’s stay till it breaks.”

♥

The rain arrived suddenly: warm, heavy and drenching. People scattered, laughing and shrieking as they ran for cover. Anna stood in it with arms outstretched and hair plastered to her face. Michael watched, torn between amusement and a kind of awe.

“Come on!” she shouted.

Impulsively, he joined her and allowed the water to soak through his shirt. They laughed until they couldn’t breathe, the grass becoming slippery beneath their feet. Jenny and Raj huddled together under a tree, shouting for them to stop being idiots.

When the rain eased, the air smelled of sodden earth and ozone. Anna’s dress clung to her skin; Michael’s sketchbook was ruined. She looked at him, her eyes gleaming bright. “See? Beautiful.”

He nodded. “You’re mad.”

“Maybe.”

They walked back through the wet streets, with their shoes squelching and clothes almost steaming. The city shone and the world felt clean again, as if the storm had washed everything away.

♥

The summer heat returned, but softer now. The newspapers talked about The Beatles filming ‘Magical Mystery Tour’, about Twiggy in Paris, about the new colour television sets arriving in shops. The war in Vietnam still filled the news, but didn’t make the front pages any more.

Anna spent her evenings painting in the flat: abstract shapes and faces dissolving into swirls of colour. Michael worked late, the printing press humming through the night. When he set off, she was usually asleep, with the radio murmuring beside her bed.

One night, he found her awake, sitting by the window. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“Too hot.”

He poured two glasses of water and handed her one. “You ever think this will last?”

“What?”

“All of it. The music, the colours, the feeling.”

She looked out at the street, at the amber glow of the lampposts. “Maybe not. But it’s ours for now.”

He shrugged. “I suppose that’s enough.”

♥

The next weekend, they went to the river. The South Bank was crowded with couples strolling, children eating ice cream and buskers playing guitars. The air smelled of tar and a hint of sewage. They sat near the water’s edge and watched the boats drift past.

Anna said, “I might go to Cornwall.”

“When?”

“End of the month. Jenny’s got a friend with a cottage.”

He frowned. “For how long?”

“Don’t know. A few weeks.”

He nodded slowly. “You’ll come back?”

She smiled. “Of course.”

But he saw something in her eyes: a restlessness and a hunger for movement. He didn’t ask again.

♥

The day she left, the sky was pale and cloudless. She wore a yellow dress and her hair was tied with a scarf. The train at Paddington hissed and clanked; the platform was crowded with holidaymakers. Michael carried her suitcase, silent and lost in his thoughts.

She said, “You’ll write?”

He nodded. “If you want me to.”

“I do.”

The whistle blew. She kissed his cheek, quickly and softly. “Don’t forget.”

He smiled. “I won’t.”

She stepped onto the train and found a seat by the window. As it pulled away, she waved. He watched until the carriages disappeared into the tunnel.

Outside, the city felt quieter, as if all the birds had flown South too early.

♥

The weeks that followed were a blur of work, heat and continued silence. The radio played Procol Harum and The Beach Boys, while The Beatles still hovered in the charts. The papers talked about psychedelia fading; about the end of the dream. When Michael walked through Soho, past the boutiques and clubs, their colours already looked tired.

During the day, he sketched faces, streets and fragments of memory. He thought of Anna in Cornwall, of the sea, of the way she’d stood in the rain laughing. He didn’t write to her. He didn’t know what to say.

♥

In early September, a postcard arrived: a picture of St Ives depicting blue sea, white cottages and wheeling gulls. On the back, in her looping handwriting: The light here is perfect. I’ve been painting every day. Hope you’re well. Love, A. The ink was smudged slightly where her paint-stained fingers had touched it.

He pinned it above his desk, beside one of his sketches.

Outside, the first leaves were beginning to turn. The summer was coming to a close, quietly and without ceremony.

♥

One afternoon, he walked to Hyde Park alone. The grass was damp and the air cool. The place where the Love‑In had been was deserted now, apart from a sprinkling of litter, cigarette ends and a few torn posters fading in the rain. He sat on a bench, listening to the distant hum of traffic.

A couple passed, laughing. Somewhere, a radio played faintly, its sound drifting from beyond the trees: The Beatles, still peddling their hopeful and defiant anthem.

He smiled as he recalled Anna’s words: It’s ours for now.

He looked up at the sky, at the last light fading behind the clouds and felt something like... peace... fragile and fleeting, but real none the less.