Most heritage sites ask you to look at one moment. Wawel makes you look at four or five at once, and it does this on a single lawn, in about the space of a football pitch. Stand at the south-eastern end of the outer courtyard and the hill lays itself out like a diagram. In the middle distance, the cathedral: a green copper cap on the Sigismund Tower, a brick clock tower with the flag on it, and off to the right the gilded dome of the Sigismund Chapel, which has been catching whatever light Kraków can spare since the 1530s.

A brown horse stands in harness on the cobbles of the Wrocław Rynek, waiting for a fare that has not arrived yet. Behind it the Old Town Hall shows its east face, the gilt gable with its blind tracery, the astronomical dial with its gold sun, the stepped brick pinnacles running up either side. A kiosk sells souvenirs from a doorway at the base. A few people sit on the steps of the pillory column.

On a November morning in 1981 the Queen Mother poured concrete into a column form on Lime Street. It was the sort of ceremony that earns a photograph and a paragraph in the trade press. It was also the start of the strangest office building in London, and the start of an argument that has still not been settled forty years after the underwriters moved in. Lloyd’s had run out of room.