Running through the heart of Mayfair, Jermyn Street is the spiritual home of the chaps.
Although Savile Row is the epicentre of bespoke tailoring, it is but a short jaunt through the Burlington Arcade and across Piccadilly to this souk of hosiers, bootmakers, barbers, shirtmaker's, shaving brush emporia, neckwearmongers and cufflinkieres.
The problem with Savile Row is that a chap has to be holding folding to the tune of several large if he intends to cross any threshold. In Jermyn Street one can browse for hours, assessing the thread count of a shirting here, fingering the bar tack on a tie there, before popping in to Quaglinos for a corrective Brandy Alexander.
Jermyn Street is at its best late in the late afternoon just before Christmas. In the damp gloaming, the windows shine like jewels and it is quite possible to spend simply hundreds of pounds without any appreciable effort.
One can also get there from Savile Row by cutting through the Albany. This is an arcade of flats, next to the Royal Academy, set up originally as chambers for single young gentlemen in town. Shelley wrote, in a letter to his Mother that he had recently occupied rooms and was pleased that, though they were small, there was just enough room for his books and his sabres. You don't see that sort of thing in the particulars of your average metropolitan yuppie hutch.