LONDON—I’m here to tell you that it’s possible to fly across the Atlantic wearing a mask, deal with 10 days of quarantining, undergo four COVID tests in a period of three weeks, slump through an untimely head cold, stress over a lost key and dysfunctional entryway to a rented flat—and still have a great time.

It rained a lot. Randomly timed calls from the British authorities, meant to assure we were not spreading the virus, were disconcerting. (Big Brother!). Britain’s prime minister, appearing as disorganized as his hair, announced national “Freedom Day” from virus restrictions simultaneously with news that he was forced to self-isolate. At times, the three weeks were a bit like being in a surreal Monty Python skit—but not as funny.

So what?

You haven’t lived until you’ve been to a wedding in which the groom and bride—he pedaling a three-wheel cargo bike while she rides in the delivery unit, the velocipede complete with “just married” signs and tin cans trailing noisily behind—exit the ceremony through local streets escorted by a bagpiper while local residents applaud through open windows and surprised, grinning passers-by offer congratulations.

That was our daughter in the cargo bin, the star of the show.

Long delayed by the maddening pestilence, the formalization of their vows—the ceremony, bagpiping march back to the garden in their flat, the meal, balloons, cake-cutting, champagne-toasting (all planned and executed by the newlyweds)—included their baby boy and a small gathering of the couple’s friends. And us, arriving from The Colonies.

Evolving coronavirus protocols already had eliminated the pub site for their reception and kept festivities almost exclusively outdoors. There had been persistent predictions of heavy rain for the day and a last-minute email that rescinded earlier approval on the wedding site. That and other pop-up issues were resolved favorably, and in the end, the light morning drizzle couldn’t dampen anything. And we stayed another week to hang out with the grandboy. A cute little bugger.

Our stay reinforced my feeling that London is a swell place, diverse and alive, even in the midst of the modern plague. Parks and playgrounds are in abundance and everywhere are runners, bicyclists, children, dogs. Outdoor marketplaces and pubs bustle in spite of the distancing edicts.

In previous times, a night or two at the theatre, day at the museum or concert at St. Martin-in-the-Fields was on the schedule. And maybe a lunch of fish-and-chips or an activity as touristy as walking the zebra crossing on Abbey Road. Not now. But our stay, specifically the isolation stage, coincided with televised coverage of two favorite sporting events—Wimbledon tennis and the European soccer championships, both of which involved top-of-the-news English accomplishments and the attendant local fuss.

If you had been there for the whole thing, you would never forget it.

We’ll be back, of course.