It’s November, and the sun has started leaving at 4:30 p.m., with the ceremony of an Irish exit. I do love late fall. The coats, the fires, the red wine for dinner. But I miss the long summer evenings when it was still light at 9 p.m. and nobody could prove what time it was.

Then again, I’ve had worse. I lived in London for four years, and someone once told me that in November and December, London gets about two hours of sunshine a day. I assumed this was something the English say to frighten Americans. It turns out it’s roughly true, and somehow more insulting than it sounds. The sun is technically up for around eight hours. It simply can’t be bothered to come out for more than two of them.

That first winter, I wasn’t sure I’d make it to spring. How was an entire nation functioning on this little light?

The first answer was obvious: the pub. Specifically, standing outside one in your coat, pint in hand, with your work friends, laughing over cigarettes and pretending it wasn’t pitch dark at 4 p.m. I’d recommend it. My doctor would not.

But once my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I noticed the other method. Londoners fight the dark with color. Seventy-year-old women with rainbow streaks in their hair, entirely unbothered. Umbrellas in the hottest possible pink. Wellies in an azure blue you could spot from across Hyde Park. The darker it got, the louder everyone dressed, as if the whole city had agreed that if the sun wasn’t going to show up, they’d do its job for it.

So I joined in. This was a big step for a girl who had spent her late teens and twenties dressed entirely in black, which I told myself was chic and was mostly just easier at 7 a.m. My first purchase was a pair or fluorescent orange flats from Top Shop (where I worked in their press department). I put them on and felt instantly better. Was it still dark at 4 p.m.? Yes. Did I look slightly less like I was on my way to my own funeral? Also yes. I wore those shoes twice a week until March, and for the first time all winter, I felt calm. Possibly because people could finally see me coming.

And on the nights it didn’t work, there was always booze.

So this month, we’ve rounded up the things bringing color back into our lives while the sun is off sulking.

Five London pubs for chasing the light (or giving up and having a pint)

The Cow, Notting Hill Tom Conran opened The Cow in the mid-90s, and the downstairs looks like it has barely changed since, which is the whole point. Order the Guinness and oysters, the house specialty, then look up at the murals, where langoustines in top hats ride fish down a hillside. Nobody explains this. Nobody needs to.

Side Hustle at The NoMad, Covent Garden Side Hustle sits in what used to be the Bow Street Police Station, so people once had to be dragged in here. Now they book ahead. It’s the NoMad’s take on a British pub, built around agave cocktails and Mexican food. A margarita in a former nick is about as good as November gets.

The George, Fitzrovia Locals call it the Gluepot because conductor Henry Wood’s orchestra kept getting stuck there during concert intervals, until he sent a man with a handbell to fetch them back. The 2021 restoration kept the original hunting-scene tiles, marble fireplaces and patterned glass. Sadly, no one comes with a bell anymore. You have to leave on your own, which is much harder.

The Toucan, Soho A tiny pub where Jimi Hendrix once played in the basement, and the whole place is a love letter to Guinness, painted toucans and all. Expect green tinsel that will end up around your neck. For the indecisive, the house favorite is a Black Velvet, Guinness mixed with champagne: for nights when you can’t tell if it’s a Tuesday or a celebration.

Lamb & Flag, Covent Garden Reputedly licensed in 1623, making it the oldest pub in Covent Garden, and it was once nicknamed the Bucket of Blood for the bare-knuckle fights held there. Dickens was a regular. The fights have stopped. Judging by the Friday crowd on Rose Street, the jostling has not. Head for the back room with the fireplace.

Five New York bars for when the sun clocks out at 4:30

Old Town Bar, Flatiron Pouring since 1892, with a 55-foot marble and mahogany bar and New York’s oldest dumbwaiter, which still sends food down from the upstairs kitchen. During Prohibition, drinkers hid their bottles under the wooden bench panels when the police came by. In 2010, the bar threw a 100th birthday party for its enormous porcelain urinals, with champagne. No one in New York has ever loved anything that much.

The Ear Inn, Hudson Square Built in 1817, when it stood just five feet from the Hudson River. The name came from painting over part of the “B” on the neon BAR sign to avoid asking the Landmarks Commission for a new one. Proof that the best way around a planning committee is a small pot of black paint. A sailor named Mickey who lived upstairs is said to still haunt the place, so do say hello.

Swift Hibernian Lounge, NoHo Named for Jonathan Swift, open since 1995, with church pews, exposed brick and no televisions, so you’ll have to talk to each other. The pulpit came from a church in Ireland where Swift himself was once a vicar. It closes at 4 a.m. every night, even on Christmas, which is either a public service or a warning.

The Dead Rabbit, Financial District Named after an infamous 19th-century Irish street gang, think Gangs of New York, and named World’s Best Bar in 2016. Downstairs in the Taproom, it’s Guinness and one of the city’s best Irish coffees; upstairs, the Parlor is all cocktails. The original Dead Rabbits fought in these streets. Today’s patrons fight for a stool at 6 p.m.

Bar Cornelia, Bushwick This one is my local, so I’m slightly torn about telling you. A low-key neighborhood bar with good hip-hop that feels like a friend’s living room. Order the fried mac and cheese, the pigs in a blanket and the homemade sangria. Please don’t all come at once.

Three umbrellas that refuse to be gloomy

Harrods Logo Umbrella in bright pink, £30 (shop) A magenta umbrella from a shop that has survived 175 years of London drizzle. It also tells everyone you’ve been to Harrods, which is half the point.

London Undercover Neon Tie-Dye Auto Compact (shop) Tie-dyed by hand in neon green and yellow, so no two are alike. Finally, something to argue about at the pub besides whose round it is.

Blunt Classic in Buttercup (shop) A sunny yellow meant to evoke flowers in bloom, which in November is wildly optimistic. We’ll take it.

Three pairs of wellies louder than the weather

Hunter Original Tall, $190 (shop) The original British welly, now in 13 colors including red, yellow and pink. There is no longer any excuse for the green.

Bottega Veneta Puddle Boot (shop) The rubber boot that made rain fashionable. It’s a lot of money for a puddle, but these are very good puddles.

Merry People Bobbi Ankle Wellies in Mustard Yellow, £89.95 (shop) A yellow bright enough to count as a light source, and the brand suggests wearing them to your wedding. We’d stop at dinner.