Travelling into The City after my Somerset House exhibition had been an afterthought when the rain hijacked my other plans.
An everyday miracle happened when I reached my stop. I walked the correct way towards Leadenhall Market. I have a notoriously bad sense of direction and confusion and retracing is a big part of my explorations. When I’m alone I am mildly frustrated, when with others the confusion can become too large and panic-inducing. Today I nailed it, although at the very last minute I wondered if I’d overstepped Leadenhall. No, it was there!
Was it the rain, my mood, the cold or the reality of election day that dimmed the colour and atmosphere of the market? I’m not sure. The year before people had thronged the arcade, music was playing, the tree was magnificent and it felt like Old London had come alive. Although my photos show it quite well, I thought it oppressive, gloomy and I left quite soon after arriving.
Leadenhall Market, subdued
I still had a lot of time left before I had to meet Susanne. I decided that I’ll head to Spitalfields Market to see what Christmas looked like there.
The cheeriest sight so far – snack wagon by Spitalfields MarketA quite lovely sight – but where are all the people?There was a small crowd inside the new marketThe new market’s lights were Torino-esqueA few selfie lovers preceded meLooking out from the market – no crowd to be seenOutside – shiny and WET
I think I enjoyed things as much as I could in my cold and dampened state. It was good to be here and I tried to still the voice in my head that was telling me to head Susanne off and just go home. One foot in front of the other is always the other little voice in my head.
A year or two ago – when? – Carolyn and I went to the Dennis Severs candlelight at Christmas night. I loved it. I’d considered going again but decided against it. However, I did want to have a quick look at the door. It’s always on my must-see list when I’m showing people around. So I took a look, moved determinedly on and wended my way across Commercial Street towards Andina on Redchurch Street, where I’d meet Susanne.
A little detour – Dennis Severs House on Norton FolgateOff Commercial Street, a taste of urban art. I must head back on a better day
Under the railway arch at Shoreditch High Street Station – what is it that stirs me about these scenes?
East end Triptych
Bless Susanne for being there already when I arrived early. The restaurant was warm and dry and noisy. The food was good, not extraordinary, the drink was delicious. Chatting was just what I needed. We lingered and then we walked to a nearby hotel where more chat and a welcome pot of tea awaited.
This might not be Andina!And this dessert was Christmassy
The day I had to go to Somerset House, it rained…too much. It was rarely pouring but the darkness and the showers and the cold wind made it difficult to ignore and enjoy things. It felt as if even the lights and the colours struggled to assert themselves. I had imagined that, with three hours of spare time I could slowly look around – I thought maybe Bond Street and Soho would be nice – before I had to meet Susanne for dinner. When the day actually came, the most tempting thought was ‘stay home, wrap up, do nothing,’ especially when Lisa had suggested she may not make it. Bah humbug.
But off I went. I took advantage of my early arrival – once I know I’m going somewhere I just want to get out and deal with the extra time when I get there – to get a SIM card for my new phone. In Dalston the same venture had been painful the day before and I’d remained SIMless. And this was the Strand.
When I was just 17 I got a job there. The job itself was clerical and bottom of the ladder. But I was 17 and each day I’d travel in to Waterloo Station from Woking, where we’d moved one year earlier. From the station I’d walk along the South Bank – a shadow of what South Bank is today but walking along there, taking in the sights on the other side, watching the river, before arriving at the Royal Festival Hall and then going up to street level was exciting every time.
Crossing Waterloo Bridge was the low and the highlight. Low because it seemed long and, when windy or rainy, quite challenging. High because the view from up there was, and still is, the finest in London for me. To the east Saint Pauls, the power station, and Tower bridge. To the west the sweeping view towards Westminster and the Parliament Buildings. Quintessential London was spread out.
The building I worked in was at the head of the bridge, taking up the corner of Waterloo bridge and the Strand. The office was a few floors up. From my window I could see the working side of the Savoy Hotel and, on my breaks, I could go out onto the large balcony and see that east and westward view from a height. I never tired of it.
Every day I’d use a luncheon voucher, which I somehow remember might have been a couple of shillings – part of most London wages in those days, and take myself to lunch. I got in the habit of going to Lyons Corner House along the Strand and buying a tomato sandwich and a drink, which I’d take along to Trafalgar Square and eat in that wonderful setting. While the tomato sandwich was delicious, my method was to hold back some of the money from the voucher and once a week have a magnificent lunch somewhere. It seems to me most of the time this was a European cafe on the east side of the bridge, where the flavours were mysterious and fancy.
Sometimes I’d go to a cafe in what is now the touristy Covent Garden area – something with chips, perhaps egg, sausage and chips. And sometimes I’d meet my dad on Fleet Street where he’d treat me to steak, chips and mushrooms. I was grown up and ‘rich’ and acutely aware of how exciting life and this city was.
So how can I ever go to the Strand and not think about my youthful adventures there, the place where my love affair with London was cemented? (And perhaps where the seed of my love affair with food was planted.)
And yet that day, happy to be there, I also wanted to flee. Somehow I grabbed the minutes I had and did what I could with the soggy time.
The disused Strand Station – I remember the escalator there seemed very longI think of Simpson’s as Liz’s place – roast beef and dusty decadence. It was sparkly todayThere’s something about a line up of buses…In Whittards I considered all the tea but enjoyed a delicious sample of spicy chaiCovent Garden’s decorations were the same as last year but beautiful nonethelessBetween the Strand and Covent Garden the streets were colourfulTo be honest, none of these places live up to their gorgeous exterior promiseAt Somerset House, the buildings melted into the rain – the rink hadn’t opened yet and people just hung aroundInside Somerset House, the Gingerbread City exhibit
A festooned door on the corner of the Strand and Aldwych – inside it was gorgeous but I couldn’t find my way in
Instead of my planned leisurely walk around the west end, I caught a very cold bus at Aldwych and headed north and east – to The City.
I went to Liverpool. That city and I go back a way. I first went there as a starstruck Beatles fan. (And that’s a whole other story – of becoming a fan.) I wasn’t, as my parents suspected, going to see the Beatles though. I should have hated that city since on arrival my friend, also called Janice, had her backpack stolen with all her money. So now we had to share my money. (It’s also possible that it was I whose stuff was stolen and we shared her money – memories are odd like that.) I’ll save talking about my adventures for another time but I grew to love that city. I met a girl in the line up for the Cavern my first night there. Anne and I are still friends. And on subsequent visits I met another girl, Elsa. Elsa and I still speak often.
A few months ago, she contacted me to let me know she and her husband, Kenny, were having a fiftieth wedding anniversary at the Cavern. A few shaky days where I thought I couldn’t go and then suddenly the tickets and hotel were all booked.
We expected two days of rain but off we went. The journey was easy and the walk to the hotel fast. I wasn’t sure what to expect from our room but it turned out to be quite lovely. There was a large bed and bathroom and then down a step to a living room area. The hotel used to be part of the Bank of Wales building next door so there’s a masculine feel to everything but we were comfortable.
We wandered around a little, had a less-than-satisfying lunch, then back to the hotel before leaving for the Cavern. We were really close to it. If we went through an alley opposite the hotel we were actually right on Mathew street where the Cavern is. It’s like my feet lead me there. But it all looks so different and there are tourist things everywhere, statues of Beatles at street level and higher up on the buildings like angels or gargoyles looking down at the crowds.
It’s so clean there now, though. It used to be dirty and feel dangerous and you’d often see rats, even swarms of them, moving from warehouse cellar to warehouse cellar looking for food. No rats in sight now. I’d like to say it’s a cool area but it’s succumbed to tourists’ whims. Neon lights everywhere, souvenir shops, mediocre places to eat, tour groups…
The new Cavern is much bigger than the old/original, and the stairs are much less steep, going down several landings deep underground – this used to be just two turns of some very steep stairs and I’d always fear falling down them. In this new space, the first room you land in is the same as the original Cavern. a low-ceilinged, brick arched space with a side section for dancing. You could almost be back fifty years but this is a sanitised version.
The new Cavern Club, echoing the old. The centre area has the iconic stage and audience area and the area to the left looks the same but it’s for dancing. Beatles Tribute Bands play here.
It’s not raunchy, and the smell of disinfectant and scouse (the Liverpool stew that gives the people their name) is gone. Now there’s a smart bar and lots of neon, and posters everywhere, and framed photos of bands who played on the original stage. If you walk along the long bar you see an old red phone box. Keep going and you’re in the Live Lounge where Elsa and Kenny were having their party. Everyone knew about it – Elsa and Kenny’s bash? yeah down there, this way… My ears are immediately familiar with the accent, although Krish tells me he doesn’t understand everything and ‘Why do they want to talk like that?’ Hmm, they just do!
It’s damn loud in the lounge too. The ceilings are low and here it’s not brick anymore. There are lots of displays and memorabilia, and it’s set up like a cabaret – lots of low tables and benches and there were none left to sit on. The place was packed. It’s actually quite amusing to go to these things. Most people are my/Elsa’s age. They look like elderly people but they’re taking in the music and it’s like someone peeled the years away. Everyone knows everyone. There’s laughing, too much alcohol, and there’s mingling and catching up. There’s an elevated area with more seating and another bar, and the toilets – I like going down there towards the toilets since there are some amazing photos of the Beatles and my favourite one, of Brian Epstein. They all look so young. I looked at one of John Lennon and was totally surprised to re-realise he was only 40 when he died. He lived a lot of life in those forty years. And there’s a lovely one of George, my (and Elsa’s) favourite Beatle. Although she, of course, knew him and has personal memories and it’s so very sad.
My goal was to watch two acts – the Hideaways, who were my favourite Liverpool band, and Beryl Marsden who never quite became famous, although you’ll find her on YouTube, and who sings the great old Cavern faves.
A favourite moment – Elsa and Freda (Kelly, the Beatles Fan Club secretary) jiving (Cavern style) at the front soon after we arrived and Judd announcing, There’s two original Cavern girls right there! And so they are, although not quite original since the club would have opened when they were only ten. Nevertheless, I’m always impressed by Elsa’s energy. I give it a good go but…
Things were running late. After one song by the Hideaways Krish said he had to leave, that he couldn’t can’t handle the crowd and the noise and the standing – I understood and was prepared for this – but the second song came on, Judd’s harmonica (they call it a gob iron in Liverpool) came out and Krish stayed till their set came to an end. They are all old men now, with much less hair, much more body fat, and their faces aren’t recognizable, but if you listen to their music, it’s like the years fall away. It’s all standard Liverpool 60s fare – old blues, soul – and they are having fun with it. Judd is centre-stage, sloppily dressed, looking messy, rotund, and yet the women still seek him out – you can see them. After Krish left, I looked around. Freda didn’t seem to know me this time and I was OK with that. I had a few words with Kenny and a few more with Elsa and I stayed to watch Beryl. Her voice is still strong and confident and she sings her songs as she has for decades – I know (I know) you don’t love me no more…. you really have to shake yourself that it’s now, 2019, Beryl is looking a bit frail, with thinner hair and that jawline is gone, but she’s still Beryl.
I told Elsa I had to leave and she was shocked I would leave without watching Kenny’s band. Oh, you HAVE to stay to watch Kenny’s band at least. So I stayed for two songs but. after I left, I felt bad for not staying even though I’d been standing for hours, and my ears were starting to ring and echo a bit too much for comfort.
Elsa watching The Kirbys, Kenny’s Band
Krish and I had a rest and then set out for a restaurant he wanted to go to across town – 15 min walk. We had a lamb tajine which was quite lovely. The appetiser and dessert were mediocre. We almost always share a meal.
Mr Cenzone on Bold StreetThe old with the newLamb tajine (with dates stuffed with walnuts) at the Kasbah
Walking up to Bold Street is weird. It’s always been a nice area for eating. It’s on the way to the huge cathedral – the fifth-largest cathedral in the world and the longest. Liverpool outside the very centre and before you hit the near suburbs doesn’t seem that different, just cleaner. but the core of the city is gone. The streets are pedestrianised and, even though they’re lined with all the familiar franchise stores, they still have the same name. So you see the name of the street and there’s no recognition of what it was once. Those new streets have just appropriated the old names as if someone erased everything except the street signs. It feels odd. Bold Street is trendier and has a real road but it looks pretty much the same as it always has. There are mostly independent shops and places to eat.
A touch of Charles Rennie Mackintosh in LiverpoolMaggie May’s, famous for scouse. We had some there once and Krish hated it. It wasn’t such a good one!
There had been a big football match that day so the street and the side streets and cafes were packed with loud celebrating fans. They had the game on even in the Cavern – the music was punctuated with loud yells and celebration as the home team were winning. When we left the restaurant I’d meant to photograph the people having fun but the rain was steady and getting heavier. Continue reading “Liverpool, my old friend”
I don’t have to go very far to see how much things are changing in London. Right here in Hackney the amount of regeneration and repurposing is enormous. Last week, Liz (my sister-in-law) gave me a back-handed (or something) compliment. She said that she really enjoyed my blog, the Hackney one, and I made it look really nice, much better than it really was. I thanked her and thought, huh?
The fact is that Hackney isn’t all nice. It’s a long-deprived neighbourhood where crime and vandalism and neglect were the norm when I first arrived here. I’m sure it’s still there but…Hackney is a huge borough. This little bit of it has a lot of old, rundown parts, mixed in with the regenerated new parts, mixed in with the very urban parts, mixed in with the fields and parks. There’s ugly and there’s beautiful. It all adds in to the whole.
There’s the suprising little living wall made in front of the abandoned pizza shop. I mentioned it in my Everyday Life in Hackney blog post. It’s coming along so well. It’s a great example of repurposing, taking something that’s just sitting there and making good use of it.
The pizza shop wall before it was plantedThe living wall has flourished
There’s a little street by where I live. When I moved here it was a rundown street with a derelict factory on one side. Then the builders showed up. They didn’t pull the factory down but made it into a fancy apartment building. I’ve been looking at that road in the last week or so and today I went to look a bit closer. It’s not looking quite as sparkly as it did when it first got its new face, but it’s interesting to see nevertheless.
Looking down the road. The blue is the wall of a college. That wasn’t here when I moved in.One side has normal Hackney homesOn the other side, an old factory has become fancy flats
At the end of the road there’s a sort of road that runs perpendicular all along the railway bridge. It’s really just a back alley with railway arches but in the last several years there has been construction. More fancy flats on one side, facing the arches. When they started to build here, I was shocked. These back alleys along the railway arches are scary. They’re dark and they’re away from the main traffic. I told Krish that I didn’t think anyone would want to live there. Walking home at night would just be too frightening and why would people buy expensive flats on such a derelict road. But they have.
Fancy new gates in the old factory buildingGround floors of even the fanciest flats are marred by these safety screened windowsOn one side the old railway arches, on the other fancy flats I thought no one would ever want to live inClose up of the flats – crowded in the alley by parked cars
I know I’ve talked about railway arches. London uses every space it has. Across the city where there are railway arches there are shops of all kinds built into the space the arch has provided. In many areas these are trendy restaurants and shops but in my neighbourhood, they are little manufactures, businesses and, in this case, body shop after body shop. (That’s auto repair shops for the Brits reading this.)
Opposite the pristine fancy flats are the decrepit arches body shops.
The body shops under the arches
There was a bit of an argument going on between some customers and an owner so I held back a bit and hid my camera. Hackney still has its seedy side and I’m aware of it. One day, while taking a photo from across the road to these arches, a man started to yell at me, ‘Did you take my photo?’ I yelled back, ‘No.’ He persisted and, I have to say, I did start to feel unsafe. I stood my ground and told him he was welcome to come see the photo for himself. He backed off. I’ve not forgotten that day!
And I’ve not forgotten the lovely wall art that used to be along these arches. Painted over and lost forever.
I’ve always said it doesn’t matter if I don’t blog. I blog when I blog…that sort of thing. Lately there seems to be a lot to blog about and I find myself balancing three lots of photos and loads of words whirling around my head. The photos I took the other day, when the weather was dull and drizzly were quite washed out and that means getting out my editing wand. So we’ll see how it goes.
After Wales came the Geffrye tour, and then Beck Road. My blogs will be dated properly but I’m writing this in reverse. So here we go with Beck Road.
When I hadn’t been in the UK very long, I went to a friend’s Chinese New Year party. There I met someone from the USA who had bought a flat just of the Euston Road. I remember thinking how grand it must be to be able to live there. When she heard I lived in Hackney, she asked me if I knew Beck Road. I didn’t. She said it was a whole street of artists and I should check it out.
All these years later I finally did.
First I made a stop at Mare Street Market for a muffin and a hot drink, while I waited for Lisa to show up. Then we walked two short blocks to our destination.
In from the rain at Mare Street Market
Beck Road is an unassuming east end street with 56 terraced houses, complete with a railway arch part way down. From the main road, looking at Beck Road, you’d be forgiven for thinking it ordinary, even run down. Yet these homes are valued at close to £1 million, and the residents are significant artists. Some homes have private art galleries but during London Open House 18 doors were opening to the public. It was a busy weekend for me and I thought I’d have time for only event a day. Sunday it was Beck Road.
Beck Road with the railway arch half way down
On each house between the doors was listed the inhabitants on the 1901 census. This was fascinating – first, there were way too many people living under one roof but also most of them seem to have been born within a mile or so of Hackney Central. Some of them were artisans but it wasn’t until the 1970s that Beck Road started to attract many artists. By the 1980s they had begun creating private galleries in their homes.
We loved this door knocker at number 16Occupants according to the 1901 census
There wasn’t a lot of time so we spent just a few minutes in each open home. I was just as fascinated with the interiors as I was with the art, maybe more really. Much of the art didn’t interest me that much, to be honest, although there were a few pieces I did enjoy. Strangely, I didn’t photograph any of it. Oops!
Sometimes the owner was there. Sometimes the owner was also the artist. Sometimes the owner was someone who knew the artist. It varied. As did the interiors. So many ways to interpret the same space. As always, I fantasised about living in each one. Pieces of each home were roped off to the public but we could wander around the rest, taking in the architecture and the canvases and sculptures and other works of art.
These houses had made an outside gallery
Street scenes
A man called us into a house. I thought we were going to get a tour but instead we watched a film, ‘A woman’s hair.’ It was sweet and sad, and Lisa said ‘Well, that was depressing.’
A woman’s hair
So on we went. Half way along under the railway arch there was a door and through the door was a long hallway with doors on each side, and a steep staircase leading up to the top of the arch where there were some very strange paintings. ‘Too much acid,’ I told Lisa.
Door leading into the space under the railway arch
There was no time left. So I scurried off home. It was interesting to see Beck Road finally. I wonder what it’s like to live life as an artist on a street where everyone else is the same…
