We decided to go to Hackney Wick to see how things were progressing there. Hackney Wick is an artist’s community, with an overground station, near the Olympic Park at Stratford. It’s always been a mass of old buildings, factories, industrial parks, and warehouses and over time the artists and visitors have littered every wall, every door with art.
At one time, the art was glorious. Those days seem to be gone. A new entrance to the overground station has changed the orientation of the area and it confuses me. In the process of the change – where homes and factories have been torn down, the art has been sacrificed. As well, the old station entrance, which was always a bit of a dump, hasn’t been torn down yet. The day we arrived, we saw that several of the new buildings had been completed, the fancy office buildings, the luxury flats with names that were supposed to recall the area’s heritage – The Bagel Factory, Stonemasons Yard, Ceramic Works – they’re highly priced in this obviously deprived area. I wondered how many would just be owned rather than lived in. It made me that familiar mixture of curious, excited and sad to think about it and we cut our walk short since Krish was now motivated by the nearby Well Street Fish and Chips.
A rather ghostly and scribble-littered Hackney Wick – The new, the old, and the very quietA car crash in Hackney Wick near the estate. I didn’t photograph the onlookers. Notice more construction
A visit to the little Tesco and another to Lidl, then on to Vietnamese Supermarket.
We’d passed Lennox House on Cresset Road, approaching Well Street. The architectural notes read ‘These flats were built in 1936-7 to the designs of J E M MacGregor for Bethnal Green and East London Housing Association. There are 35 flats. The three bedroom flats were on the first floor, one bedroom flats on the top floor and two bedroom flats on the other levels. The original idea was that the central portion of the building beneath the stepped flats should be used as a covered market. The income from this would be used to subsidise the rents of the flats above. However, during the building period, land in the area was designated for residential use only. The Housing Association was also committed to providing a garden for each flat (apart from those on the ground floor).’ We noticed local brewery barrels on the main floor – did they brew in here, or just store the barrels? I think just store.
Lennox House, by Well Street, is a fantastic buildingThese balconies seem well-suited to creating the towering gardens we saw in Turin and MilanThe original plaqueBarrels from the 40ft brewery- a Dalston success storyAt the bottom of Cresset Road, Well Street is under construction – how long till this gentrifies completely?
And then, on the bus home, I discovered I didn’t have my bus pass. I looked through my entire bag and checked all my pockets. It was gone. The pass office told me that it would cost £12 to replace it but that my renewal was due to be sent out. I decided to wait and pay full price until it arrived.
I was going alone to see A Passage to India at the Tower Theatre that night so I left early and visited Lidl and the Vietnamese supermarket first – no pass had been found. I phoned the Tesco and the fish and chip shop – no pass. I was scuttled.
The play was very good. I’d seen the Masterpiece Theatre series years ago. My memory of it was nothing like the play I saw. I enjoyed the fact actual Indian actors were playing those roles. I felt that British imperialism was probably fairly represented too. The xenophobia, the bigotry, the superior attitude, the refusal to accept something different by considering it unclean, barbaric. un-Christian so heathen…and the fear. Each side underestimated the other really. And at the end the anger was real.
One day I will be tired of Brick Lane. Not yet, though.
On Friday, 31st January, we thought of walking down Hackney Road that day, taking the bus from Pembury Circus and wandering down – our eventual destination the cash and carry Bangla Town by Hanbury Street. From the bus, though, we noticed so much construction that the street suddenly seemed less walkable. It wasn’t roadworks but a number of new building sites in various stages of construction. What this means is the street art and curious buildings were disappearing.
So we stayed on the bus to Columbia Road.
New construction along Hackney RoadSome parts of Hackney Road are unchangedColumbia Road at Hackney Road
Perhaps another day I’ll brave Hackney Road again and see what’s left. That day opened my eyes to the increasing disappearance of the old, a microcosm – or not so micro – of London itself.
From Hackney Road we decided to walk over to Brick Lane by the back streets, taking note of all the changes and contrasts along the way.
New and old face each other in the Shoreditch back streetsQuiet Shoreditch is close enough to the bustle
From here, it was a less familiar view of Boundary Estate, from its easterly edge. Built as the nineteenth century merged into the twentieth, it’s stayed the same in appearance but not in its culture.
Boundary Estate is instantly recognisable – with its red brickStill Boundary Estate – looking towards Arnold Circus
Once past Boundary estate, it’s time to head over to Brick Lane. The streets here are mostly unchanged but there are signs of the future – construction sites and hoardings – and shops at the top, quiet, end of Brick Lane before you hit Bethnal Green Road are getting smarter. The hipsters are very firmly in place. How will it all look in ten, or even five, years?
Rhoda Street will be next to regenerateClose up of street art on Rhoda StreetThe lesser known top end of Brick Lane – very quietModern Bethnal Green Road at Brick LaneWay too busy at Brick Lane Beigel – the salt bagels were selling outFrom Brick Lane, regeneration is so closeOff Brick Lane
I may have said before that I’ve noticed a new phenomenon at Brick Lane. In most cities I’m familiar with, the ethnic ghettos are expanding. When I lived in North Beach, San Francisco, Chinatown was a short walk away. In more recent visits to North Beach, Chinatown has crept into its streets. In Toronto, Little India has started to creep along Gerrard Street so that you no longer have to go into its centre to find Indian culture. Brick Lane is changing in a different way – instead of exploding, it’s imploding. More and more non-Indian cafes and shops are opening, mingling with the Bengali and Bangladeshi businesses and threatening to overtake them.
What will happen next? When will the current residents move on, as the Huguenot, and then the Jewish immigrants have done? Where will they go? And will they be pushed out, priced out, or will they too climb out? Meanwhile, there’s still time to look around.
Cake on Brick Lane – encroaching on the curry houses todaySclater Street – demolition and hopeOne of Dan Kitchener’s geishas on Brick Lane – agingSticker art on Brick Lane
I volunteered for a Feldenkrais session with Charlotte, who I used to have classes with – Lisa had taken me along. I have to admit Feldenkrais – and Charlotte – come across somewhat flaky, but I like to experience new things and it sounded quite relaxing. It was also a chance to go to Homerton. It’s part of Hackney, and one of the more rundown areas. The biggest thing there is the local community hospital.
In the 19th century a 200 bed fever hospital was built at Homerton. It stood where the present hospital is until 1982. There were six wards for typhus, two each for scarlet fever and enteric patients. Two smaller wards were reserved for ‘special cases’.
Homerton Hospital is made up of one long H-shaped low rise building, and several satellite buildings on its groundsThis old barred wall from the fever hospital remains (More in the blog postscript)
There are remains in Homerton dating back to the 11th century but most of its history isn’t known until the 14th century. Like much of Hackney, Homerton has been farmland and it’s been a genteel Tudor hamlet of estates and grand houses formed from the former Templar lands. Around 1790 Sutton Place, now a Heritage museum, was built and remains as the oldest house in Hackney. There’s quite a grand history of religion and education with many lectures and sermons being held, some attended by John and Abigail Adams. Among its ministers was polymath, Joseph Priestley, discoverer of oxygen.
Homerton wasn’t so grand in recent times, though. I’ve seen pictures of a bustling Homerton High Street, whereas today the street is dirty and quiet.
Homerton High StreetHackney Hospital – it was once the Hackney Union Workhouse, became a hospital and is now used as a Mental Health centre – it’s very large so this is just one wingThe back of Hackney Hospital
Things are changing, as they always do. Older buildings are being torn down and newer ones are going up. The contrast is striking.
Charlotte’s place is by the back of Hackney Hospital, where there’s a lot of new development. I’m calling it modern industrial.
Flaky or not, my session with Charlotte was rewarding. I learned a lot about how my posture – above all my typing habits and even my eyesight – contributed to my aches and pains. No big surprise, to be honest, but a very good window into what I really need to do to change this. Not that I have yet but I do have the awareness.
I hear a lot of complaints about the UK Health System. I hear a lot of fear from my friends in the USA too, who seem to cower in the face of what’s termed socialism. I’ve had the privilege of living in Canada, the USA, and the UK so I have more of a clue than most about the differences. I learned that paying big money for something doesn’t necessarily equal shorter waits or better care. It sometimes equals prettier decor, though.
I can’t pretend to know enough about each system but I can speak about the NHS after close to two decades here. Overall, it’s pretty wonderful. Surprised? Healthcare is never actually free, not when it’s supported by government, who in term are supported by the people – us. When you get a service that’s not funded by lots of private money, it does look different.
Many doctor’s offices and hospitals look impoverished by North American standards but that’s changing. The newer places are every bit as sparkly, advanced, and attractive as you’d expect in Canada or the USA. Systems are automated, cafes are abundant, and the biggest difference is usually the number of people waiting to be seen, even on the appointment system.
Growing up, there was no appointment system for the ‘lower classes.’ You’d show up to a crowded room and your turn would come sooner or later. You learned who was in the room when you arrived and when the last of those people left the doctor’s office, you knew you were next. Sometimes it took up your whole morning or afternoon but it was just how it was. These days if you have no appointment, you go early in the morning and wait in line, take a number or report your name to the receptionist and sooner or later, you’re seen. Mostly, though, you’ll have an appointment time.
You get your appointment by phoning in, but there’s a great online system where you can book your own, self-refer to other services (pharmacy, physio, etc) request medication, fill in some symptoms and get a phone call or email response, and some new things I haven’t discovered yet.
Since Krish has run into some serious eye problem, we have been going to Moorfields eye hospital. There are many waiting room areas and reception desks. There may be 50 or more patients waiting to see 7 doctors in each area. Things run smoothly, the doctors are skilled and personable, but a blackboard is very clear about your waiting time – it’s usually 2 or 3 hours.
Waiting times for things like tests and surgeries depend on how urgent your case is. In Toronto I didn’t wait very long for surgery. I haven’t need any in London, but for things like tests and referrals to specialists (called consultants here) the wait has been pretty short – a week to a month on average. Some very specialised things, like the sleep or the tinnitus clinic, have much longer waits. A little chat with the hospital ombudsman has usually bumped me up nicely.
I went the less picturesque way to the doctor’s office, through a housing estateThe street where the offices are. On the left is a commercial building with storage, the doctor’s office is on the right
At my doctor’s office, there’s a rudimentary check in machine system. You click on your arrival, you click your day and month of birth and confirm your name – the machine lets you know if your doctor is on time to see you or falling behind.
You can check yourself inSomerford Grove Practice – very plain looking. A doctor’s office here is called ‘a surgery’Notice board outside
It’s a rough building and the clinic is barebones. The fanciest thing in there is the TV that shows all manner of public health service announcements in a loop. Yawn. There are three waiting areas and probably seats for at least 75 people,including a little secluded area I assume is for orthodox Jews or others who need privacy. I’ve never counted how many offices there are but there’s a receptionist window – they’re glassed in like we might attack them otherwise, and I have to say there’s never any recognition that I’ve been there before – bad! – there could be ten doctor offices and three or four nurses’ offices and off to the other side, where there’s a smaller waiting area, there’s a door leading to other offices that I’ve never been in. It’s a rabbit warren.
At the entry the receptionist window looms and the first of many bulletin boardsA small glimpse of the main waiting areaA little bit of the main waiting area with the receptionist window at the back. The crazy faces – my attempt at anonymising!
I waited twenty extra minutes for my doctor, even though the machine lied and said he was on time. I don’t worry about this most of the time. I know it means that somebody before me had a much bigger problem than I walked in with. I also know it means that my doctor may be a little stressed – he’s behind. In fact, this is the biggest concern for me – the appointments are just ten minutes long. It’s rarely enough. My doctor knows it but he also knows he has dozens of other ten-minute sessions to fit into his day. I’m not sure how much fun it is to be an NHS doctor. I do like this one, though, so I hold out for appointments with him even if it means a week or three’s wait. He’s tall and young, and dresses a bit carelessly, and he listens, and remembers. He’ll also try anything. When presented with something he feels is important but difficult or controversial, he lets me know that he’s presenting the situation at the weekly meeting and he’ll get back to me with the consensus opinion. This style suits me but I like my Toronto doctor who can take her time with me, knows my name and my son, has a little personal chat and a catch-up and doesn’t leave a stone unturned. Can I import her?
There are notice boards everywhere in the doctor’s office and here is where you see how socialism comes in. There are notices everywhere. This group, that club, this explanation of what your disease might entail, many community services available, and research studies to take part in. This time I find a new poster for Brocals. What’s that? If you’re a man, you can join other local men, who can be brotherly, friendly, do things with you, have a chat. Hmm.
Brocals!
When I first returned to London, I had to immediately get radiotherapy after breast cancer surgery. No one asked me any questions other than medical ones. I had to go for three weeks every weekday to St Barts Hospitals Radiotherapy department, at that time a very old building with very old waiting room chairs and wheelchairs and a gloomy interior. But the machinery was state of the art and the therapists were chatty and kind. I was offered cups of tea, all of my journey money refunded, transport I didn’t accept, and warm chats with a nurse from Macmillan Cancer Care. They also visited me at home, referred me to a complementary care facility where I had lovely herbal, homeopathy, and reiki treatments, all at no cost. They sent me a cheque for a new mattress and then one so that I could go on holiday after the treatment ended. The hospital environment undwhelmed, while the care and support overwhelmed. I can’t say enough for the warmth and generosity during a very difficult time. I went to groups and complementary therapy sessions for years, with free lunches, and new people to meet. I have no idea how much things may have changed but probably not all that much. I don’t like the big waiting rooms or the chance of not seeing the same doctor each time, but for bedside manner the UK has them all beat.
Maybe Brits, like others, don’t like what they have because they don’t know what it could be like otherwise. The weather, which has no real extremes, the transport system, which is huge and efficient, and the NHS, which all in all is inclusive and free.
There’s a private system. Anyone can use it without losing their NHS privileges. Some additional services are private if you need them, like my dental hygienist. Next week I’ve self-referred to a Physio clinic for an assessment. It costs £45 for a half hour session. I’ll report back.
A week or two before Christmas and you’d never dream it was just around the corner. Not on my street.
The view down the street just a couple of weeks before ChristmasAt nearby St Thomas’ Square, not much sign of Christmas here either
I’m used to the Christmases of Toronto, where bling was everywhere and not always tastefully. Now in Toronto, the lights in the centre are definitely not up to London standards but when you get (surprisingly quickly) to the neighbourhoods, almost every house has lights inside and out.
When I lived and visited La Habra (California) one of my favourite things to do at Christmas time was to drive around looking at the magnificent outdoor lights and decorations, each neighbour trying to outstrip the next. I used to say that what Los Angeles lacked in snow, it made up for in lights!
In ‘the old days,’ it was a very rare Toronto Christmas that was not white, sometimes spectacularly so. The drifts would blanket the streets and obscure some of the doorways and windows, creating a surreal and muffled scene, but the lights would shine through – magical. We;d light a fire log and settle in for a warm and lovely day indoors.
My childhood Christmases – in east and south-east London – were simple affairs. The tree would go up – more magic – often while we slept. On Christmas eve we’d go to bed, trying desperately to fall asleep or Father Christmas would not come down our chimney at all. It was the same chimney that we’d burned our ‘This is what I want for Christmas’ letters – mum and dad assured us that the words would arrive at the North Pole in the smoke. A glass of something strong and a mince pie or biscuit was waiting for Father Christmas, and we’d always check in the morning to see if it was gone – it always was.
When we did awake, there’d be a pillow case or stocking at the foot of our bed and also a tangerine and some nuts in the toe of the stocking – I imagined to keep us content and not out of bed too early. I don’t remember any elaborate presents. Colouring books, a doll, toiletries as we got older… A good breakfast and then, as our dinner was roasting, Dad would take us out to buy something we chose, sometimes from the chemist. The air was usually crisp and the puddles frozen over. A favourite trick was to crack the ice with my shoe – how much fun were the simple things!
When Robin was little, I was very excited for his first Christmas. The first he was only a few months old but the second was highly anticipated. A bulging stocking at the foot of the bed each year and then the wait for him to wake up. Yes – the wait! I’d be awake at 5am like a child – and he’d be asleep. An hour later, asleep, three hours later, asleep…some time before noon, he’d wake up rubbing his eyes and wondering why John and I were hovering over the bed. I have tapes of his childish chatter as he opened presents. So cute!
It’s not likely that I’ll get into the West End to see the big lights this year. I had lots of plans and even marked on my calendar all the opportunities I had to check them out, but the cold rain and other bits and pieces put paid to that idea. Hopefully, next year.
But here I am in Hackney and, while there are no spectacular light displays, it’s got its own kind of special going on.
Just before Christmas, I went with my friend Holly-Gale to see my pottery instructor, Maria’s studio. She and others in the studio were having an open house sale. Maria is one of those people who, when you meet them, you know you’ll stay connected.
Maria in her studioSome of Maria’s pots inside her tiny studio spaceI bought a few things from the ‘seconds’ box. I love this fragmented piece, which I’m using a candle holder
One very rushed morning on the weekend before Christmas, I met Lisa for a quick visit to Mare Street and Broadway Markets.
Inside the market it was warm and bustlingThe Chandelier Room at Mare Street MarketRebel Rebel had some lovely Christmas flowers – they also created the door display
Netil Market was super quiet, with only a couple of stalls open. We were shocked but walked on to Broadway Market. Things were quieter than usual there. First we wandered into the Vegan Market, which seemed to have a few stalls including a man who was selling raw oysters, freshly smoked kippers, and jars of smoked oysters. I decided to buy a jar – haven’t tried it yet. Soon!
Finn and Flounder on Broadway Market was pretty gorgeousOne year I bought sprigs from holly from here. This year, nothingCouldn’t resist a photo of one of the remaining Pie and Mash shops* *See bottom of blog**
Market florist selling her wintry bouquetsA very serious Christmas musician
