I must confess to wanting to see somewhere different. Lately, I’ve been returning to old haunts, though. I have many trips in mind, but the pandemic hasn’t let go of us. I’m not sure where it will land us, but for now I’m just not keen to go too far. I have a birthday coming up in just a month and, while Krish talks about travelling a few hours to get a perfect Chinese meal, my sights are set closer to home. There must be something wrong with me! Or maybe not.
Before the pandemic we would go away at least a few times. That year, 2019, it was trips to see my aunts in Southend, an overnight to Leicester, six weeks in Toronto, a few days each in Glasgow and in Pembrokeshire. There may have been others. There must have been. Now Krish talks about revisiting Porto, Budapest, Torino, perhaps a new place – Istanbul, Valencia, Copenhagen… we’ve bounced the idea of Warsaw, of Marrakesh, Sicily… With the pandemic on our minds, we thought about the UK and there are still places that are on my list but untried – Nottingham, Colchester, Norwich..
Both aunts have died now. It takes me a while to let that sink in. I dreaded those journeys each time and always knew they would inevitably end. Now they have. Our Two Together rail discount card lies idle. At least it really helped with our couple of trips to Southend earlier, and to Sheffield and Leicester. When the weather turns warmer, there will hopefully be more.
And close to home we’ve stayed for the most part. Krish’s hospital visits meant I could explore alone or with him in areas that I didn’t know very well. Now he’s not going very often so revisits to closer familiar places are the ticket They’re an opportunity to find something different and have one of those why-did-I-never-notice-that-before moments. Somehow there’s always at least one. It surprises every time.
It worries me, when I consider returning to Toronto, that I can’t have nearly as many of those moments in a city built on a grid system and where there’s a certain uniformity of architecture. My friend, Esmeralda, once described it (after returning from her travels) as homogenous. I’d definitely have to adapt and be more willing to walk further and dig deeper.
So here’s a look at the familiar places I’ve visited in the last couple of weeks.
I took Krish to see Wood Street. It’s only a few stops away so an easy journey. I wanted to check out the Mexican Homies on Donkeys so we headed over to the Wood Street Market that had been closed when I was last there, before Christmas. The market is an indoor arcade filled with jumbled little kiosks and rooms. A notice at the entrance told us that this used to be The Crown Cinema, from 1912 to 1956 and is now a haven for antique and record collectors. I took photos of some of the colourful little shops inside.
The visit to Homies on Donkeys was to taste a taco or two and buy a bag of corn tortillas – so hard to find in London. I decided that I would taste the tacos first before investing in a bag of 40 tortillas. The choices weren’t ones I’d have ordinarily bought but I chose a milder chicken and a spicier pork one. Both tasted strongly of chipotle, and the extra guacamole I ordered was runny like a salad dressing. Not a bad taco but not a great one. I left without buying the tortillas.
Down the street we came across two Palestinian places. Only later did I think that maybe I could have taken some falafels home. We kept walking – I’d seen a sign that the William Morris House was close by so we aimed to walk there. It just wasn’t clear where or how far it was so we turned on our heels back to the station instead.
We had a run into Whitechapel. Krish wanted lentils, I wanted dumplings, and it was time for more samosas. I’d seen an ad for dumplings – three bags for 9.99 – at a store in Whitechapel that looked like it was new. As soon as we reached our stop, Krish decided he could do without the lentils – cross that off the list, then. Instead we went looking for the dumpling place. It’s called Tian Tian Market and it’s in the new complex near Aldgate East Station, where Guan (the supper club guy) lives. That store was so tidy! And spacious.
Whitechapel has a curious mix of architecture. Sometimes it’s very modern, sometimes it’s very old. Sometimes it’s a jumble of styles that make no sense.
It would be interesting to be able to see into the future and know what the area will look like, perhaps in fifty years from now. I have no doubt some of the old will remain, but I really think it will be unrecognisable. Continue reading “Revisits – where do I go?”
Skipping over #blogsihaventgottoyet and onto the enjoyable events of a few days ago.
On Friday, I decided that I was finally going to Whitechapel Station – for some time it’s been under renovation in preparation for Crossrail, the Elizabeth Line. In 2016 they built a temporary entrance that was off the high street and over a narrow pedestrian bridge on Court Street. It made the station less attractive for me since this meant, as an overground rather than underground passenger, I had to walk quite a distance underground to find myself on the street or from the street back to my homeward train. The main entrance was blocked with hoarding and unavailable.
Crossrail construction itself has been going on since 2009. They hope to have the Elizabeth Line operating in the early months of 2022.
I heard only a couple of weeks ago that the station was almost complete and that you could now get in through the original entrance. I made a plan to check it out as soon as I could.
My route is an easy one. A short bus ride (for me as a non-walker, although it’s not very far away) to Dalston Junction overground station, then just four stops to Whitechapel – a journey of perhaps ten minutes. The train wasn’t crowded and I was entertained by a lady and her daughter, the latter who performed a great trick of hanging by her hands from two overhead straps for a while (I didn’t capture that one!). I felt a bit dreamy and at first got off at the wrong stop, confused by it looking familiar and not new at all. Back on the next train and on to Whitechapel.
Everything was shiny and new. It had the familiar overground vibe. Light, spacious, cathedral like but also like the turbine hall at the Tate (don’t know why I think so, but this just means it’s slightly cavernous for its purpose – but not overly so). I liked when I came up the stairs how there was a long semi-elliptical window at the top – on the left were some modern low rise flats and on the right the backs of the sooty old buildings that make up the storefronts of Whitechapel High Street. An interesting contrast, as usual.
There are a lot of entry/exit gates and a spacious ticket hall and then you’re out onto the high street. Happily, the original Victorian façade from 1876 has been cleaned and repaired rather than replaced. And for some reason I didn’t take photo of that entrance so that will come later. I’ve also read that there’s a new exit on Durward Street, another thing to look for.
You exit to the bustling market which was called Whitechapel Waste when I was growing up. Out there, the vendors vended, the shoppers shopped, the walkers walked, as if nothing had changed – and it hasn’t really. For now at least this part of Whitechapel is as it always was, changing only with the change of immigrants dominating the area. They bring in their own shops, clothing, food, and ambience. It’s busy but the Bangladeshi and Bengali people aren’t shouty like their Jewish and cockney predecessors.
Ambala for some samosas and one new sweet to try. I’ve forgotten its name. To Shalamar for three kebabs and one little lamb samosa for my lunch. To the Naanstop, ignoring the useless naan, for a masala chai and a salted caramel cheese in a little glass (expensive but I found that out only as he was ringing in the cost for me. Anyway, done. I walked over to the Royal London Hospital – the new complex of buildings – passing the old, boarded up buildings and the old churches and homes in the shadows of the tall new blocks. In front of one of the ophthalmology building is a statue which has been moved here from the older complex. There’s a seat built into its base on all four sides so I chose the empty one and sat down with my tea and two snacks. It was quiet back there away from the main road. It was also a sunny, pleasant day and I enjoyed the calmness of it all.
Shalamar, where we buy our kebabs is very basic and is a great favourite with the Royal London Hospital workers, and with us – for their kebabs and unfussy service
We were walking along New Road a few weeks ago when Krish said, ‘Look, there’s a porcupine.’ Only it wasn’t. What it was, it turns out, is a pod, an education centre, that represents a neuron cell, designed by Will Alsop.
We knew right away that each ‘spine’ was a light filament and guessed correctly that at night this must be a beautiful sight with the lights all glowing. When the clocks go back and the nights are longer, we’ll go back and see it.
We were heading down to Lahore Kebab House in our eternal search for a great biryani. I waited inside for it, while Krish scouted around outside. On our way out we saw Shalamar Kebab House, the same name as the place on New Road that we buy kebab. That’s when I saw the old sign for Hessel Street under the new one. That’s a street name I’ve heard many times. It was once home to the main Jewish East End market specialising in the slaughtering and koshering of chickens. It was then called Morgan Street and there are many stories here.
Hessel Street is named for Phoebe Hessel who famously dressed as a man and fought as a private in the West Indies and Gibraltar, and was wounded in the Battle of Fontenoy in 1745. She’s buried in St Nicholas’ churchyard and was said to be 108 when she died.
No time to linger and explore Hessel Street – and I’ve since seen some interesting facts about Umberston Street where Lahore Kebab House is – but yet again something for another day.
We saw this impressive building along Commercial Road. So close to the end of our journey (or so I thought) I couldn’t face going to explore but I’d love to know its history
Heading along New Road again to catch our bus home, we saw some interesting houses. It’s been some time since I walked past them. I try to imagine what they would have been like a hundred years ago.
23 New Road. The inscription reads: The first indoor meeting of the mission which became The Salvation Army was held here on 3rd September 1865See the face above the door at 33 New Road? I don’t know who it is but the houses date from the 1780s along here
This little caption shows me that there is probably something to say about every house in the area. I’m humbled by it, especially in a blog where I promised myself to not get too longwinded on history or dates.
Despite wanting to get on the bus and home, Krish asked if I could walk further and I thought I could. My thinking included that I would catch the bus from the hospital, but somehow we kept walking. I think I lost track somewhere.
At the back of the Royal London Hospital, walking towards Stepney, the clocks have already turned back – to many decades ago, to the streets I grew up on. Among the newer homes, are the old terraced homes from the 1800s. As a child, I don’t remember giving our house much thought – I’m sure I didn’t think it dilapidated. I even remember being about to see the date it was built etched into the door mantle. I wish I had photos of it, but somewhere in my memory I’m thinking 1837 … as a child I knew our house was over a hundred years old, so that might even be right. In those days a hundred years felt like a thousand.
ꕷ𐒋ℓȟēԵ ÑÌဌȟԵʂ ‘𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐞 𝐎𝐟 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐥’ 💚❤💚 Authentic Bengal Dishes! (I stole this from Instagram, irresistible)
A mysterious black facaded building on our walk. I can’t find it on the map, but I’m still looking for the storyOn Cavell Street, it’s a typical East End day
On Ashfield Street, at number 91, we spotted a plaque.
I’m somewhat determined to not get to historical and date-y here but I love anything to do with Jack Cohen because of his Hackney history. Jacob Edward Kohen ( known as “Jack”) was born in Whitechapel, London, in 1898. His father Avroam Kohen, was a tailor and immigrant Russian Jew. Avroam made uniforms during WWI and life got better for the family. Jack joined up and when he got his demob pay he bought up surplus NAFII food and sold them on Well Street Market. One of the things he sold was packs of tea from Mr T. E. Stockwell – this gave birth to Tesco. Accidentally, Jack had created the brand that exists till this day. He created self-service shops, opened his first supermarket in 1956 and died in 1979. Continue reading “Whitechapel and Stepney walk”
I didn’t go with Krish to his appointment today. The timing was wrong. But I did go to Whitechapel to meet him. There were two things on my mind – take a look at Vine Court (near Ambala) and find a good biryani. (Hint – one out of two ain’t bad.)
Istanbul company Getir has a depot under the arches. It’s a new food delivery service. We deliver groceries in minutes, day or night.’ Their bikes – all with L plates – are everywhere
I took the bus up to Dalston Junction. Lately, the traffic is solid and slow all the way up from Dalston Cross. I have to allow lots of timeThe usual spacious train ride to Whitechapel, Four stops
Whitechapel Station is on the main Whitechapel Road but these days the station entrance is closed while they prepare for the Elizabeth Line. I chose to come this way since they have lifts at the entry and exit stations, but I didn’t count on the long walk from my platform to the side street where the temporary exit is.
I was really intrigued by the network of cables along the side of the tracks. It’s always there, of course, but I hadn’t looked it quite as closely before
Court Street, the temporary station entrance
I was a little surprised to see Whitechapel thronging with people. It was like Covid had never happened, except for the masks. It was Ramadan and everyone was milling about, buying things, including from the tables laden with fast-breaking food. If I’d not just started my walk and had someone to advise me, I might have been tempted to come away with a feast.
In Turin I had a recurring theme of foiled plans. In my last blog I talked about another foiled plan. In the history of foiled plans (mine at least) today was the mother of foiled plans – see the title.
There was perhaps a precursor in the morning. After sewing up my very first no-mistakes postman’s glove, I realised I’d left no hole for the thumb. At first I dug down into my thread kit for a seam ripper, confident I could take out the stiches and sew things up properly. Wrong. I’d used the same wool to sew it up, and I’d used a nice tight stitch so it wouldn’t unravel. Try as I might, it was impossible to see where the stitches were among the knitted seams. Rather than keep trying, I stopped, left it as is, and knew I had to knit a third glove to replace it. Gloom, but it’s only a glove, right?
As the morning went on and Krish talked about his plans to get to Guys for his psoriasis treatment, I let him know that I thought I’d come too unless I’d slow him down too much. He seemed really pleased and said we’d leave earlier and take the bus. I got ready.
The real Chapter of Accidents begins.
Paragraph 1 – when checking for the next bus, my app let me know that ‘There are no buses expected in the next thirty minutes.’ Right. It’s OK really, we’d just walk to the bus we’d need to change to. As we went to the landing to get outdoor shoes and clothes, the app cheerfully told me the bus that wasn’t expected was now due. Too late.
Paragraph 2 – As we crossed the intersection for the closest bus, ours – the 254 – drove up and left before we could reach it. We dug our heels in and waited. Bus after bus came, but not the 254. Krish said that it might be tight once we reached our second bus. I told him, when we get there, you rush ahead, don’t wait for me. I’ll let you know when I arrive at London Bridge. And we waited some more. Time was ticking.
Paragraph 3 – After a little bit of waffling, we decided that Krish should go get the train and leave me at the bus stop. I’d never be able to keep up with him. It was my decision to either return home or continue with my plan. I decided to continue after hearing from Krish he was on the train. My bus came. There was a terrible traffic jam and we moved slowly down to our destination, my next bus (this would be a two-bus journey) when the driver announced a destination change. We would be stopping in Whitechapel. Not so bad, I thought, but we didn’t stop in Whitechapel. We stopped before that at a stop that would bring my bus count to three. And I waited there again.
Paragraph 4 – Now there were no buses coming, not for a while. People were fidgeting. At least I had my bus pass and the extra buses wouldn’t cost me anything, but it was getting later. The 106 arrived and I jumped on, as quickly as a person with a crutch can jump on. It would take me to a stop by London Hospital and from there I could walk around to the main road for another bus to take me to my last bus. Easy, you say? So did I. On the main road I was met with a Bus Stop Closed notice. I looked for a temporary stop but there was none. Already hurting, I walked determinedly for another several minutes, past Ambala and on to the next bus stop. The journey that had just taken me close to ninety minutes usually takes about twenty minutes .
A ‘fun’ sight as I waited for my second busThe 106 stops at the London Hospital main entrance
The rest was easy. The bus stopped at the exact place to pick up my final bus. The reward for my pain and waiting came as we passed the Tower of London and across the Thames on Tower Bridge with the sight of City Hall and the Shard cheering me on.
The bus dropped me in a perfect location for my first plan of looking at how the George Inn was doing now it had some outdoor boozing. Encumbered by my backpack, my mask, my glasses, my crutch, the photos would be unlikely to do it justice but I’d made it.
The George Inn is the only surviving galleried London coaching inn. So there’s a long balcony along the stretch of the low building of connected bars. It was originally called George and the Dragon and was rebuilt in 1677 after a serious fire in 1676 that destroyed most of medieval Southwark. Its also featured in Dickens Little Dorrit and Our Mutual Friend. Dickens himself visited the site when it was a coffee house.
Different views from inside the George Inn Yard
Walking along Borough High Street, I felt a little dismayed at how shabby and broken down things were. This is a wonderful area and I’m not sure if some of the construction will be to spruce things up a bit. I do hope so. Across Southwark Road at Brindisa, an expensive tapas bar, people didn’t seem to mind that they were eating their £4 tomato bread and £17 lamb chops under the scaffolding and construction dust.
Enjoying their £4 Brindisa tomato bread under the construction scaffold
I really like Park Street. It runs alongside the south end of Borough Market. I stopped liking the market when the crowds got too heavy, but on Park Street there was the colourful Market Porter pub, the great Monmouth Coffee Company, and Konditor cake shop. Then off of Park Street is Stoney Street and the wonderful Borough Market branch of Neal’s Yard Dairy.
There were outdoor Europe-style (tented) patios bustling with people in all the eating places. Monmouth Coffee Company, where there are normally long queues of people and packed tables was deserted. I knew they didn’t serve decaffeinated coffee but I also found out that they don’t serve anything but coffee so that was out. Sadly, too, Konditor had closed its doors, with a very sad note in the window.
Poor Konditur. They now have only two branchesOn Park Street looking over to Stoney StreetEuropean style dining on Park StreetNot the dining experience I really want – Park StreetLooking west along Park Street – the road ahead leads to the Golden Hind, the Clink, The Globe and the Tate Modern
On Stoney Street, I stopped at Neal’s Yard. Only half of the store is open now, and a Wait Here notice greeted me. A man was buying a lot of cheese, but I knew I had only my very squashable backpack so, when it was my turn, I chose carefully: a small pack of cheese curds – I’ll try my hard at some poutine! – a small clotted cream to make some scones and fruit, and a jar of rather lovely looking marinated (with garlic and thyme) soft raw cheese.
Maybe my chapter was getting brighter.
The empty shelves in the larger part of Neal’s Yard Dairy
I was quite shocked to see the market very quiet. I’ve become very used to it being so crowded and noisy that I’ve avoided it more and more. It was quite empty, other than a ‘hot food’ area that I kept away from. It was very odd to see it this way, although the big plus was that I could take photos with few obstacles. I looked at the fruits and vegetables, the cheeses, sausages, breads, and herbs, and the alcohol kiosks, the giant pan of paella cooking, the fish stands…it’s like a different market, but some things are still familiar.
All I bought was some ‘milk bread’ – I can’t carry a bag anymore because of my crutch. My backpack was full.
Paragraph 5 – I feel so encumbered by everything I have to remember and carry around when I go out – first the Pandemic and then the Knee Contingency. Since I can’t carry my credit cards in my little bag, so they go with my travel card into a pocket in my backpack. However, after so many changes of buses and dealing with increasing pain from the chopping, changing, and extra walking on my journey, I’d become frustrated and put the travel pass in my pocket. Except now it wasn’t there.
I had a flash of hope, that I’d tucked it away after I’d arrived by bus, but every place I looked at while juggling my crutch and mask and phone and camera and the food I’d just purchased was pass-less. It was gone. I walked around, hoping to see it laying somewhere. I went into Neal’s Yard Dairy asking if they had it – no. I decided to do one last walk into the market and on the ground I saw the little granola bar that had been in my pocket with the pass. It struck me someone had left the bar and pocketed the pass. Done!
Time to head to the hospital to find a toilet and meet Krish. My knee hurt quite a lot so I rested outside a rather magnificent building. I wrestled with my phone to take a photo or two but gave up and limped over to Guys.
Funny doughnut names on Borough High Street. I was tempted by the Bruno MarsJohn Keats – educational! He was apprenticed to a surgeon in 1811. He broke off the apprenticeship in 1814 and went to London, where he worked as a dresser, or junior house surgeon, at Guy’s and St. Thomas’ hospitals. His literary interests had crystallized by this time, and after 1817 he devoted himself entirely to poetry. He died at 25 – what a life! And I didn’t know about Henry Stephens who was an English doctor, surgeon, chemist, writer, poet, inventor and entrepreneur. At medical school in London he was a friend of, and shared rooms with, poet John Keats, later wrote treatises on hernia and cholera, and conducted experiments to improve writing fluids and wood stains. (Long caption!)
I sat in the Bermondsey Wing café drinking a hot chocolate and feeling a little sorry for myself. I tried to order a new pass online, but the payment option wouldn’t work so I’ll call that a half paragraph in my Chapter.
Paragraph 6 – This would be five paragraphs if I were to tell you everything, but you may be getting tired and I know I am. We grabbed the 343 to head to Whitechapel where Krish would buy some food and I would wait until we could both get the 254 home. Foiled again. Part way along the route, the bus stopped – ‘trouble at Aldgate’ – and we had to walk to the next bus, more walking on my knee (I should give my knee a name, it figures so large in stories these days). A second bus, the 205, over to where Krish would get out and I would wait. When Krish came back with his bags of food our 254 had dropped from 8 minutes to being 28 minutes away. We jumped on the next bus that would take us to the road for the fourth bus heading home…and sailed past where we needed to be, and more walking on my unnamed knee. The fourth bus was annoyingly the 254, having definitely not taken 28 minutes. It crept along – it was rush hour. And the very last leg saw me taking a fifth bus to our door with Krish going ahead on the bus we had been on – he’s more able to walk. I’d paid two fares, since one trip fare is for a maximum of an hour.
So, if you’ve not been adding up, that’s a total of nine buses – close to triple the time it usually takes for the round trip – and a lost travel pass costing me £12. Krish has decided that from now on, he’s going to the hospital alone. Who can blame him? And the anonymous knee feels guiltily pleased.
