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.
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
Quite honestly, I’m not very good at making things. This would make my friends and everyone who sees my ‘things’ laugh really. They’d tell me I’m creative and talented. I can see how that happens.
I would say, though, that I have five thumbs on each hand, or that somehow the messages from my brain don’t get all the way down to my fingers when I create. In my head is a beautiful image, which by the time it gets down to my hands becomes a muddled mess. But then I’m messy – let’s get that out in the open right now.
What I can do is make use of my mistakes. Take my dolls – the end result is good, sometimes great, because I cover up the mistakes with lace, ribbon, bits of fabric… and I smile a lot and don’t let a mistake interrupt or stop me.
And so messy becomes ‘me,’ ‘my style.’ I think or hope that people see that the end result reflects me. And yet…
I was recently interviewed by a woman who is writing a book. As far as I can tell, she is taking photos of older people and writing about them. We talked for about an hour, I told her all manner of things about me, holding very little back and at the end, it was the dolls – something I mentioned only briefly at first – that caught her attention, even though I suggested she photograph me in front of some Hackney Stik art. And so in January I’ll be taking all of my dolls to a studio where she’ll artfully display them and take my photo with the whole lot. I hate having my photo taken so we’ll see what comes of it. At any rate, her eyes lit up when she saw the colours and personalities I’d created – forget the travels, forget the search for street art and local culture, forget the foodie obsessions – this, apparently, was it!
In November I took a course on how to make rye bread. Somewhere in Dalston, down a less-travelled alley, is the Dusty Knuckle Bakery. I went one evening to their classroom, which is across the yard from the bakery/cafe, in a container. The instructor was Tomek, a somewhat serious man, who knew a lot about bread.
Tomek with Marta
There were only three of us! A woman, her daughter, and me. This was perfect. We could each do our own thing, and the mood was unhurried and personal. Rye bread, it seems, is the simplest bread to make. We were learning the slow method, which uses a sour dough starter instead of commercial yeast. The starter at the Dusty Knuckle is called Marta. She sits in a large plastic container with a cracked lid, growing and being used to start hundreds of rye loaves. Bits of her have been shared around the students and bakers, and now a bit of her is in my fridge, waiting to be woken up when I need another loaf.
Yeast, Tomek, explained is natural and it’s everywhere. If we had special ‘yeast glasses,’ we would see yeast covering everything and it might be horrifying. So Marta picks up that natural yeast and. when fed, grows. My Marta is different than anyone else’s because it’s picked up the yeast in my environment, including from my body. If I gave some to you, it would change again. Yeast is pretty special.
We created one loaf of sour dough rye bread, one loaf of quick (soda) bread, and some thin rye crackers that use buttermilk and honey. All in three hours. I am not used to weighing on a scale or with grams, British-style, and that may be the reason that, after the sour dough loaves had risen (proved) to be ready for baking, mine was smaller than the others. I was a bit devastated. Why mine? Of course mine! Messy me strikes again. Out of the hot oven, mine was still the smallest. At home? Tasted delicious! Job done.
The dreaded scales and gramsFinished dough into the tin to prove
The classroomRye soda breadMy sour dough rye at home
How do you make rye bread, you ask? Well, you take some starter, add rye flour, salt, and water, mix just till the flour disappears, plop the whole lot into an oiled loaf tin and you’re done! Seriously, good bread is made with flour, water and salt – that’s it. (Even the starter is made with just flour and water and allowed to ferment.)
In December I went to a Christmas wreath making workshop. I’d done the same workshop the year before and, despite how many hours it took I loved it. So I was back. It was at the Geffrye Museum – recently controversially renamed to the Museum of the Home! While the museum is being renovated and enlarged, workshops, front garden events, and almshouse visits are continuing.
Walking up to the workshop at the Museum of the Home – see all the greenery waiting outside?
This year there was less greenery than before so my idea to make a wreath with some bare twigs, trailing eucalyptus and flowering branches and such, evaporated. However, I had lovely tablemates this year, Heather was her usual helpful, competent, and friendly self, there were chocolate bicuits, tea, and mince pies, and I happily – and more calmly than last year – got to it.
To create the trailing effect that I’d seen on Instagram, I chose some lighter pine in with the sturdy spruce. The messy result ensued and people must love mess based on the number who came by the table and remarked on how they were soooo going to copy my ideas. Another job done.
My finished wreath
To create a wreath, you start with a wire frame and pack it tightly with live moss, which you firmly wire to create the round shape. Then you staple a plastic backing to protect your door. You take your greenery and push it firmly into the moss to create the wreath, and then add finishing touches – ornaments, ribbons, spices… Mine this year was made with spruce, pine, pine cones, artificial red berries and a subtle white and gold bow. It’s bigger than I’d planned – second time that’s been the case – but it looks good on the living room door. Continue reading “I love to make things – messy or not, here I come!”
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
