For a mad moment yesterday, we considered going to the re-opening day of Battersea Power Station. I have loved the hefty 1940s monolith all of my life. For many of my London living years, it was a welcome sign of heading home.
I also liked to sketch it in the years when all the outlying buildings had been knocked down for the redevelopment.
Maybe visiting on the first day of the reopened building was a bit foolhardy but as it turned out we ran out of time and the Evening Standard ran stories of massive crowds.
We were slowed down in other parts of Battersea, by sourdough pizza and Turks Head Pumpkins.
And wonderful retro items, an old phone and a VW Beetle.
Which are both a similar vintage to Battersea Power Station. Which makes the day rather retro. Our afternoon plans altered by a shortage of time took a different and unexpected turn.
Our afternoon dog walk was going to be in Putney Vale Cemetery doing a guided tour of Notable People’s graves, but our early morning care of a new baby grandaughter combined with the convenience of a bed in our camper van meant that as soon as we arrived in the cemetery an afternoon nap occurred, honestly the first time we have ever slept in a graveyard.
Who Knows Where The Time Goes.
Not just a random quote but a rather appropriate lyric for this blog from Fairport Convention.
Sandy Denny is one of those notable people who is buried in Putney Vale Cemetery. Her lyrics on this song are also poignantly appropriate for an afternoon spent kicking autumn leaves around in a peaceful corner of Putney Vale.
Just a regular day with a walk in the village. For Wimbledon this flamboyant cyclist is just a regular cyclist. You can see his London adventures on his Instagram page.
Flamboyance can be the picture theme of the day, although the rest are totally natural. There is nothing like the pleasure of Charity Shop shopping in the more affluent areas of London. With three hours to spend out of the house we were very happy shoppers. A brand new cashmere scarf for £20 and the same price for a Cos dress we were very sartorially satisfied.
The vegetables also felt a little flamboyant.
Along with some very prickly chestnuts.
Breakfast of Champions or in truth the Cheese Straw that all others are judged against.
Even the fungus on the way home got the flamboyance memo.
Desire Paths have always fascinated me. Reading a recent blog from Spitalfields Life, nudged me into writing this blog today.
When I was a student at Barts Hospital my chosen Desire Path took 5 minutes off my journey to Moorgate Station. It was an ancient right of way. For nearly a thousand years medics and butchers have shared adjacent plots in the City of London.
My short cut, or desire path, took me from the hospital boundary through slaughter yards, with bloodied water running into open drains. My desire path was almost certainly created by butchers, through history, making their way to and from one of the City gates. Moor Gate, so named because it led out to marshy ground known as Moor Fields. The to and fro on my little cut way was not just medical folk and butchers trying to make a quick access or escape, but, by passing so close to active slaughter yards the route may only have been tolerable for those with minds and stomachs already hardened to the sight snd smells of blood and gore. Butchers sometimes used the path as walking wounded, a quick way in to seek medical attention when sharp knives and cleavers have cut through living human flesh. A cleaver cutting through a femoral artery is a mucky and life or limb threatening event. Butchers, before the days of Health and Safety, often had bits missing, and the butchers of Smithfield were very regular and grateful customers when Barts had a fully functioning A and E. Anyway, I digress this blog is about a coastal desire path with much less to talk about. When I returned to work at Barts in 2013 I was hugely sad, but not entirely surprised, that I could no longer follow my short cut to Moorgate.
A desire path (often referred to as a desire line in transportation planning), also known as a game trail, social trail, fishermen trail, herd path, cow path, elephant path, goat track, pig trail, use trail and bootleg trail, is an unplanned small trail created as a consequence of mechanical erosion caused by human or animal traffic. The path usually represents the shortest or the most easily navigated route between an origin and destination, and the width and severity of its surface erosion are often indicators of the traffic level it receives.Desire paths typically emerge as convenient shortcuts where more deliberately constructed paths take a longer or more circuitous route, have gaps, or are non-existent. Once someone has already treaded out a path through the natural vegetation, subsequent traffics tend to follow that visibly existing route (as it is more convenient than carving out a new path by oneself), and the repeated trampling will further erode away both the remaining groundcover and the soil quality that allows easy revegetation.*
The desire path I walk on most days has none of the history of the Barts desire path. It cuts off only seconds of an already brief walk to the beach . It is the area in sunlight in this picture, the actual, brick path runs close to the wall of Stonehouse Tennis Club. But such is pondering that I only realised today that the South West Coastal Path, that both this Desire, and official, brick path lead to, must be made up entirely of historic desire paths that have been linked together. Unexpected enlightenment on a Wednesday
Today I am a rubbish photographer and have managed to cut off the vital words on this plaque. South West Coastal Path are the words I needed but managed not to include in this image.
One of my recent paintings combined with typewriting sums this whole blog up really. Todays in particular but pretty much in general too.
Welcome to the Thursday that thinks it is Saturday. The Queen has been on the throne for seventy years, so in Britain we have a four day weekend with today, Thursday,being the first of the days off.
The Queen as Ziggy Stardust, both great British institutions.
My head has been incapable of adjusting to a Thursday Bank Holiday.I can’t help but be puzzled that this is not Saturday. Our usually quiet week day walk was enlivened by huge numbers of tourists. The dogs took their time reading all the pee mails that the unknown holidaying dogs have left, almost making us late for our usual, free, two hour parking spot. A big celebration in London with us not visiting is unheard of, but we never considered going this time. We no longer have our own Welsh Guardsman performing for Her Majesty.
Not because we have lost him, but because he has retired his Bearskin. To be fair his instrument of choice made him one of the men in the back row so we have spent many events of great national significance waiting for a glimpse of his bottom.
We often got front row seats, again really very lucky. On one occasion the seats were so special we had a slightly awkward sartorial moment. We had taken some South African friends, with us, who were dressed amazingly, I suppose we were dressed well enough for normal but as it turned out our tickets were anything but normal. London, on these occasions, is also far from normal so when our tickets, being checked at pinch points, sent us nearer and nearer to Downing Street we were not particularly perturbed. Alarm bells were slightly raised by the fashion and style of all the other people who were being gently directed with us. If we were dressed to an OK standard the others in the queue clearly had a different dress code. Men in Morning Dress ( three piece suits with tails) women in fabulous outfits with high heels and hats of the most fabulous sort. What sealed the deal for the strangeness of our ticket allocation, was the last part of our journey which was through the gardens of Number 10 Downing Street. The home and Office of the British Prime minister. We had randomly been given tickets on the same stand as International Diplomats. We diplomatically stuck close to our South African friends, who looked more dressed for the occasion than we did. We took our places in the stand and had fabulous views. No one noticed us at all, apart from those moments when our friends caught a glimpse of a black Welsh Guards musician and ululated with joy. Having done it once, those diplomats and their families, who could ululate, joined in on on every subsequent occasion. I suspect that is not the normal behaviour from the Diplomats stand, but it made the days events joyful and memorable.
Thursday as the new Saturday, a Platinum Jubilee is unlikely ever to happen again. My confusion is unlikely to be repeated. Probably just as well!
Yesterday was vivid. The exuberant creativity of a passing cyclist embellished the day and boosted our happiness in a way that sweaty lycra never would.
Instagram @bondwimbledon added to a day that was full of texture and sensation. Starting with a purple cabbage.
In truth the day actually started with dusty, filthy feet when I got a little lost on Wimbledon Common, but nobody needs to see those bad boys on a Monday morning. The inevitability of Autumn gave more texture with fallen Oak leaves which have way more charm than my grubby toes.
Fuelled by lunch from Wimbledon Market, Turkish flat breads and salad.
We set off for the Sky Garden in the City for vertiginous views and some much needed, after the last 20 months, or so, family time out and about.
Even there,in a highly controlled environment, Autumn gave us some gorgeous form and texture.
Natures way of mimicking the King of Bling!
The Sky Garden is an extraordinary place to people watch although the style bar for the day had been set to unreachable high standards already. An accidental photographic moment , the red crane that forms a tick, sums up my relationship with London. Some of the best moments of my working life were had in hospitals that are part of the annonymity of this urban landscape. Some wonderful friendships were formed within the boundaries of this image.
Todays word for the Art Group is Skyscraper. I’m going to be perverse today and talk about the absence of Skyscrapers.
I was 17 when I first became intimately acquainted with St Pauls Cathedral. I calmed my nerves before a career interview at St Bartholomew’s Hospital by wandering the Crypt and Whispering in the eponymous Gallery.
Training in the City with its associated highs and lows gave me ample chance to explore the nooks and crannies of this amazing Cathedral and to develop a humanistic love of the Evensong Service. There is something lovely about doing something that humans have been doing in the same location since 604. Not all history in this area bears repetitions quite so comfortably.
The lack of Skyscrapers around St Pauls is no accident. This is the view from Nunhead Cemetery in South London.
It has a protected view.
You can read more about protected views in this link. https://www.citymetric.com/fabric/protecting-view-how-st-pauls-cathedral-has-been-shaping-rest-london-centuries-2577
This is a painting a little way from St Bartholomew’s Hospital , showing the scale of permitted development closely around St Paul’s. The picture below shows a more distant view from Tate Modern.
Skyscrapers define modern cities but the absence of them near St Paul’s opens up the sky and gives the City a different visual experience.
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