Gertsamtkunstwerk

A pre-Olympic trip to Greenwich Park

It seems a very long time ago; indicating what a backlog of blog posts and photos I have to process!

Having occasional use of a car I opened Google Maps and searched for big patches of green not too far from home. I chose Blackheath and Greenwich Park. Not far to go, but, being by car, an unnecessarily long and tedious journey. I think it took us longer just to get through Peckham than it would have done to go by train!

Blackheath was a disappointment. I'm sure I went past it years ago and it seemed huge, but on this occasion it seemed a lot smaller, and even less interesting than Clapham Common. Which is hideously unfair of me. If you had asked me five minutes ago, I'd have given you this long spiel about how it's left desolate because it's a plague pit, eternally contaminated by the countless corpses of plague victims. But Wikipedia seems somewhat dismissive of this, mentioning in passing 

Virtually every part of London has a local tradition about plague pits

More interesting is Greenwich Park. I've been to Greenwich several times by boat, and wandered the streets of the town, and skirted round the Royal Naval College.

At first we strolled around a gated garden, beautifully planted, and designed, no doubt, for tranquil relaxation. That seemed to be the aim of all but one of the parties we encountered. Needless to say, there was one party which used the garden to shout very loudly at their children, ensuring that their voices echoed round the space. (As we left we noticed a sign with the usual 'no music, no cycling, no ball games, dogs on leads' and overheard one mother tell her children, no, we're no going in there, not with your scooters).

 

 

 
 

We strolled through the park and commented on how quiet it was. Hardly a soul around, although in the far distance there were crowds around the Royal Observatory.

We found ourselves at the top of a hill that fell away steeply below. Us, one woman and a dog (on a lead) and another couple and their bicycles. And no one else. I took photos!

The new cable-car from North Greenwich to the Royal Docks was not yet opened, although it was clearly undergoing trial runs.

I was mildly intrigued by this building.

I later found out it was Vanbrugh Castle, perhaps a grander name than its history truly warrants.

The panoramic views from this surprisingly deserted spot were truly amazing.

Canary Wharf

In the foreground Greenwich Power station, a stand-by back-up source for London Underground, and my third power station of the weekend!

We saw the former Millennium Dome, currently known as O_2, although temporarily known as the North Greenwich Arena for the 2012 Games.

Views of the City of London and further afield

Closer at hand were The Old Royal Naval College

and the Greenwich Observatory, famous for being the 'home' of Greenwich Mean Time

Below us, the Boating Lake

and an arena being built in preparation for Olympic and Paralympic Equestrianism

We continued our stroll through the park and encountered Queen Elizabeth's Oak. It dates to the 12th century, and died in the 19th, but remained standing until 1991. Queen Elizabeth I was said to have often taken refreshment whilst relaxing in its shade.

 

We arrived at the Observatory. The immediate surrounds were teeming with people, most of them there just to tick this off their sight-seeing list, few of them courageous enough to venture into the wider park, and many of them desperate to get the photos from this famous viewpoint on their phone cameras.

I basically took the same pictures as before, but from a slightly different angle!

 

I had to laugh at one point, because I was stood on the stairway taking one particular view. It wasn't especially inspired on my part, just logical. Some woman, clearly a tourist, saw me, perhaps noticing that I had a camera that wasn't just a phone and stood right next to me, practically pushing me out of the way, as her face wore that expression of tourists the world over - basically, feeling information overload but scared of missing that one important photograph.

"Excuse me, personal space!" I exclaimed, in one of my more lame/pretentious moments. Nevertheless, she seemed to get the hint and moved away. Good thing, because otherwise I would have kicked her down the steps. Possibly.

It had been pleasant rambling through the park, but I found this area depressing. We walked back down to the Blackheath Gate. We had been hoping to see the Rose Gardens, but they appeared to be shut, in preparation for the Olymics and Paralympics.

I also took a photo of this, which I assumed at the time was specifically horse-related, although I now know they were at most Olympic venues, for checking the ticket-holding public.

We had an interesting journey home, missing the entrance to the A2, driving into a small bus garage, and having to do a turnaround in Homebase. But eventually we got home, although the traffic was crawling bumper-to-bumper through New Cross and Peckham. We ended up with a much-needed pint in one of local, recently refurbished & modernised pubs. We had been meaning to go for ages, and also intending to go back; in fact, just this Friday we planned to call in on the way back from our local firework display. But it was packed tight!

More photos from this trip, and many more as well are in my London photo album

links 11/01/2012

• Jubilee Mushrooms Recipe

Posted from Diigo. The rest of my favorite links are here.

Hungarian Dances - Jessica Duchen

 After I had read the introduction and acknowledgement to this book, I panicked. I only bought this book because I 'know' Jessica via blogging and tweeting; we haven't even met. 

Then I started reading and I found it very difficult to put down. I have read at least half a dozen books since, and this stays firmly in my mind. 

It has a musical theme running through it, and part of my anxiety was because of this - although I like music, I'm far from expert. But actually, I don't think you have to much interest in classical music to enjoy the novel, any more than you need an intimate knowledge of any industry to appreciate a story that's set against it.

There were two passages that I did not like. Both of them were dialogue - or speeches - by oppressed people, a pre-War Hungarian Jew and a contemporary Sussex Traveller. In both cases, the words moved me, and I was sure they were passionate and honest words from the author and the characters. But, in my experience, people don't speak like that, except seasoned politicians, and then, not often. But that's my only quibble in 400 pages.

What I liked best was the characters. All the main characters had more than facet. I have subsequently read a novel by a more famous author which really began to annoy me, because all the 'good' people were good all the time, and the 'bad' people really had no redeeming features. In Hungarian Dances, the main characters had several undramatic flaws, as real 'good' people do. Making wrong decisions, or taking actions for the wrong reasons, or not thinking through the consequences of their actions.

The most vivid character was Karina, the 30-something female star, from whose point of view the story was told. The most exciting was Mimi, her grandmother. Once she had been glamorous, a star violinist, but I appreciated how the author depicted her frailty. Hints she had once been larger than life, but now, diminished by age.

The book was tremendously readable in many different ways. A natural prose style that flowed easily and enabled me to get past the act of reading and into the storyline. The drama progressed at a pace, with no superfluous action or irritating tangents, or affected literary devices. There was some switching between contemporary times and 'historic' times - Mimi's youth in pre-war Hungary - but this was seamless and largely logical. I didn't spot anything incongruous or unlikely; perhaps some would question the use of a (fictional) fatal train disaster as a plot device - too convenient - but as people have often said, the answer to the question 'Why is this happening to me?' is generally 'Why not?'. It was pleasurably amusing to read in a book about the worries about how the transport infrastructure would cope with the London 2012 Games, and feel smug in my superior knowledge that it had coped just fine - but the worries were salient to the dramatic line.

An enjoyable and absorbing book, thought-provoking and moving. When I finished it, I felt glad I had read it, even though I regretted I had stayed up half the night to do so!

Cycling through Chelsea

(This post makes several references to an earlier blogpost:

A meander round Greater Battersea)

I got a nice little book Cycling Traffic-Free London - Sustrans do a series of them for various areas: we've also got the South East. Some brilliant suggestions that wouldn't have occurred to me, and some which are pretty obvious but it's actually quite nice to have a little guide.

We started from home and more or less free-wheeled to Battersea Park, which lies alongside the River Thames. First of many repeating arguments with Jimmy. He says "Let's cycle the most direct route". I say "Let's take slightly longer but avoid as much traffic as possible". Unfortunately, because of the criss-cross of railway lines you do end up on the sheer hell that is Queenstown Rd with all types of different road users fighting for very limited space. 

We had a nice cycle round Battersea Park. Afterwards, I realised that there are some lovely grounds around the lake, and because I'd been concentrating on riding, I hadn't taken any photos! We had a good laugh at a family out for a Saturday walk. Mum and Dad in their 30s, strolling along. And Grandma, approaching 60, running after a small boy loudly encouraging him to be brave to bicycle unaided. Brilliant!

Leaving the park, I was delighted at how cycle-friendly most of the rest of the ride was. Shared pavement across Chelsea Bridge and down through Chelsea. Wow! Someone did give me a 'look' but the signs were unambiguous, and there were many other cyclists enjoying the run. I felt an extraordinary sense of smugness as I looked at people hemmed into their slow-moving cars on a bright sunny day. I was on my bike, and free!

One of the many things I love about London is that although it is a super-busy and sometimes overcrowded city, it is so easy to get away from the crowds. According to Natural England:

• Two thirds of London’s land area is occupied by green spaces and water, of this about a third is private gardens, a third parks or in sports use and a third includes London’s natural landscape features: woodlands, historic parklands, remnant grazing marsh, river valleys and downland.

and so very accessible!

I can't decide whether Chelsea Embankment is attractive. On the one hand, close to Ranelagh Gardens and Chelsea Physic Garden (on the 'to visit' list), with great river views. On the other hand, constant through traffic. Very expensive. Passing along there and Cheyne Walk, Jimmy commented he'd never delivered paraffin there. Kensington, yes, but not this part of Chelsea!

 

Still, nice river views:

 

The mudflats of Chelsea are populated by houseboats. One has recently sold with an asking price of £429k, which may make you gulp, but, given the neighbourhood, is nothing. I hadn't thought of houseboats for years until Battersea in April, and then this ride. Just this summer, someone I know has bought a houseboat on one of the waterways outside London. I get the strong impression that affordability was a major factor. She swears not to be a hippy or boho; another acquaintance has friends with a narrowboat - they travel round but also have a fixed winter mooring. It appeals a bit to me, but if I did it, it would look copycat! 

Briefly, we had to leave dedicated cycle trail to hit the shared road. But the shared road was Lots Road. I was so excited I almost crashed my bike into the Power Station. Lots Road Power Station. Less talked about than Battersea, but just as evocative (several links in my Battersea post). I was extraordinarily jealous later in the day when a friend remarked on Twitter she had been on a guided tour just before it was decommissioned.

As we crossed Counter's Creek - or Chelsea Creek - we were able to see Battersea Power Station in the distance! 

  

I am assuming that this is the location of Chelsea Creek. It's prominent both physically and on a map and is precisely described in this article on the Kensington Canal but Wikipedia says that it flows into the Thames at Sands End, to the South of Chelsea Harbour, and the luxury development called Chelsea Creek also appears to be south of Chelsea Harbour. Re-writing Geography, I wonder.

And into Chelsea Harbour. In some ways, the epitome of modern luxurious living. According to Wikipedia  it is reputed to be the residence of a number of UK and international celebrities. Although the only ones I can think of are Frank Lampard and Piers Morgan. 

What an empty soulless place! When I saw it from across the river in Spring, on a gloriously hot day, I saw only one person, and she was carrying a camera. No busier today, just us and a handful of other tourists. A pokey little estate, nothing in the way of gardens. Waterside bars and restaurants deserted - unimaginable elsewhere in London. With one exception, the boats look unloved - status symbols, not beloved toys. I can appreciate a clean and tidy neighbourhood, but this just seemed bereft, how one imagines the empty cities in China to be.

 

 

 
A couple of sights of some interest from the riverbank. I've called this one Kayaks under the BT Tower

and this is the spirit of Chartwell, which had been done up all nice to transport the Queen along the Thames for the now notorious Diamond Jubilee Pageant.

I more or less stopped taking photos after that, after we sped through Imperial Wharf and Sands End. Imperial Wharf is a strange place. All 'luxury apartments' and an immaculately landscaped garden with no soul or character. Deadly dull. I tried to calculate how many 'luxury apartments' there are in London, even just along the riverside. Not even considering the megarich ones, but ones selling for under a million. And who are all the people living in them? I'm not being judgemental, just trying to do the sums. Take away all the people who would choose to live in suburbia or beyond, for a garden and children. Add in people who've inherited the proceeds of the parental home. Acknowledging that wage statistics never properly reflect unearned and freelance/self-employed income. There seem to be a lot of riverside housing that doesn't by any definition include 'affordable housing'. A new sort of inner-city ghetto, perhaps.

Imperial Wharf is a new tube station, on the London Overground (orange) line. I have never paid it much attention previously, but it lit a lightbulb. Ask most Londoners to name the bridges over the Thames and very few will name Cremorne Bridge. It's almost invisible on Google maps - you have to know where to look and stare very hard. But, by linking Clapham Junction with Imperial Wharf and the line beyond to Willesden Junction, it's a way of getting from South West London to North West London and Hertfordshire without going Underground. Seemingly bike friendly, too. Clapham Junction to Imperial Wharf is a rail journey I must do.

Here, the Thames Path diverts through Sainsbury's car park and onto the main roads surrounding Wandsworth Bridge, no more appealing or cyclist/pedestrian-friendly than on the southern bank. We diverted onto New Kings Road to find a coffee shop or somesuch, but with no luck. I had looked forward to eating our sandwiches in one of the parks around Putney Bridge, but as it was beginning to drizzle, we went instead to a pub. Looking on a map, it seems to be called The Temperance, although I don't recall sniggering at this seemingly ironic name for a pub.

We emerged into even heavier rain, so decided to cross the river to Putney Station. However, the rain eased off and we thought we'd cycle home. We couldn't seem to avoid the A3, and we ended up getting the train from Wandsworth Town station. We saw enough to realise there's no benefit - other then completism - in doing the final stretch of the Wandle Way as it meets The Tideway. But it would probably have been easier to cycle  home via Earlsfield than faff around on trains. Still, I got to eat my home-prepared sandwiches on the trains!

I have updated my London photo album

How to leave Twitter - Grace Dent

I have a specific problem with books.I don't actually believe I'm morally obliged to read the entirety of a book if I'm not enjoying it. But, if I have a book sitting unread and I don't feel I've tried hard enough, I find it very difficult to start a new one. In her favour,  Grace Dent rescued me from Margaret Campbell Barnes.

I was going to describe Margaret Campbell Barnes as a Philippa Gregory wannabe, but it turns out that she was born in the 19th century and died before I was born. Amo on Amazon succinctly summarises my feelings. But attempting to read it put me off books for a while.

I read about two thirds of Grace Dent on a Bournemouth Beach, but then suffered a different form of Boring Book Syndrome. Unfairly, because it's not really that boring. Its style is fast-paced, eminently readable, easy to concentrate on. Difficult to put down, but, to be honest, quite difficult to pick up again.

I don't imagine that she - an author of ephemeral TV columns and Teen Fiction - intended this to be a sociological commentary or to offer any insights into life. Nothing in it caused me to examine my behaviour on Twitter and certainly not my life.

I read a caustic comment that it cast an ugly light on the lifestyle of the almost-famous, but I can't even claim it does that. I do feel that Grace thinks Twitter is solely for her almost-famous clique (her word) to chat amongst themselves under observation from the adoring masses. Perhaps her perception is well-founded. But I follow all sorts of different users for different purposes, and no longer follow most of the Grace Dent clique because they are of little use to me. In general, they seem too conscious that their evey proclamation is done under the spotlight of a watching world. And they often lack the broad experience and insights of non-media people. I occasionally wanted to say 'but, but...' as I read, only, I couldn't really be bothered.

At least it finally got me back into the book-reading habit.

Boqueria Tapas

I am so behind with my blogging that before I have got round to writing about my June visit to Boqueria on Acre Lane, I have revisited. We have been three times this year, which is probably an indication of how much we like the place.

It helps that it's very close to home, eminently walkable - but why walk when there's a bus service practically door-to-door! The staff are lovely, can't fault them. Don't interrupt you when eating, in order to ask spurious questions about 'everything okay'* and yet are very approachable. Also, as happened on Saturday, we didn't quite finish everything on our plates. The waiter, who I think is also manager, asked with genuine concern whether there was a reason we hadn't finished. I reassured him that we had been in that awkward position of being hungry but perhaps not hungry enough to eat a full meal, had had rather a large breakfast (and rather a large snack at the Lambeth Country Show). 

Boqueria do some things extremely well. The seafood paella we had in June was exceptional, better than paellas I have had in Spain. I enjoyed the Rape a la Catalana con gambas - monkfish and prawns I ate Sturday (but forgot to photograph!) And you can see from the photo above an excellent example of how to present a simply described 'Mixed salad' with fresh succulent ingredients.

Less successful was Espinacas a la crema gratinada con piñones (fresh spinach with melted cheese raisins and pine nuts). It was eatable and not unpleasant, but I found it to be surprisingly bland - perhaps I expected more of a piquant taste from the goat's cheese. It was a generous portion of spinach, which led to the dish seeming unstructured.

I also enjoyed the Crema Catalana. Although, it  wasn't as delicious as the supreme tarta I ate in January, and, to be honest, it's difficult to find a commercial Burnt Cream to match my own!

On Saturday, I started with a gazpacho, which was perfect, especially given that I had arrived somewhat dehydrated from a trek through the Lambeth Country Show.

As we left, I said to the staff "See you again soon". A welcoming and relaxed restaurant with good food and friendly staff. 

*I hate it when restaurants do that - it's paying lip-service to some artifical notion of customer service. Good restaurants such as Boqueria are sufficiently observant to tell that customers who are chatting away and eating their food are probably very happy. Interrupting conversation diminishes this.

A trip to Richmond

Having occasional access to a car somehow means we have to use it. I no longer know why I suggested Richmond as a destination. Such a hassle to get there! Google maps suggests a 25 minute journey! What a joke: we encountered traffic congestion at Clapham and Wandsworth Common. We were stuck in near stationary traffic along the A3 and Roehampton Lane. It must have taken well over an hour, an hour and a half, maybe.

And when we got to the Park I felt fed up. So many people had their bikes with them, and we didn't. It would have been ideal cycling conditions. Bright and cloudy and reasonably warm. 

We drove for a while around the park, stopping at various points. I think our intention was to stop for coffee and then go for a walk, but it was just too crowded. I realise that that sounds silly, and it is, but we found a very busy café, so moved on. We found a stall selling ice creams and I had an indifferent coffee. But I think we both got fed up of people. A whole group of young adults clinging to each other by the ice-cream/coffee stall, scared of moving away in case of...goodness knows what, but blocking the way for everyone else. We saw an aggressive male driver in a van who yelled at a woman for exercising her right of way when he wanted to turn right in front of her. And the final straw - I was stood on a small traffic island about to cross the road when I realised that a group of four women walking side-by-side were heading straight at me and seemed to expect me to get out of their way. They were almost on top of me when I said 'Excuse me!'. One of them replied 'Oh!' as if surprised to hear an invisible voice. And they diverted their course. All this in a car park in a park with a 20 mph speed limit. Utterly scary that these people roam free on the public highway!

We wandered near the stables we had seen some weeks earlier when we approached from Wimbledon Common. A stables seems an excellent opportunity to take photos, but it's intrusive to take photos that clearly show people, especially when they are children. So I got a whole load of photos of the back ends of horses.

 

I was also amused childishly by this contraption and sign.

By a series of wrong turns and mishaps, we ended up at Richmond Hill, actually not very far from where we had entered the park. We realised that there was quite a view from there, and a pleasant-looking park. The sun had come out, and we found a parking space. Suddenly, the afternoon got a whole lot better! I had a vague recollection that 'quite a view' was somewhat of an understatement. Wikipedia claims that it is the only view in England to be protected by an Act of Parliament  - the Richmond, Ham and Petersham Open Spaces Act 1902, although many other views are protected under secondary legislation. And it's a pleasant park, although not frightfully large, falling away steeply from the road called Richmond Hill to Petersham Road alongside the river.

I was a little shocked to encounter this statue with a clearly naked arse, and perhaps even more shocked that this couple seemed entirely relaxed at their children looking at its front.

But the view of the river and across Petersham Meadows was more engaging:

 

 

The island is Glover's Island, one of many in the Thames - there's a good list here

I was impressed by the sight of this stadium, and trying to do the geography in my head, declared it to be Brentford's 13k capacity Griffin Park stadium. It is in fact Twickenham Stadium with its 82,000 capacity!

 

We descended into the park, which enabled a closer look at the Naked Statue, which is Aphrodite, also known as Bulbous Betty.

Today, she seems fairly harmless but the outcry 50 years ago resounded across the country, with letters dashed off to the editors of the Daily Mail and the Daily Telegraph. She was deemed unsuitable for Richmond, with fears about harmful effect on the morals of children and encouraging undesirables to the area. People were positively foaming at the mouth. “The lethargic damsel is suffering from dropsy and is hitch-hiking on the back of an obliging fish with the object of relieving her swollen ankles in the cool water.”

From A Nation of Prudes 

The park is pleasant if unremarkable:

     

 
We finished off in one of the nicest pubs we have ever been in, The Marlborough. It was only a pity we were driving, otherwise we could happily have stayed for much more than a pint. It was a large place but thoughtfully divided into different areas: dining room and conservatory as well as garden and bar. The garden was busy but didn't feel packed. On the walls were stern signs about behaving considerably - not asking a great deal but more than what some people consider normal. Despite enjoying my pint, I suffered envy at someone else's properly served tea. The food looked tempting, too: separate main and barbecue menus and specials, too. Not exactly cheap which gives some reassurance they're pitching with quality, not price.

Not really knowing the area by car, we got caught in congestion around Kew Green and ended up crossing the river and coming home via the A4, Earls Court and Chelsea Bridge. On the A4, specifically the elevated section, I feel as if I'm approaching a great city overseas. At this point, we were still six weeks away from the London 2012 Olympics, but there were already so many signs. I felt a frisson of excitement.

Lunch at Chez Bruce

I wrote about Chez Bruce a few weeks ago and soon after I blogged that, we returned. It seemed a sensible way to beat the dark wet gloomy depressing days of early June. A three course weekday lunch is priced at £27.50, so it's no great surprise it gets fully booked up . We've booked at fairly short notice twice, and have had to make do with times not of our choosing. Which is fine - if I wanted to choose the precise time I'd be more organised. 

One of the things I appreciate about Chez Bruce is they have no airs and graces. I have been in downmarket eateries who take a customer's lack of knowledge as a personal insult. A sign of a good restaurant is when they patiently explain what the strange-to-me ingredients are.

I started with Brandade-stuffed piquillo pepper with a sauté of squid, tomato, chilli and aïoli. Brandade is an emulsion of salt cod and olive oil. Piquillo is a particular form of sweet pepper originating from Northern Spain. Chez Bruce say:

We are not into tricks in the kitchen and there are doubtless some who view our food as slightly old fashioned in this regard. We take this as a compliment!

Whilst I have a fondness for places with tricks - if done well - I also have enormous respect for the Chez Bruce approach. I see it as conservative, in a good way, letting the ingredients shine. Not overly fancy; surprisingly hearty, cooked perfectly. I particularly liked how the fish ingredients accompanied the vegetables*.

Although I love vegetarian food, it's a rare event when I opt for the vegetarian main course in a proper restaurant. This time I chose Pea tortelloni with asparagus, wild garlic and mousserons. A celebration of summer, notwithstanding the gloomy weather. 2012 is the year that I came to regard fresh peas as a sensual ingredient, not just a convenience food.The tortellini was delicate and thin, to melt on the tongue. Asparagus I love for just a few weeks a year. And I learned that mousserons are mushrooms, often known as Fairy Ring mushrooms. For far too long I ate only supermarket button mushrooms. Okay as far as they go, but nothing compares to the various nutty tastes of the numerous different varieties. We shared a bottle of very good white with the meal - I forget what now. And they have such an extensive wine list I can't even refresh my memory!

With my pudding I additionally had a glass of dessert wine. It was probably very foolish to indulge to this extent at lunchtime - but all I had to do was to get the bus home and snooze on the sofa. Strawberries in shortbread with creme patisserie (if I remember correctly) and elderflower jelly. Not the first time I have had jelly and shortbread this summer. They go well together and are surprisingly sophisticated. The fresh elderflower is a great foil for the sharpness of the strawberries.

I like the little touches. Parmesan chips; bread rolls I could happily repast on; chocolate truffles with the coffee. Can't fault the food, can't fault the service - sufficiently formal but not stiff; sufficiently friendly but not over-familiar. I really must go back again soon!

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* technically or botanically peppers and tomatoes are fruit. For cuilnary purposes they are vegetables!

From London Bridge to Bermondsey

This blogpost a continuation of the previous one Blackfriars to Bermondsey Thames stroll.

It's very simple to walk along the Thames in London, on either side. The route rarely leaves the riverside, and when it does, it is generally well-signed, and is exceptionally easy to do with no guidance. However, guidance does exist, eg a detailed a route descriptor by Walk London:

A gem of a walk — The Thames Path Walk needs no introduction as the main artery that runs through the beating heart of London. While the National Trail stretches westwards to the source of the River Thames in the Cotswolds, the London section covers a magical 40 miles (64 km) of easy, level walking on both sides of the river from Hampton Court Palace, through the heart of London to the East India Dock on the north bank and the River Darent on the south bank.

They've cut the walk into several chunks, quite useful for the first-timer, especially one who wants to see many sights. We started at the bottom of Page 2 of South Bank - Albert Bridge to Tower Bridge (Pdf) and we should probably have progressed further into: South Bank - Tower Bridge to Thames Barrier.

Just before London Bridge is Glaziers Hall, home to, unsurprisingly, the Worshipful Company of Glaziers, and other less predictable Worshipful Companies. According to Wikipedia, there are 108 such Livery Companies in the City of London. Of course, being south of the river, these are not in 'The City'. Wikipedia acknowledges that Glaziers Hall is outside the City. The oldest livery company is the Worshipful Company of Mercers dating back to before 1394. The Glaziers and Painters of Glass date to 1638; its predecessor to 1328. Its original hall burned down in the Great Fire in 1666; they have been in their current hall since 1977.The Scientific Instrument Makers achieved Livery status in 1964; the Launderers in 1977. It awards scholarships to laundry students. The most recent (1999) is the Worshipful Company of Security Professionals. People obviously care about these things, forming new companies and writing copiously on Wikipedia. I've lost the will to live just blogging them; consigned to List of Things That Don't Matter As Much As Their Members Would Like Us to Think.

I took a picture of The Shard. I cannot emphasise how much I hate The Shard.

The Shard is the tallest completed building in Europe, and is also the second-tallest free-standing structure in the United Kingdom

It is too tall and in the wrong place. This isn't actually so obvious from close-to, but as seen from the top of Brixton Hill, arguably the most important viewpoint, it is out of proportion. Because it is significantly closer than the City's skyscrapers, it doesn't appear slightly taller, but loomingly disproportionately out of place. Also, its ten apartments are valued at approximately £50 million, another reason to hate it.

For a while, the path leaves the River, but there are instructions to take a path back to the Thames by the private London Bridge Hospital, not to be confused with the free world class Guy's Hospital.

The riverscape changes dramatically at this point. Throughout our walk from Blackfriars we had been conscious of walking through the narrow streets of Elizabethan Bankside, but now, the riverbank was wide open for tourists alongside the Pool of London, the home of commercial shipping. Now overtly Touristy, I find it nearly impossible to imagine how it must have been with the wharves and cargo ships.

I was determined to photograph the various sailing ships moored in the aftermath of the Diamond Jubilee. We stopped for a drink at the Horniman at Hays. It would be difficult to imagine a more touristy situation for a pub, but gratifyingly, they were well-stocked with a wide range of ales, and had plenty of staff on duty. The ones I encountered seemed interested in proper customer service not just indifferently pushing product to tourists. The sheltered, heated beer-terrace is situated alongside HMS Belfast, another excuse to take photos!

 

 
 

 

Up until this weekend, I had never heard of Potter's Field. But I read that it was a venue for a peaceful Republican protest during the Jubilee pageant, and subsequently I learned that it is and was the venue for a Big Screen for London 2012. It has an impressive timeline, although it only because of relevance or interest in the 17th century. It was reopened after refurbishment in 2007. It's not a destination, but when walking in that area it's nice to have the Open Space. By the way, notice the Agitos on the flag outside City Hall. There was also an Olympic flag flying, just visible at the edge beyond the Union Flag.

I don't think I had ever walked East of Tower Bridge before this year, and now, in consecutive weekends, I had managed it on both banks. The Lower Pool of the Pool of London runs down to cherry Gardens pier in Rotherhithe. We didn't get that far, but it is a short and fascinating walk through Shad Thames. 

I always think you can't beat a good bit of modernish sculpture on a Riverside walk, but it's hard to think what to make of this piece.

I love this stretch of waterway, known as St Saviour's Dock. It is, apparently, the mouth of the subterranean River Neckenger - 
the name of the river is believed to derive from the term "devil's neckcloth" (i.e. hangman's noose) because pirates were hanged there. It separates Shad Thames from Jacob's Island. It is authentically Dickensian, being where Bill Sykes had his den in Oliver Twist, and where Sykes fell to his death in the novel. And invariably pointed out by the narrators on the Thames cruises downstream to Greenwich.

But, mostly, it was about boats. Boats moored on the Thames.

We spotted that many people had stopped, to watch. Someone was wielding a very serious camera. And then, we saw it, the Bascules of Tower Bridge rising. Bascule had been actually trending on Twitter the previous day, in people's excitement at finding a new word we could actually use. I think I like the bike park almost as much as the rising bascules!

We left the river soon after, to walk to Jamaica Road to catch a bus back to Elephant, but I couldn't resist another photo of The Shard.

Finally, I had read about the tens of tonnes of rubbish removed overnight by Westminster city council alone following the Diamond Jubilee boat show, and this made me sad, as I tried to guess how much was removed in total by the approximately six local authorities that fronted the route. I understand it's nearly impossible to avoid creating *any* litter, as things get blown about, but I see no difficulty in taking home what you bring. I have subsequently seem numerous reports during the summer of parks and beaches despoiled by people dumping their rubbish, assuming it's someone else's problems, and someone else will take it away. I find it ironic that this masquerades as patriotism. And I'm not impressed.

And who the hell gave these vandal patriots the right to trample the flowers? Are they following the example of the Scrounging Thieving Royals they worship for their indolence and disrespect?  Because I happen to think that sort of person is scum, and, frankly, should just stay away from London if that's how they treat public property, and exercise their mindless patriotism in their inbred villages.

 

Blackfriars to Bermondsey Thames stroll, part 1

The Diamond Jubilee happened. In parenthesis I am an ardent Republican. However, given that UK currently has a monarch, who's been in post 60 years I had no great objection to there being some events to mark this. I had an enormous objection to the accompanying media sycophancy, lies and propaganda that suggested, despite contradictory evidence, that everybody in the entire country was utterly delighted at these events and the specialness of the entire Extended Royal Family.

On the Sunday was a pageant on the Thames. About a million people attended. The same number that attends the annual Notting Hill Carnival which has a fraction of the publicity budget.

It was one of those ideas which seemed inspired to begin with, but should have been workshopped some more to identify that it would be a non-event, admittedly not helped by the torrential rain and general darkness of the day. The BBC's TV coverage was appallingly bad, hosted by far too many vacuous presenters famous only for being presenters (I exclude Clare Balding from criticism). The TV viewer was told that the Thames has lots of history, and is lined by famous buildings. And then they couldn't be bothered to to mention the history. Hour upon hour of boats progressing down the Thames in often heavy rain, and mind-numbingly dull interviews with idiotic members of the public. I particularly remember one offensive posh man who declared that, queuing for half an hour to get into Battersea Park, they  displayed the Dunkirk Spirit. Well, apart from not having to wade into the water and wait shoulder-deep for rescue while under enemy fire from the air, with tens of thousands dying. I detest this ignorant type of self-styled patriot.

 The following day was a Bank Holiday and the weather forecast was not too bad ie rain was not imminent and not forecast to be heavy or prolonged. I wasn't feeling great (still on sick leave) but needed to get out. We decided a walk along the Thames would be just the ticket. Plenty of opportunities to sit and rest, and plenty of opportunities to end the walk, close to public transport.

The Thames-side path was busier than I thought it would be. Perhaps people were inspired by the previous day's televised pageant, or perhaps they felt determined to get out for the Bank Holiday, but didn't wish to be stranded in a wilderness in a downpour.

The pubs were astonishingly ill-prepared; we walked out of two realising we would wait a long time to be served. Their low levels of staffing suggested they weren't expecting many customers on a Bank Holiday Monday during half term. Or maybe they were, and figured that the tourists would wait and wait to be served. We walked away. And laughed at a seriously naff A-board outside a seriously naff pub. We had a similar problem at the Mudlark - short staffed, not even acknowledging customers - before being served at The Globe, a mediocrely decent pub mostly famous for the fact that Bridget Jones's flat was above it in the films. In the book she lived in Notting Hill. I was rather sneery; if she could afford to rent a flat in Notting Hill (in a low-skill job) she should have bought a house somewhere that would later be up-and-coming. But no doubt, she thought you had to have a man to buy a house.

 

For the Jubilee Pageant, the Powers-that-Be had kept the Thames Barrier shut in order to trap in the high tide - unusually, because the Thames Barrier was built to protect London from high tides. I tried several times to get a decent photo of high choppy water lapping the shore; this was the best I could do.

We passed under the Millennium Bridge, and I tried to capture a quirky shot, not wholly successfully. Huw Edwards had referred to it as the Wobbly Bridge in the previous day's TV coverage, seemingly oblivious that it had been closed, the wobble remedied, and the bridge re-opened ten years ago. 

It was busy by the Globe Theatre, an obvious magnet for tourists, although I'm not entirely sure why. I suspect a fair proportion were no more enlightened than my dearly beloved who declared it to be "That Dickens Place". I suspect a vanishingly tiny proportion will have been to a Shakespeare Play, of their own volition, more than once.

 

 

 

Next was Southwark Bridge. If you go on a commentated riverboat cruise, the commentator invariably informs you of how little used this bridge is. I have only been over it on an open top bus, and just one scheduled route uses it. I believe it's popular with cyclists. Perhaps it should be shut to all vehicles except the existing bus route and given over to cyclists. As you walk under the bridge, you see a frieze depicting the Thames Frost Fairs. The frieze is poorly lit, and not very interesting. Besides, it's quite difficult to stop and take a look without blocking other people walking along a relatively narrow pathway.

We next encountered a ruin that I didn't know existed, Winchester Palace. This was the residence of the Bishop of Winchester, dating back to the 13th century and largely destroyed by fire in 1814. It's a listed Scheduled Monument managed by English Heritage, but, other than being 'old' I fail to see any great historical value. I could have taken better photos but was rather deterred by some out-of-towner who objected to me leaning on the railing. I was in no mood to fight.

The next stop was The Golden Hinde, as it bills itself. It takes quite a lot of looking to see that it isn't actually Francis Drake's Golden Hind; it's a replica that's actually younger than me. I can see the educational benefit of building a replica and inviting Primary School children to tour and learn physically, but it isn't the Golden Hind, despite how it's billed on its website or on Google Maps. There are sufficient caveats to escape Trading Standards or accusations of 'passing off' but I'm sure it must lure in plenty enough tourists who think they're on the actual Golden Hinde. Won't catch me handing over good money.

We strolled round the all-but-deserted Borough Market and the churchyard of Southwark Cathedral. We were not going to go in, because from the outside, although billed as a Cathedral, it looked a very ordinary Parish Church.  The present building is mainly Gothic, from 1220 to 1420, although the nave is a nineteenth-century reconstruction in a thirteenth-century style. Interestingly, the London Borough of Southwark actually contains three Cathedrals, but isn't a city.

In the churchyard we found one of the worst examples - in my opinion - of modern (ish) sculpture - a statue of the Holy Family by one Kenneth Hughes, seemingly from the 1970s. A brief trip around the internet suggests that others are as underwhelmed as I am, so full marks to Cisco 664 on Flickr who almost managed to obscure the statue in their picture.

We had a look inside in the Cathedral. There was a notice up asking for no photography, which I initially complied with. I then noticed that several other people weren't complying, either. Doesn't make it right, but, nevertheless, I whipped the camera out and, checking to see the flash was firmly off, took some photos of some of the more interesting artwork in the church. Some further details are available at the Cathedral's own website

Outside the Cathedral, Jimmy spotted this little man through a window, so I took a photo. Unfortunately, I also got Jimmy's reflection, but, hey! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From there, we passed under London Bridge and strolled along the Southern Bank of the Pool of London, to some extent re-tracing our Northbank route of the previous week. But that is another blogpost! 

A quick trip down to Brixton

This was ages ago now, but I decided to bring my camera when we went shopping. It was just before the Diamond Jubilee. I am fervently anti-Monarchist, but I always like Morleys' window display, even if it's Christmas in November, or promoting Valentine's Day, the ultimate miserable capitalist corruption of imagined romance. And their Diamond Jubilee display was eye-catching!

A queue formed behind me of other people also wanting to photograph it.

We went into Market Row to stock up on fish and vegetables. At which point, being that it was Friday afternoon, and the start of a long Bank Holiday weekend, it seemed wrong not to go for Cocktails at Seven.

I ordered an Electric Avenue, named after the Eddy Grant song, which was about the famous Brixton shopping street. I was warned that this was pretty much the end of range, because they were bringing in the summer menu and they were to introduce the Guns of Brixton cocktail.

I was also tempted into trying a mushroom boccadillo. Simple but tasty and filling. It's a nice little bar. I understand that there are Art Installations upstairs, although we didn't venture that far. Some people sat out the front on deckchairs, playing board games. It's a good spot to people-watch. I tweeted:

Twenty-something dual-heritage hipster bloke walks past rolling a crystal ball in his hand

Lots of little black kids - but no whites - walking around in cardboard crowns. Seems a pretty cruel act of deception

And later

A cream coloured Morris Minor festooned in Union flag bunting. Suspect a more modern car wouldn't get away with it.

Sometimes I think...Live theatre or the fillums cannot compare with Brixton on a Bank Holiday Friday afternoon

Seven cocktail bar stays significantly this side of hipster wank - someone trying to copy it might end up too far up their own arses. But, nevertheless, I was not oblivious to the elderly, poor-looking, largely Afro-Caribbean people walking by with looks of bemusement on their faces. There is a lot of discussion about the so-called gentrification of Brixton, and much of the discussion ignores the wider economic context, and the housing crisis in London and the South East. But with similar and disparate discussions about everything from opera to Olympic sports, the fact that some people have no disposable income should not act as a guilt-trip and a choker on people who are trying to run a small business or who do earn a living and do want to spend their 'disposable' income. It's almost as if the anti-gentrification hardcore want Brixton to be somewhere that shops lie empty, part dormitory, part ghetto.

 

The remaining days in Bournemouth

Our first morning in Bournemouth dawned...cold and misty. We dithered and hesitated, but realised that the sun would soon burn away the mist. It was warm enough down on the beach, and, although not busy, there were several hardy souls not letting a bit of chill deter them.

I soon discovered that the sea mist added rather than detracted from my photos. We strolled along the beach for a while, initially with the intent of finding deckchairs to hire and to sit down and relax. I watched a fisherman tidy and secure his boat after an early morning - or overnight - trip.

Another man had been out kayaking

The mist lent a mysterious sheen to the beach

The beach huts stood out against the misty cliffs.

The 'train' that runs along the promenade for the less mobile passed by.

We walked a long way along the beach, looking for deckchairs. Every pile we came to was locked up, and with no sign of any deckchair attendant. Finally, in desperation, I approached the RNLI lifeguard and she showed me to the secret office inhabited by the deckchair attendant. Thank you RNLI, I know it's not your job, but I was very tired and achey by now. 

The beach office was hidden in the undercliff with a very discreet sign. The chap explained that most of the deckchair stacks would not be open until 'summer'. He'd forgotten to unlock the ones that were open. By now it was 11 am; yesterday he had forbidden us to sit in deckchairs after 4pm. I was not exactly chuffed. His job is, basically, to hire out deckchairs (and beach huts). I would never get away with at work if I 'forgot' to switch on my PC.

But, still, we had deckchairs, and I was so excited I took a photo with my phone to tweet to my followers. We spent two very pleasant hours lying in the hesitant sun, with light reading to pass the time, and gloriously perfectly relaxed.

But the sun went behind the clouds, so we decided that we would go for coffee. We had spotted a nice looking Italian place, Vesuvio. We were tempted to get more than a coffee. I was very pleased with my smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel, the best I've had away from the shores of the Dead Sea.

 We returned to our deckchairs for half an hour or so, but it was getting cold. I had the stupid idea of climbing up the cliff through the Tropical Gardens, which were pleasant

 

And we found ourselves in the small but pleasant Argyll Gardens, where we partook of pot-of-tea/ice-cream as appropriate and sat for a while watching the bowls.

Good to see such a level of activity, including some apparently very elderly people, some of whom got over the difficult 'bending' issue with a bowl and jack pick-up. Some were fiercely competitive and I dreaded to think what levels of politics were at play.

We decided to walk back to the hotel, which is where I realised I had made a schoolgirl error. I had visualised the clifftop as being continuous, but it is cleft by chines - steep-sided river valley where the river flows to the sea through, typically, soft eroding coastal cliffs of sandstone or clays. So, tired, hot, sweaty and footsore, I was faced with a difficult walk inland in order to find a path across to the hotel. Totally exhausted, We ended up descending back to the beach, and, defeated, I was delighted to take advantage of the West Cliff Lift, or funicular railway, as Wikipedia would have it. And back to the hotel for a very necessary pot of tea for a long soak in the jacuzzi and a short swim in the pool.

The next day we thought that we would have a leisurely breakfast and then chill on the beach for an hour or two, and finish off in the spa before catching our train back. The plan went entirely to plan, except for one aspect.

We were on an almost entirely deserted beach, save for three metal detecting men wading knee deep in the water, and the occasional dog walker. Absolutely nobody else sitting on the beach, and very few on the undercliff prom. And then, suddenly, as Jimmy was drifting off to sleep and I was absorbed in my readable if forgettable book, our peace was shattered. Mile upon mile of deserted beach, and some utter wanker of a thug chose to bring his 'bootcamp' to stand right next to us. Bootcamp Beach said the thug's t-shirt, bearing the same logo as on this website. 'Professional and friendly ex-military PT team'.

Startled by this oik yelling and screaming barely feet from where we were sitting. I stood up, and this oik leered at me, so I started taking photos. He went utterly ballistic, yelling & screaming at me, telling me I wasn't allowed to take photos in a public place. I calmly explained that he was disturbing us, that there was a whole beach he could use. He repeatedly told me it was illegal to take photos in a public place, I repeatedly asked him by what law, he sneered, asking 'Are you a Member of Parliament?' - because im his small head only MPs are privy to public law, apparently! His body language was aggressive and I felt certain it would not take much provocation to provoke him into violence. Clearly expects women to do exactly as he says. Most of the party were acutely embarrassed and wanting to get away, and indeed they went away, only to return, to more shouting, and one ridiculous idiot of a woman waggling her bum and calling out "We're back, we're back." I felt a great deal of pity for her, so lacking in self-esteem that she pays to be bossed around by someone who attempted to bully me. Exactly the sort of person who gives the army a bad name (if he was in the army at all). I know if I ever decide to do a 'Bootcamp', I will ask very specific questions about the background checks done on 'instructors'.

I know there have been many problems with these 'boot camps' taking over certain London parks; and I noticed that the beach at Whitstable specifically banned 'commercial activity'. Bournemouth has a lot to offer, possibly more than any other seaside resort, with the possible exception of Blackpool which doesn't have the high cliffs of Bournemouth. But I thought there was a lazy complacency, from the bars, pubs and cafés unwilling or uninterested in serving, to the poor day-to-day management of the beach by the council. It's got a good infrastructure, and I was very impressed by the Best Western Connaught hotel.

Blakes Restaurant Bournemouth

When I was picking a hotel in Bournemouth,  a swimming pool was a must, but what clinched it was the description of the restaurant. Not just their own marketing, not particularly the two AA rosettes which is not a system I understand, and not just Trip Advisor rating it number one restaurant in Bournemouth. But they all helped. And as I said, if it's not that great on the first night we'll just eat somewhere else on the second night. We went back for the second night.

It wasn't perfect, but it had some immense strengths. The serving staff were very polite and there were no mistakes, but I felt they were there for (successful) English language practice rather than because of a passion for food or customer service. Minor quibble, and didn't interfere with my enjoyment. Also, it is primarily a hotel restaurant, which seems to lend a different atmosphere than a standard restaurant or one that is only coincidentally attached to a hotel. I can't quite define it, but it seems marginally less relaxing.

On the first night I started with Crisp Brioche-Coated Goats Cheese with Apple Puree, Hazelnut & Watercress Salad. A really clever dish. I've had deep-fried goats cheese many times, but the use of brioche was inspired, adding a sweetness to what is normally savoury. And the salad was lovely, with the apple purée providing the traditional sweet offset to the cheese, itself offset by hazelnut. 

My main course was Pan Seared Sea Bass Fillet with Nero Linguini, Bouillabaisse,and Brown Shrimps. 

It's been a while since I had pasta as a casual accompaniment to a not-obviously-pasta dish: I think over-cooked gloopy tagliatelle in watery cheese sauce in Montmartre rather put me off. 

Thankfully, Bournemouth rescued me! A nice piece of fish nicely cooked. The nero linguini was just right. To my surprise I enjoyed the broad beans. I've always hated them because of the inner shell, but double-podded, they were very nice. But the highlight was the Bouillabaisse. I'm not going to wade in and pretend to know anything about Bouillabaisse, but I've always thought to be basically a big fish soup, so I was confused. This was a richly flavoured, heavily reduced sauce and was the absolute highlight of the meal, a taste whose memory will remain for a long time.

My pudding was lemon posset and shortbread (see above). The shortbread was nice enough but not up to my own standards. The posset was very lemony. Overall, a great success!

Because we were so pleased with the restaurant, and because there wasn't anywhere immediately locally that presented as an alternative, we decided we might as well return the next night. I imagine if we had been staying longer than two nights, we would have wanted some variety, not least because every restaurant has its own distinctive style.

This time, I could not resist the starter that Jimmy had on the first night: Pan Seared Scallop Bouillabaisse Soup with Rouille, Parmesan & Croutons. Partly, I was fascinated by the ritual of service: first, the scallops placed in the centre of the bowl, and then the bouillabaisse spooned carefully around it, and, finally a selection of the three accompaniments were spooned in with a touch of panache. It was the same bouillabaisse as the previous night, so flavoursome, I was desperate for more. And yet, despite being so strong, it did not overpower the scallops.

For my main course I had the "Great British Dish" (of the day) - Poached Smoked Haddock fillet, with poached egg, herb pancake, with a Tarragon and dry vermouth sauce.

I think it was the least successful of the five dishes that I had at the restaurant. It was surprisingly bland considering its component ingredients. If my main course the previous night had been an 8++ or even a 9, this was probably a 7-. Far better than I've had in many places, but disappointing. I ate it without hesitation. And I was quite stuffed when I'd finished, so chose not to have a pudding. In fact, I was quite tired, so we took our wine back to our room and lay in bed watching TV. Which is a great advantage of a hotel restaurant!

Overall, I was very pleased with Blakes restaurant. I've had good and bad experiences in hotels; this was definitely one of the best.  Not having tried any of the others, I'm in no position to judge whether it actually is Bournemouth's best restaurant, but I would certainly recommend it strongly.

Day one in Bournemouth

At the end of May, I was signed off sick from work,for exhaustion and pain arising from a flare-up in my fibromyalgia. It is entirely possible that this was brought on by a hideously long period of bad weather. My Other Half decreed that the best cure was a trip to the seaside, especially considering that we actually had a brief spell of hot and sunny weather.

We travelled to Bournemouth on a fast and prompt train, an uneventful journey. We arrived at our hotel, and, unfortunately, our room was not yet ready. The website was very clear - check-in at 3pm, and we arrived long before that. It's a gamble - often you can check in, and, in any case, you can always leave your bags. We should have stopped and thought, and taken the time to grab our swimwear, or at least our shorts and towels. Instead, we went for a walk along the beach.

Bournemouth is a popular and well-established seaside resort. We were staying a little to the West of the pier, atop a sheer cliff, with paths and steps down to the beach, a beach consisting of miles and miles of golden sands. We climbed down the steps, exchanging pleasantries with people we met on the way up, laughing at the benches -sensibly - placed at intervals along the climb. Most of the people we met were elderly, many infirm.

We hit the beach at Durley Chine. I suggested to Jimmy a pint in the seafront pub, a Harvester, but he declined. Instead, we bought tea from a nearby beachfront cafe. Bought it, tasted it, and after valiant efforts, chucked it.

I suppose I have to accept tea served in cardboard. I'm not sure why, really. I can see the risks of breakages on the beach and promenade, where people walk in bare foot, but I can't really see the problem in crockery when sitting at a table on a paved terrace. I can't forgive the horrible taste of the tea. I actually can't understand how it is possible to make tea so badly. Arrogant complacent attitude. I suspect that all the seafront cafes were franchised en bloc. They all sold the same brand of ice cream - a contrast with Lyme Regis just down the coast, where half a dozen different local brands were on sale from different outlets.

 

Jimmy stopped at a café further down the Prom, but they seemed uninterested in serving him, or even acknowledging his presence. So frustrating when you're a tourist desperate to buy and eager to boost the economy, however marginally. Finally we found a café by the pier, just next to the Gents loo, where I had a very good coffee, and he had two ice creams which he liked, and we were served by two pleasant young women who 'got' customer service. 

I gazed with envy at the many people who were paddling in the sea, and even more those who were brave enough to be actually swimming. I know it doesn't feel so cold once you're in, but, even so, it takes some teeth gritting. And, in May, however hot the day, it takes time to warm back up again afterwards!

We took a stroll about the Pier, which was oddly deserted. Attractions playing their tinned music, desperate for non-existent customers. But very colourful, and a great vantage point!

 

 

 

It always fascinates me in places like seaside resorts why so many people congregate at the central point. I'm sure most individuals, when questioned, would give a perfectly sensible reason, such as mobility or time, but the group dynamics intrigue me. The 'attractions' are only a passing interest to me; I'd rather take the time to walk to a quieter spot.

After a look round, we walked back to our hotel. A steep climb up, in the heat of the afternoon sun, this was not really what I planned for my recuperation during sick leave. Nevertheless, we had an impressive view as we walked.

We returned to our hotel and were able to check in and unpack. It was at this point we had a severe miscommunication error. I thought it would be nice to go either to the beach for a swim, or to the swimming pool in the hotel, but Jimmy declared we should go for a drink - there were two pubs nearby. We went into the first, but they had no real ale, they showed a distinct reluctance to acknowledge let alone serve us, and there was a dipstick playing his boombox in the beer garden. The second one we tried looked no better.

By this time, I was almost in tears. My feet were hurting, the sun was scorching and it seemed that we were surrounded by hills and no decent watering place. Finally, we spotted what seemed to be a café. It was in fact the bar of another hotel, but we could sit outside, and even the sight of this was like nectar from the gods. Quite possibly the best cup of tea I have tasted in my life.

With renewed energy, we descended back to the Undercliff promenade and thought we would sit on the beach for a while. But the boy-child in charge of deckchairs refused to let us hire a couple, because it was four o'clock. Five hours before sunset, and, as I later discovered, two hours before close of service. Frankly, deckchairs unavailable after 6pm is ridiculous. In resorts I have been to abroad, deckchairs are available until sunset, perhaps dependent on tide and weather.

Not especially wanting to sit for long on the sand, we walked to the Harvester, but they seemed uninterested in serving us, or even acknowledging us, so we walked out, and climbed back to our hotel and passed some time in the very nice pool, jacuzzi, sauna and steam room, and a relaxing drink on the sun-drenched terrace by the bar.

Olympic Torch on Acre Lane

The Olympic Torch has been parading around the United Kingdom - and beyond - for more than two months. I had seen reports from various places: when the relatives went out in their areas, when it was carried by celebrities I like, when I was bored and decided to watch the livestream.

It came very close to home on the Monday, which finished with an event on Tooting Bec Common. I thought of going, then read it was 'ticket only' - and tickets were only available for Wandsworth residents; then I read that the opportunity for Lambeth residents to apply for tickets had closed. I could have gone and watch it progress to the Common, but didn't.

Instead, on the Thursday, I went to watch it on its route in an ever-decreasing circular tour of Inner London (or so it seemed). A show was planned in Brixton, with performers, and celebrity appearances. Sebastian Coe cancelled but did send Edwin Moses in his place, But I decided - rightly, judging from the photos I've seen - that I would get a better view elsewhere, so I headed for Acre Lane and the junction with Kings Avenue. 

There's not a great deal to say about it. A convoy of vehicles went by. Then someone carrying the Olympic Torch passed by; if I read correctly, this torchbearer was Neil Robinsonand he passed to Harry Urquhart-Briggs just past the junction. That much I knew because someone with a microphone was getting the crowd to chant 'Harry! Harry! Harry!'

If you tried to analyse or deconstruct the torch relay, or objectively find meaning, you wouldn't. But I went out of curiosity and came away with a positive feeling. People out for a few minutes' pleasure, chatting to random strangers, feeling part of a geographically-based community, cheering on, amongst others, the police. 

When it started, I read some people smugly pointing out that the Olympic Torch relay started under the Nazis. Whilst technically correct, it strikes me as a bit of a so-what? It also occurred before the immediately PostWar 1948 Olympics held in a blitz-ravaged London. Were they Nazi sympathisers? Are all people who buy Volkswagens also Nazis? And was there anything in the London 2012 Torch Relay consistent with Nazi ideology? No.

I'm glad that I went, and I'm pleased I got a few usable photos. It started with the police motorbikes...

and then the NHS bicycle paramedics, to great cheers

A police car advertising Twitter

An official Torch Relay car

A bus carrying the torchbearers for further down the route

and vehicles representing various commercial sponsors

The cyclist in the grey kit was one of many police officers guarding the torch relay

Another coach

And a logistics vehicle, which carried on its back the Torchcam crew

People cheered and took photos

Plácido Domingo's Operalia Winners

This concert happened at the Royal Opera House last Wednesday. I bought a programme, but they run out and a lot of people were unhappy. As a result, the (revised) programme is available for download from the website. I say revised, because unfortunately Erwin Schrott had to withdraw due to illness. Considerably the large number of people performing and knowing how these things can go, I was pleasantly surprised that no other singers found reasons to withdraw.

I am not a reviewer, I'm not paid to review, and I certainly  don't get free tickets, so I don't intend to go through a detailed review. And I decided not to take any photos because my seat, in row H of the amphitheatre, was so far above the stage that I know that they would be just shots of the top of people's heads, I have 300 unedited photos on the PC and I didn't fancy going through dozens of dismal shots trying to salvage something usable. I wasn't quite sure what the people two rows in front hoped to capture with their phone cameras! And, as I write, they appear to have no photos available on their Facebook or Flickr sites.

I was, by and large, pleased with the way the concert was programmed. Apart from starting, suitably, with the Prelude to Act I of Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg every other piece was sung, and the transition between pieces was smoothly executed with no long pauses after the applause had died away. Certainly no near neighbours found time to read the newspaper as we waited for the next act. And there was a reasonable variety of pieces, although nothing post-Puccini and nothing pre-Rossini. Also, this being badged as part of the London 2012 Festival, the absence of English pieces was an oversight. In short, less bel canto and a token nod at Handel would have been welcome, but with Tony Pappano conducting, this was never going to happen.

I found the Bellini and Rossini pieces boring beyond words and I won't insult the doubtlessly fine singers by commenting further, because this was undoubtedly due to my personal feelings about bel canto, and anything further is unhelpful to you.

My personal highlights were, unsurprisingly, the Wagner excerpts, which by default makes Nina Stemme my outstanding singer. Indeed, as she took up Du bist der Lenz from Winterstürme wichen dem Wonnemond I spontaneously burst into tears. Up until then I had felt rather disillusioned, but the magic of the music grabbed my emotions. Not least, flooding me with memories of some wonderful performances of this opera and this excerpt in particular. I especially remembered being here two days after London had won the Olympics, one day after it had been bombed, the incredible spirit of that day, and reflecting that we were now just two days away from London 2012. I also loved her Dich, teure Halle.

My other highlights took me slightly by surprise: Sonya Yoncheva's Depuis le jour from Gustave Charpentier's Louise was moving. A strong and expressive voice. I also loved Joseph Calleja's Nessun dorma; I don't believe I have ever heard it performed live. It's the opera aria that everybody knows, and it can sound tiresome and clichéd when over-used or used out of context. But it was a stirring performance.

 And Plácido Domingo, I can feel you ask! His appearance was pretty low key, actually. I enjoyed his Wintersturme but felt that his voice wasn't fully warmed up, and it seemed a shadow of previous times I have heard him sing it, in opera or in concert. His Nemico della patria was impressive, although it's not an aria I can warm to. In the Rigoletto excerpt I was transported by what I suppose you'd call stage presence or his immersion into the character.

All in all, an enjoyable evening, somewhat marred by the anti-social behaviour of certain audience members near me - the woman next to me insisted on talking to her husband through the opening bars of every piece, the person who hummed along with Wintersturme, the person heard snoring through Nessun Dorma, and the woman behind me who exclaimed loudly about Joyce DiDonato "She's changed!" - she had sung a female role in a dress before the interval and had, seemingly, defied time and space to change into trousers for a trouser role after the interval. Perhaps this person had never attended an opera or a concert before where singers change their outfits!

Also, from where I was sitting, there were various times when I was struggling to hear various singers over the orchestra. Simply because, being a concert, the orchestra were on stage, not sunk into the pit. But it wasn't a major problem, certainly not enough to diminish my enjoyment.

 

A leisurely amble through the Pool of London

The Sunday following our Whitstable outing was stiflingly bakingly hot. We knew we wanted to get out. We wanted to be in the open air. We didn't want to expand too much energy. And we didn't want to be in a place where masses would be congregating to enjoy the heat and sunshine.

Writing that, I realise that walking, in Central London via a major Tourist attraction was pretty much a failure on all of these points, but at the time it didn't feel that way.

We walked from London Bridge to Wapping, along the North Bank of the River Thames. Hardly virgin territory for us, the internet or visitors to London. We had been on boat trips so many times and, in various ways, taken in so many of the sights, some of which form the core of a tourist trip to the city whose origins go back at least to Roman times.

I have been thinking how to write this post. In that short stretch we walked, there is so much history, so much to see. If I tried to research - however superficially - background to every landmark, it would be a book, not a blogpost. 

Part of the attraction of such a walk is spotting the small but meaningful artifacts, such as this wood from the Roman wharf. At the time of my walk and previously, I've always thought of London as a Roman city. Wikipedia says Although there is evidence of scattered Brythonic settlements in the area, the first major settlement was founded by the Romans in 43 AD. 

I subsequently watched a TV programme which revealed something to me:

Two recent discoveries indicate that London could be much older than previously thought. In 1999 the remains of a Bronze Age bridge were found on the foreshore north of Vauxhall Bridge. This bridge either crossed the Thames, or went to a (lost) island in the river. Dendrology dated the timbers to 1500BC.

I was actually poised to write that this information was entirely new to me, until I remembered that I was a Lambeth councillor in 1999 and I have a vague memory of this discovery being brought to my attention. It seems that I didn't fully absorb the significance of this. Of course, it doesn't alter the history of 'London' because throughout most of (written) history Vauxhall was not considered London, so I doubt it would have been 3500 years ago!

The City of London is known for its many churches often named after somewhat obscure saints. Orcadian St Magnus is perhaps less obscure than some, having a cathedral in Kirkwall named after him, and, I read, has a chamber opera, The Martyrdom of St Magnus,  written about him. Sunday Service was underway, so we didn't go in, and instead set out for a stroll against the Thames Path. St Magnus is one of the many 'Wren Churches' rebuilt after the Great Fire of London 1666

There is so much to stimulate the eye - Tower Bridge and HMS Belfast are never out of sight, nor is the most recent monstrosity, The Shard. I detest the Shard. I'm usually quite a fan of fancy tall buildings and innovative building designs, from bridges to ferris wheels, but The Shard, as seen from my vantage point on the top of Brixton Hill, is completely out of proportion to the rest of London. 

The path takes us in front of the Old Billingsgate, distinguishable by the fish in its weather-vane. Now used as a Conference Centre and otherwise entirely anonymous. There wa sa fascinating set of TV programmes about 3 major London markets, including New Billingsgate, where the fish market relocated (to the Isle of Dogs) in 1982. It's in decline; the supermarkets buy direct from producers, as do many smaller retailers.

With the tide out, the beach was visible. We were clearly not the first to have been down there, but once we got down on the beach, it was part irritating part hilarious watching certain tourists waiting for us to make the next move so they could follow us. Incapable of using their eyes or their legs to explore, they needed to copy us.

 

 
We walked past Custom House, but I failed to get a decent photo. I audited there many years ago, a rather wonderful place to visit. The Long Room is rather ornate and has an interesting acoustic affect which means quiet conversations can be heard the other end of a large hall. I believe it sometimes opens to the public on Open House day. Not the Queen's Warehouse, though.

Our walk took us directly to the Tower of London where my heart sunk. The place was swarming with tourists. However, and notwithstanding the usual quota of idiots, and a greater number of sheep with no respect for personal space, our visit was uneventful. We even had a look round the tourist tat shop. I was a little surprised about the focus on Henry VIII, especially the lack of context. Erm, he sent a lot of people to be murdered in the Tower. Not my first choice for a character cuddly teddy bear.

I took the obligatory photos of the Tower, of Tower Bridge, and of views upstream from there. It seemed a bit pointless. Professional photographers have taken so many over the years. On the other hand, I'm telling you a story: I walked past the Tower, and Tower Bridge. Here they are!

     

 On the beach below the Tower an archaeological dig was taking place, seemingly under the auspices of the The Museum of London Archaeology's Thames Discovery Programme, which allows members of the public to get involved.

 
This woman seemed to be one of the leaders. She looked very cool. Maybe someone should write a children's TV programme about a Riverside Archaeologist!

On the other hand, this family seemed entirely inappropriately dressed. You seriously wouldn't find me sloshing around in Thames mud in a pair of flip flops!

 Under the bridge, and more opportunities to take photos of this famous landmark.

 

Startling how few tourists managed to walk the few extra metres to relative quiet east of Tower Bridge! Just a few steps further on and we were in St Katharine Docks, which I had always previously called 'St Katherine's'. It's one of the first examples of dockland redevelopment. It's years since I've been there, on a similarly hot day, and recall it being packed tight. I was surprised on this hot day - the hottest so far this year, I think, how quiet it was. Nice to wander round and look.

 
 
 

 

By this time I had walked far enough in the searing heat, so we retired to The Cape in Thomas More Square. I doubt it would be my scene on a weekday evening, but it was a welcome oasis. We both ate a decent plate of fish and chips, nicely cooked and attractively served. I stupidly shook the tomato ketchup bottle without checking the lid was on, and splattered its contents over my white skirt. Looked light the slaughter of the innocents. I rate highly the quality of the soap and the hand dryers in the Ladies!

So, all in all, a pleasant enough stroll in the heat. And, surprisingly not too bothered by daft tourists.

A day out to Whitstable

It seems a long time ago. The sun was shining. It seemed like summer.

I was on Sick Leave. Officially signed off  by the doctor. And my Carer decreed that I needed a trip to the seaside. So, bus to Brixton, and then a mad dash up the thousands of stairs to the platform at Brixton station, needless because my watch was two minutes fast. And, anyway, the next train would have got us to Whitstable just as quickly - we changed at Bromley South.

The first thing I wanted on arrival at the seaside was a cup of tea. Drawn to an al fresco place, we were soon tempted into ordering no-fuss hot meals. It was an odd place. Clearly unprepared for the burst of hot weather and understaffed, it was almost painfully slow and disorganised. A few tricks missing, such as bringing drinks straight away, irrespective of how long the wait for food. The tables weren't numbered but the orders were, by numbered blocks of wood - so we were number 5, but the people on the next table who ordered just before us were number 36. However, despite the obvious chaos I would highly recommend it. The staff were, without exception, the nicest bunch of youngsters I have ever encountered in their positions, and the food was worthwhile. I had a large bowl of delicious mussels and a generous bowl of chips, and Jimmy was happy with his 'catch of the day'. I'm sorry I didn't photograph them, but I did shoot my tea, such a pleasure after having been served too many poor quality cardboard cups of tea. Other than a couple of doughnuts later in the afternoon I didn't eat again all day.

 

After eating we walked around the harbour, enjoying the heat and sun (looks outside at pouring rain, sobs uncontrollably). I've been to Whitstable once before, the first serious outing with my previous camera, a Canon G3. There's something about the town I like. Although I don't like that it's a disproportionatelt long train ride for its distance from home - it's easier and quicker to Brighton. But it's a working port and thus more photogenic than Brighton Marina.

At this point, I realised that somebody was watching me take photographs and then take the 'same' photo himself. I thought it a bit silly. He didn't really know what I was focusing on or why I was photographing it. It's like cooking when unhappy - if you don't feel even a mild personal inspiration, it doesn't taste very nice. But at least an unhappy will be nutritious. 

But I can feel very competitive so I had a short burst of shooting at quirky objects

 

 

We walked a short distance along the sea front. I noticed from signs that the beach is privately owned - by the Whitstable Oyster Fishery Company. They seem to be quite dominant in the town...I know I need to be careful because I'm sure I'll be corrected if I get this wrong! They won restaurants, pubs, a hotel, and ex-fishermen's huts to let. I feel uncomfortable at the thought of one company dominating in this way, but my thoughts when writing now are influenced by my subsequent visit to Bournemouth. For now, I'll say that the Whitstable's way of doing it is better for the visitor!

 

 

We sat on the beach in just about the same position as we had on our previous visit. It was at this point that I realised that sitting on a pebbly beach is not that comfortable. And most beaches in the south of England are pebbly. (We have subsequently bought a couple of cheap roll-up foam mats, which we hope to use some time this summer!).

 

It was pleasant to people-watch on the beach. It was  gratifying to see how many small children were brought for some fresh air and exercise after school; but a bit saddening to see how few were, too. Here and elsewhere. Frantically jealous of the kids who have this in their life.

Unfortunately, I wasn't feeling too well, although more tea, and doughnuts, helped. But then the breeze began to blow and we decided it was time to head home. A long round trip for just a few hours by the sea!

I've added these photos to my previous set from 2003. I hope they reflect the fondness in which I hold this town.

Open Gardens

Various open garden schemes exist, where ordinary people open their ordinary residential gardens to the public on payment of a small fee towards a charity.

I saw that several gardens in our area were to open as part of the 'Chelsea Fringe' - timed to coincide with the Chelsea Flower Show. They were raising money for Trinity Hospice. 

It's a good idea but it was rather poorly executed. We paid to go into two gardens. £3 per person a time. Yes, that's £12 for two gardens. In retrospect, perhaps the tickets were transferable between gardens. But they didn't say so, and I've checked the website again, and again it seems to imply a separate entrance fee for each garden. It gets rather expensive. Some places advertise that they served refreshments, with some implying that the refreshments are inclusive and others implying the opposite. So, basically, poor communication!

Still, we went to a very nice garden only a few roads away from us. The people were very pleasant and welcoming, although I found it an odd experience walking into someone's back garden, nosing around and making sotto voce observations. They have a relatively long garden, and have divided into three phases, each of which resembles a garden in its own right, but also mesh well together.

 

We went to a second garden, where again, the people were very nice and welcoming. We were surpised that their garden seemed no bigger than ours, although they have a lawn as a centrepiece, whereas ours is based around a paved area. It's informative to  see how other people use the space, and to ponder whether we could learn anything from them. And, of course, for about ten minutes, I had this mad idea that, of course, next year, we'll open ours to the public, too. Of course we won't. We're far too sensitive. It would only take malicious criticism from one ill-mannered buffoon to cast a cloud over our entire existence. Also, I guess it must take a lot of work to bring them absolutely to standard, whereas if you're just entertaining friends, you can get away with a stack of empty plant pots or a patch that's unplanted.

 

Deciding we didn't want to pay any more, we went for a coffee on Clapham Common, which was so horrible I blogged about it that day

From there we moved on, and found ourselves, somewhat inadvertently, on Northcote Road, the beyond trendy shopping parade on the Battersea-Clapham borders. By chance we found ourselves in Gail's, from where we purchased some artisan bread to take home. We stopped for a snack. This was my coffee and cake. Very nice. 

Wombling the Capital Ring

I like the idea of the Capital Ring.

Wikipedia says

A strategic walking route promoted by London's 33 local councils, the Greater London Authority and Transport for London. It is called a "ring" because the route completely encircles inner and central London.

Walk London says

It’s easy to forget just how green London is — this engaging walk offers a chance to savour some of the capital’s most glorious scenery. 15 easily walked sections leave you free to enjoy it all at your own pace.

There are other similar initiatives, such as the  London Outer Orbital Path (LOOP) and the Green Chain Walk. 

We started the Capital Ring in an odd place, Crown Point, partway through Section 4: Crystal Palace to Streatham. That is a great stroll:

...then comes a level stretch through Biggin Wood, one of the few remnants of the Great North Wood. 

A final climb in Norwood Grove leads through beautiful gardens and past the former mansion. A welcome cafe serves refreshments at Rookery Gardens, then you descend Streatham Common.

Done that several times, I don't rate the café. We saw no point in continuing to Streatham Common station for its own sake, so made our own way to  Section 5 at Tooting Bec Gardens. Somehow, we missed the Pumping Station, and then took a short stroll across a tiny corner of the vast Tooting Commons. We missed a sign or took a wrong turn in Balham and ended up in a time-warped pub on the Weir Estate, which, splendidly, was showing unedited a Manchester United v Arsenal match from 1983.

I read a blog that described Streatham to Wimbledon Park as 

I'm gutted that this leg turns out to be one of the least interesting day walks on the whole Capital Ring

so I followed his advice and decided we would recommence the Capital Ring at Section 6

This stretch from Wimbledon Park to Richmond is, however, one of the greatest day walks in the whole of Greater London, and in its entire 6.9 miles it doesn't put a foot wrong. If you only do one day of the Ring, make it this one; it really is something special.

We didn't start well. As we approached Streatham station, I calculated that we would just miss a train and have to wait almost 30 minutes for the next, so we might as well as stay on the Wimbledon-bound bus. In some ways I wasn't wrong. We arrived at Wimbledon station (Underground and Overground) only five or so minutes later than if we had waited for a train. In other ways I was very wrong. A dull tedious trundle down through heavy traffic in Tooting and down to Colliers Wood in increasing stifling conditions. But on arrival at Wimbledon, it is simple enough to get on the District Line and travel one stop to Wimbledon Park.

Wimbledon Park is a delightful suburban park which is worth a half-day visit in its own right. We visited it two years ago and enjoyed a stroll around the Boating Lake and down to the village church. The Capital Ring is designed to take you through just one part of the park and march relentlessly past the the lake, barely pausing to spy the All England Tennis club in the distance.

     

The next part of the route is through suburbia. The curiosity in looking at other people's houses soon fades. There's a limit to the number of times you can say "That building looks grim but they have a lovely view" or "Heck, they must be loaded." Even counting the Ocado vans isn't that much fun. 

 

Eventually the path reaches Putney Heath, which has quite an interesting history, and is a surprisingly wild shrub land, even if it doesn't last very long. You are soon on Wimbledon Common and approaching its famous windmill. There's a nice little museum there, worth passing quarter of an hour. And they sell Wombles, although I was not allowed to buy one. I have already written about the café, which was a disgrace. After that we ploughed on along the Capital Ring route. Unfortunately, our time at Queensmere was ruined by a party of poorly supervised pre-pubescent children. I imagine on a good day that Queensmere is a lovely tranquil place. But a party of schoolboys running wild and loud, watched by schoolgirls brought up to be passive observers, echoes round the arena and makes a restful pause or stroll impossible.

 
We walked across a golf course, which seems tastefully managed. No blot on the landscape, and golfers instructed to give way to walkers. And down through dense woodland. Dense, but not dense enough to muffle the noise of young men playing rugby in the far distance and, again, dominating public spaces to the possible detriment of everyone else not in their domineering demographic. Unpleasant.

 

I am not made for walking, at all, so it was a relief to hit Kingston Vale. This is a necessary but horrible dual carriageway section of the A3 that is very unfriendly to non-motorised road users. I was intrigued by the Pegasus crossing - only recently installed - that allows mounted horse riders to cross from stables at Richmond Park to Wimbledon Common. I was less impressed by the difficulty in finding a bus stop when I was all but fit to drop.

Fortunately, we found a bus, and it took us to Putney, where we found a pub called the Spotted Horse. I was in there about twenty years ago and don't intend to leave it that long before returning again. An extremely nice pub, lovely decor, an excellent choice of drinks - Jimmy had real ale, I had a soft drink designed for discerning adults. And, most importantly, the food was of good quality and good value for money. If I lived nearby I'd be in there a lot.

 

So, the Capital Ring. It's a very good idea in theory. It's there to encourage Londoners to walk. I know many people have got pleasure from doing the entire Ring. 

I enjoy walking, but only up to a point. I can't walk far, and especially not on paving stones and other hard surfaces. If one follows the Ring precisely, you miss out on the glory of the parks it attempts to showcase. This section was supposed to continue into Richmond Park. I have subsequently done my homework and have decided that I would be better off doing the Tamsin trail. I have bought a Cycling Traffic-Free London book - this is from Sustrans, their website contains many walking and cycling books that cover the country. This book includes a cycle tour of Wimbledon common that criss-crosses it and is a day out in itself, rather than simply skimming across one corner, as Capital Ring does.

However, I will use the Capital Ring, London Loop and Green Chain Walk, as well as Walk London's other brands- Jubilee Walkway, Jubilee Greenway, even Lea Valley, and of course the Thames Path - for hints and inspiration, but rather than attempting the journey, I will focus on the featured parks and attractions.

Other people on Capital Ring Section 6

Diamond Geezer

Stephen and Lucy

Angry Beaton

Tim Bertuchi

Kate

Darryl

Wandering Genealogist

Martin Rich

A stroll around the North East of Clapham Common

It was one of those days. I was taking the day off Sick. I was told in no uncertain terms that I would never not be sick if I don't get out and do some moderate exercise. The plan was, to walk across Tooting Commons and catch the bus back. But the sky looked ominous. I didn't want to be out, let alone walking, and I certainly didn't want to be caught in a downpour in the vast open space of Tooting with no shelter. Change of plan and bus to Clapham.

Stroke of genius, rather than get off the bus at the Underground station, as one usually does, stay on for an extra stop, traversing the Common by bus along the A3 and alighting north of North Side.

The fun is in observing the detail. Cedars Road is flanked by two glorious 19th century buildings now converted into modern 'luxury apartments' ie Yuppie Flats. I tried to take photos but the view was blocked by a constant parade of coaches and bin lorries. Instead we strolled along to Trinity Hospice. Trinity Hospice is a well-loved local institution providing skilled compassionate end-of-life care. The blue plaque is for Eminent Architect Charles Barry, who lived at the house long before it was a hospice. 

There are some very attractive houses along North Side. I pass occasionally on the bus, and very occasionally indeed on foot. I have often thought about stopping & photographing. Today was my opportunity.

 

 

 

The row is full of history.  Two new blue plaques were installed in 2011. One, by The Music Hall Guild of Great Britain and America for Marie Kendall and one by English Heritage for Graham Greene, whose The End of the Affair was partially set locally. The internet tells me there is also a blue plaque for Edvard Grieg, but I overlooked it.

Indeed, another blue plaque was actually being installed on The Chase by a man in red trousers as we walked past, so I went to have a look. And nearly fell over laughing. There was already one up to commemorate a street party held for Edward VII's Coronation. This second plaque was to commemorate a street party held for the wedding of Kate Middleton. I later saw that that particular road got BBC Dumbed-Down London News to film their Diamond Jubilee Street Party. I have to say, if the zenith of your life's achievements is organising a barbecue, I'd keep quiet about it and reflect upon the empty pointlessness of your life!

  Clapham is synonymous with the Clapham Sect, known for their tremendous work in abolishing Slavery, lead by William Wilberforce. They were Evangelical Christians within the Church of England, but their reforms were opposed by the always conservative/reactionary Church of England no doubt eager to protect its entrenched privilege of maintaining slaves on its Caribbean Plantations.

They attended Holy Trinity church. This is actually - and, at least in my experience, unusually - on the Common. The 'Trinity' in its name is lent to other local institutions not least Trinity Hospice and the ought-to-be-Michelin-starred Trinity Restaurant.

 

 

 

The Church seemed to be closed - entirely understandably - and, to be honest, it doesn't seem particularly appealing as a building, at least from the outside. Rather stupidly, I wondered what could possibly have caused damage to this plaque, stubbornly denying it was bomb damage. It was almost as if I hadn't walked past the Graham Greene plaque and mentioned 'that film we watched' which was set on Clapham Common!

From the Church we strolled along to Old Town, most famous for being a bus terminus and hard standing. Also, site of closed down toilets. I think I have forgotten more about toilets on Clapham Common than most people ever needed or wanted to know, but they are good solid brick public conveniences and could probably make a nice chic on-trend café.

Instead, we went to Nardulli's. A decent enough coffee. Remarkable neither as excellent nor poor, I would return. My ice cream boy tried a couple of scoops of their ice cream. He has returned several times. It has become a destination for him out on his bike, when I'm working, or not well enough to go out. He says it's the best he's had in this country. He says it's better even than Lab-G in Brixton. I'm happy he has ice cream places to go to in both Brixton and Clapham.

When you've lived near somewhere for a long time, you tend to take it for granted and often just see it as a transition, so it's actually nice to stroll around and look at soem of the details in just a small area.

I was intrigued by this building. Granted, I haven't searched the net exhaustively or asked a direct question of Claphamites, but I don't really know what it was.

  
Then there's the statue to Temperance. Jimmy pretended to be quite angry later that I had 'dragged him' along to look at such blasphemy.

 
While we were standing there, something very odd occurred. I think there was a drop in air-pressure but that may be the product of my post hoc imagination. But, suddenly, all the birds swarmed. There was n eerie silence. They hadn't been disturbed by a dog, a siren or a bang. But they all swarmed and sat at the top of just a couple of trees. Vaguely Hitchcockian

We walked to the bus stop as it started to drizzle. Just after we got home, it started to rain properly. And I went for a lie-down.

June 2008 and 2009

June once again proved to be not the greatest month photographically in 2008. I took several photos of a couple of my favourite tenors at the stage Door of the  Royal Opera House. But I'm not sure they'd thank me for publishing less than flattering pictures of them.

We did go for a river walk, though. Putney Bridge to Hammersmith, on the Middlesex shore.

Even so, the pictures resulting was far from the best set of Thames-side pictures I've taken:

It doesn't get better than that. And not in a good way!

June 2009 seems split equally between a family wedding, again which has no need to be on the internet, and two wonderful bike rides via Battersea Park right round the river to Barnes Bridge, although the photos seem to stop at Hammersmith. There's a fabulous trek through the forest. Great for cycling, hopeless for photos!

Many more in the London album - start at Rust bucket and press previous until you can take no more. Or have a quick look at the Battersea Park album.

 

Bistro Union

This is newly opened, and, as I write, still doesn't have a website, except for booking.

It is related to the superb Trinity down the road, although aiming at a different slice of the market. I commented to our waiter that I was expecting red gingham tablecloths - the tables are actually bare - and he commented that at Trinity they iron the tablecloths.

They run a very good Twitter account, posting photos of their current food choice, which looks so tempting. This photos is theirs, showing their barsnack menu

They've put a lot of thought into the decor and theme. Clearly designed to be a bit reminiscent of school or the 1950s, or both, but not quite.

The menus are presented in a folder which is essentially a school exercise book such as I remember from the 1970s. The water glasses are like these Gigogne ones. Ours at school were Arcoroc, but essentially the same. The dishes and plates were similar to the odds and sods that still populate mother's kitchen, dating from the late 50s and early 60s.

I noticed on the drink menu that if you wish to buy your spirits by the bottle, you can store your bottle in a locker above the bar - you keep custody of the key. Very clever, I thought. Encourages the customer to return.

The bar is at the front, and you can have the full menu as well as the bar snacks. At the back is a dining room. I think we arrived at 7pm, with twenty minutes or so it was full. A noticeably young crowd, compared to many restaurants.

We both started with mussels in cider, and were very pleased. Mussels aren't that hard to do, and handy for restaurants because they're so quick. But so many places get them wrong. These were cooked just right, juicy and succulent. Good ingredients.

 

I followed with a fish pie. This was reasonably good. It was packed with salmon, and I'm pretty certain it was farmed. It could possibly have contained a greater variety of fish, although the clam decoration was a nice touch. The mash was well done, smooth but with a crunchy top. However, the portion was far too big, even for me, and I rarely have problems tucking things away. And serving it in a metal dish was a big mistake, because it never got a proper chance to cool down to a temperature where you could eat it properly. It was, overall, veering to the slightly too salty. (Note, I have a slight aversion to salt. Note further, this does not affect my ability to enjoy eg salt-caramel, or butter sprinkled with sea salt). 

This photo adds no further info but I like it as a work of art!

Jimmy went for the catch of the day, which on that day was John Dory. He was not impressed. I don't think he'd ever had John Dory before. I'm not sure I'd even heard of it until a couple of years ago. The bones: flesh ratio isn't satisfactory. Additionally, the menu hadn't made clear he should have ordered a side dish, too. It did come with a horseradish type sauce, which he thought was horrible. He noticed the woman on the next table also abandoned her horseradish and was struggling with the bones:flesh ratio. To be honest, I'm surprised he ordered it: there were other dishes on the menu I'd have thought were more him.

We finished with pudding. Again, he chose ice-cream, and again was disappointed. He ordered three scoops, which isn't clear in this photo. Each scoop came in a separate jar. I thought that was a bit gimmicky. One was described as mint, but didn't really have a mint flavour. The others had beguiling flavour-titles, and he confirmed that they tasted all right. But he didn't rate the quality of the ice cream. I think he has finally realised - ably abetted by his new favourite place, Nardulli by Clapham Common - that if you want decent ice cream, don't order it in restaurants.

 

 

 

 

My pudding was blackcurrant jelly, shortbread and clotted cream, which, all things considered, is a perfect little pudding. Everything just right, and so beautifully presented. The shortbread was delicate and mouth-melty. the jelly was the right balance between sweet and sharp. And who can resist clotted cream?

I would go back to Bistro Union again, but I think Jimmy would need some persuading. He feels that - setting aside alcohol prices (and he only had two glasses of wine because he was driving) - it's no cheaper than Trinity. The food is aimed to be more 'cheerful', not 'fine dining' and the service was less formal - although very good.

I've looked at a few 'professional' reviews. Once you've waded through the hackneyed 'I didn't know restaurants existed south of the Thames' crap, or describing Abbeville Road as a 'backstreet', (which suggests the 'professional' critics know less than they think), they seem to concluded that there are some real strengths in the place but also some weaknesses. I hope - and assume - that as a new place, they can address the weaknesses, because, Jimmy's reaction aside, I think it has a lot of promise. And seems like a breath of fresh air.

whatiate-whaticooked

All the Food I Eat

no kitchen orphan

Mid decade June photos

I went right off photography in the spring and summer of 2004. I was on long term sick at the time. I took only a few decent photos in June that year.

I'm not entirely sure what happened in June 2005. I took many photos of a family party but they are of little interest to anyone not related and I imagine that some of the relatives would be miffed if I stuck the photos up here. A small selection are on the 'Book (for those relatives I haven't blocked on the 'Book).

I don't even have a folder for June 2006, somewhat confounding my prior assumption that June would be a photo-rich month, marking the transition from Spring into Summer.

In June 2007, we went to Trooping the Colour. I took loads of photos:

Lots more in my Trooping the Colour album

We also went on an open top bus tour of London, which, as an experience was a bit mixed, but did afford the opportunity for lots of photographs.

Lots more in my massive London album - start at Westminster Abbey and keeping pressing 'previous', until you get bored.

Then there were the perennial garden photos eg

To be honest, the best way to enjoy my garden photos is to come round and see them live. 

Nunhead Cemetery

"Perhaps the least known, but most attractive, of the great Victorian Cemeteries of London. Consecrated in 1840, it is one of the seven great Victorian cemeteries established in a ring around the outskirts of London. It contains examples of the magnificent monuments erected in memory of the most eminent citizens of the day, which contrast sharply with the small, simple headstones marking common, or public, burials. Its formal avenue of towering limes and the Gothic gloom of the original Victorian planting gives way to paths which recall the country lanes of a bygone era."

That from the Friends of Nunhead Cemetery website. Wikipedia says

Nunhead Cemetery is one of the Magnificent Seven cemeteries in London, England. It is perhaps the least famous and celebrated of them

It features in Section 11 of the Green Chain

We went in, randomly and unplanned, having spotted it as we were passing. Really very different from how I imagine cemeteries to be. What a nice place to visit, and what a lovely place to walk around. The Gothic menace from outside belies the tranquility and splendour of an overgrown nature reserve, replete with graves and mausoleums in disrepair. It was opened in 1840, but by the middle of the last century the cemetery was nearly full.  A lack of care and cash surrendered the graves to the ravages of nature and vandalism, and it was not until the early 1980s that a group emerged to champion the graveyard.

Entering from the parking layby on Linden Grove, you walk up a short drive lined with aging gravestones and monuments, including one in Braille from 1876

 

 At the end of the drive is an Anglican chapel, once obviously grandiose, now a haunting shell - it fell victim to arson in the 1970s, and was partially restored with funding from the Lottery and Southwark Council.

 

 So many interesting graves, from different eras. Interesting to think of the stories behind them. There's a Moslem section. This commemorates a Mathematician and Mother.

The story of the 2nd Walworth Scouts, drowned almost a hundred years ago is a sad tale.

 At 4am they set off and were in sight of the camp when, 2 miles off the coast, a sudden gale caught them and the boat capsized. The local lifeboat was launched and found a shocking scene. 

Due to several acts of selfless heroism ,especially by their Scoutmaster Sydney Marsh, many lives were saved. But 8 scouts and Frank Masters from the training ship Arethusa had drowned. 

1 million people watched as the coffins, draped in Union Jacks and Scouts staves entwined with flowers, passed by on their way to Nunhead Cemetery

 Copied from the Daily Express

"This was the generation that, just a couple of years after the boys' funeral, would become numbed by the deaths of millions of boys not much older, than these lads in the trenches of the First World War.

The best explanation is that these boys represented something special, the real effort that was being made at that time to make life better for boys like these, to give them the opportunities and unlock the potential that was often buried by the poverty of their families.

To have a tragedy like this happen at the very moment when they and their Scoutmaster were doing their best to make something of themselves touched the national consciousness very deeply."...

...Another family lost their 12-year-old boy, William, who was a talented scholar. His family were devastated, but their two other boys came home. They were John and Edward Beckham. If Edward had not been saved his great-grandson - England football captain David - would never have been born:

I was touched by the sight of the commonwealth War Graves. Young men - boys - who had travelled from South Africa, Australia and New Zealand to fight someone else's war.

 

I was particularly struck by Private Hovell (and the internet suggests I am not alone)

It was a pointless enough war for my English working- and middle-class ancestors and relatives. More so for the Empire descendants of Brits. But for Private Hovell - why did an 18 year old Maori boy get slaughtered in the petty squabbles of the European ruling class, who woud not normally have given him the time of day?

With thanks to @DavidUnderdown9, we can know a little more about Private Hovell.

The New Zealand (Māori) Pioneer Battalionwas first raised in 1915 and served at Gallipoli and the Western Front and largely served as pioneers. "Of these by the end of the war, 2227 Maori and 458 Pacific Islanders had served in what became known as the Maori Pioneer Battalion. Of these, 336 died on active service and 734 were wounded. Other Maori enlisted (and died) in other battalions as well."

He served at Gallipoli and disembarked in Malta on 30 September 'slightly sick' and died of thigh wounds on 20 October. He appears to have died in King George's hospital on Stamford Street. There is a conflicting report that he died en route from Gallipoli, but David says, if so, he would have been buried at sea.

NZ casualties highest as % of population of any British Empire force. With memories of Maori wars fresh, many in authority did not  want to arm and train Maori, in WWI they served as pioneers. Maori Units of the NZEF

Scarletfinders website run by very useful for understanding medical side of war

See Auckland Museum for background on Pte Hovell, and link to digitised service record. He was one of the original Native Contgt

his individual CWGC record

Kiwis and Aussies easiest to research, all their records survive and largely digitised. UK records 60-70% destroyed by Luftwaffe

looks like he lied about his age. Record states born 28/1/1895, which would have made him 20. Grave says 18 (details from family)

looks like 16/548 Charles Harry Pirika Hovell was his brother - survived with rank of Sgt, and Mentioned in Despatches. Record not dig

I don't know what he died for. I wonder if he knew what he was fighting for.

Another grave that drew my attention was Siegfried Reihl. He died in 1918 aged 21. To me, the name seems German, although perhaps no more so than the great English war poet Siegfried Sassoon, who was named for his mother's love of Wagner.

 

 

 

 

All visitors to Nunhead seem to love the grave of Calvin G Simpson, a rare actor. He seems to have appeared in an episode of The Bill.

We walked past more graves, old and new:

 

and came to an avenue of mausoeums. All of them showed signs of damage. I wondered whether it was the result of subsidence, but Jummy said they had all been broken into. Perhaps when the cemetery lay derelict, or maybe decades ago.

 

 

 

 

At the end of the circuit, close to the entrance, is the monument to the Scottish Martyrs

This is a memorial to five men, three of them English, who were imprisoned for campaigning for parliamentary reform in the late 18th century under the influence of the ideals of the French Revolution. The five were accused of sedition in a series of trials and transported to Australia in 1794 and 1795. The Wikipedia article describes the monument on Calton Hill in Edinburgh but states "In February 1852, a second Monument, initiated by Hume, to the Scottish Political Martyrs was unveiled at Nunhead Cemetery, London. This monument stands at 33 feet high."

A little more on Transpontine blog

More blogposts:

Nothing to see here

Londoneer

The delightfully dead Nunhead Cemetery is buried alive

James's posterous

the pen, the brush and the needle

London is cool

Flickr Group

June 2003

In late May 2003 my house was burgled, which was an unnerving experience. The silver lining in the cloud was that the scrote stole my basic point-and-shoot camera. I had been umming and erring for months about whether to upgrade. With my hand forced, I did. I bought a Canon G3, which almost literally changed my life. A lovely camera which unfortunately developed a mechanical problem with the zoom a couple of years ago. I replaced it with its successor, the Canon G11, which has more features but just isn't as good.

In the first month I shot a great number of photos. They are mainly of no consequence, some are pretty poor, but there are some I'm really quite fond of. Some of them I'd compose differently nowadays, but I'm not sure that would be an improvement. Sometimes raw instinct works better than thinking too deeply about theory.

We went for a walk in Dulwich Park and realised they had a fair on:

On one particularly hot Sunday, we walked from Richmond to Kew, and caught a boat back to Westminster.

Chez Bruce

Chez Bruce gets consistently high praise from both the professional critics and from normal people who pay for their meals. It's not very far from us, although easier to reach by bike than by public transport. And who wants to bike home from a nice restaurant? Even so, it's just a couple of stations along the railway line.  They do an excellent irresistible lunch offer. We had wanted to book for about 1pm or 1.30pm, but by the time we rang a week beforehand, it was either noon or the tail-end of service. So we actually arrived to an empty restaurant, where the staff apologised that they were running late and said they were still printing the menu!

I had a mixed reaction to that. On the one hand, if I'm obliged to arrive at noon, I sort of expect them to be punctual, too. But it's such a small thing to be churlish about. Far better, too, that they are still printing the day's menu, than handing you a sauce encrusted one unchanged for decades.

I started with salmon tartare with oyster, herb and grapefruit vinaigrette, avocado and crème fraîche. It seemed a bit odd to stress the contents of the vinaigrette, which wasn't really a feature of the dish, when there were all these other lovely ingredients. I have no complaints about the dish, which I think epitomised the restaurant. Very good quality food, prepared and presented with utmost skill and professionalism. I'm tempted to write 'very conservative' but that would imply 'dated', which, actually it isn't. I suppose like classic tailoring which claims to be timeless, although it isn't. There was no wow factor in the dish; all of it was good. Jimmy liked his deep fried lamb sweetbreads with sauce gribiche -  a mayonnaise with cucumber, capers and herbs.

My main course was halibut fillet with buttered spring vegetables, basil velouté and potato gnocchi. Velouté is stock thickened by a roux. (I realise everyone else knows these things, but I'm a bit clueless in the technical terms of classic French cooking; it's about time I learned!). again, absolutely perfectly cooked and presented with ingredients that were fresh and of the highest quality. I couldn't fault it. The gnocchi surprised me. It's not something I'd normally go for, having had some ghastly doughy versions from supermarket. These were closer to fondant potatoes and worked better than I expected. And the veg were just so tender. The sauce was a bigger feature than for the starter, but even so, it was more to provide a connection between the other elements than being a feature in itself. Jimmy liked his cornfed chicken with liver stuffing, tarragon relish, lemon and artichoke, his main criticism being of the unfortunate coincidence of having tarragon as a strong flavour in both starter and main.

We both finished with crème brûlée which was divine. I am somewhat of a connoisseur of this dish, and variations on it, and this was up there with the best. the best, as it happens, is mine, but this was a damn fine close second. No gimmicks, no fuss, no tarting it up. A back-to-basics burnt cream. Pity it didn't photograph as well as I had hoped.

In addition to the dishes discussed, there were several trimmings - parmesan biscuits to start with, a nice selection of fresh rolls. Some shortbread, almost as good as mine, and several chocolate truffles with coffee.

It is clear from the outset that Chez Bruce is a conservative place to dine. Conservative décor, with old-fashioned half-curtains in the window. But also conservative, restrained, appropriate, professional service, not without warmth and charm. It has a Michelin star, which I wasn't aware of when we visited. Different from such restaurants depicted on Masterchef and similar TV programmes, where creativity goes beyond innovation into fussiness - often irritatingly - and sometimes sheer lunacy. Classic food presented in a classic way. There is a modern twist, and it's subtle, not showy. At lunchtime it would compete on price alone - let alone quality - with the better chains. The evening prices seem far from eye-watering, although, like anywhere, one can only afford up to the limit of one's disposable income.

I had been anxious before that I may be inappropriately dressed, especially on a day that was no longer winter but couldn't be sure it was summer either. In the event, I was being silly. Yes, there were Wandsworth Ladies Who Lunch in their acrylic cardigans, flowery skirts and silken hair. And there were two-bottle-men of a certain age who, if they weren't wearing red trousers, ought to have been. Then there were the well-dressed parents with their ill-fitting jeans-wearing slouchy student sons. Some women who were clearly very nice and for whom the adjective 'chav' is more a statement of fact than an insult. As usual, I eventually realised that 'neat and clean and basic good manners' is all that most businesses require from customers paying their wages.

We liked it so much, we have booked to return!

Pictures from the past

I thought I'd start doing this, at least through the summer. Posting some photos from years gone by. And, as it's early June, I'll post a few from June in years gone by.  

I initially thought I would devote this blogpost to the 'pre-digital age', in other words, photos taken on film and subsequently scanned in. 

But until the mid-90s pretty much all the photos I took in June were of parties. In other words of people. Very important to me, really good memories of good times. But not that interesting to others who weren't at the parties or who don't know those in the photos. Also, I think a bit awkward to publish photos from twenty years ago of people generally being quite drunk who wouldn't know or guess those pictures would be on the internet.

I've realised that film wasn't a good medium for a clueless amateur like me to take pictures of 'things' - landscapes, cityscapes. The preview/review screen is such a wonderful tool. I've learnt a lot from putting pictures on the PC and analysing and post-processing. I'm not afraid to put pre-digital pictures on the blog - see the sidebar - but I've found, anyway, that the pictures that look best on photo-paper don't always look that good digitally. 

In June 2002, we had a staff event at the Tower of London. Pissed it down in the morning - deterred the tourists - then brightened up in time for our extended lunch break.

  

  

These photos were from two cameras ago, a very basic Fuji point-and-shoot. I took just over 20 photos for the whole day, mainly of colleagues, which, of course, I won't blog. I've recently walked past the Tower, twice, and, in due course, will blog the highlights of those walks. But I have almost 600 photos waiting to be blogged (on a highlights basis, obviously!).

My album of London photos currently contains over 500

Nonsuch

We had limited occasional access to a car and therefore I was under instructions to plan a trip out. The brief was only implied, but I understood it to be, somewhere we haven't been before, and not an epic long day. Somewhat randomly, I selected Nonsuch. Green, just outside London, and Historic. Also, I liked the name. Possibly because of the irony:

Nonsuch Palace in Surrey was perhaps the grandest of Henry VIII's building projects. Work started on 22 April 1538...Within two months the name 'Nonsuch' appears in the building accounts, so called because it was claimed there was no such palace elsewhere equal to its magnificence...

...It returned to royal hands in the 1590s, and remained royal property until 1670, when Charles II gave it to his mistress, Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine. She had it pulled down around 1682–3 and sold off the building materials to pay gambling debts.

So, there is no such Palace as Nonsuch, although there is a sizable park and an 18th century mansion, which is Grade II listed.

At the time we visited, I was mulling over my blogpost about preserving historic buildings. I was thinking along the lines of - if there had been 'listing' in the 17th century, this Nonsuch Palace would have been preserved, for the nation. I had a vision that the disappeared palace with a silly name had some mythical ethereal status, and that a visit would be akin almost to a pilgrimage. 

In the event, it was nothing of the sort. It's a local authority park that currently appears to be well maintained. But it's really rather dull. The drive out was tedious. Stuck in traffic from Tooting Bec to Colliers Wood, we eventually hit one of those strange 1930s arterial roads, each one indistinguishable from the others, with their identikit clusters of shops that have seen better days. Every drive along one seems like a ghostly reminder of an otherwise forgotten drive along a different one in times past.

As we approached the park, the locality took on a distinctly twee mock-Tudor veneer. Roads with names like 'Tudor Drive' and 'Offwiththeirhead Avenue'. An ultra-modern retirement home complex styled to look like generic Tudorbethan.

The highlight was a brief stop in a pub called The Harrow. Although part of a big pubco chain, nevertheless it was a pleasant place to stop, and although the food was, presumably, nuked straight from the freezer, I've had worse - a lot worse, and often.

We spent a short time in the formal garden at Nonsuch, but it was not memorable. Just a local authority tended garden, next to a mansion of no real significance that's let out for weddings and functions. It became clear early on that the formal gardens double as a children's play area, so we didn't linger long, and went for a stroll up the hill through open fields of little interest. I have read that there is a wide variety of bird life there, of considerable interest to many people, but only fleeting interest to me. We soon discovered that the open fields were where teenagers went to do primal scream therapy. It was a far from relaxing, restorative day out to some other local authority's municipal park and a bit of a waste of time.

 

 

I wonder whether Nonsuch Palace was worth saving for the nation? Henry VIII only visited it three times. Should the village and monastery destroyed to make way for it have been preserved, too? Perhaps the fascination with the Palace that disappeared are more important lessons to history, about the arrogance and omnipotence of a brutal King. Some historic buildings are interesting in themselves. Conversely, if we insist on saving everything that is 'historic' ie old, we continue to live in the past, arguably repeat the mistakes of the past, and become too scared to innovate in case we destroy something of little value.

The Fish Place, Battersea

We cycled past The Fish Place when we were exploring Greater Battersea. We weren't dressed for a proper restaurant, we don't like to cycle after a big meal (and wine), and we had food at home. We liked the look of the menu, though, so took a business card. 

The weather was forecast to be dull when we booked Sunday Lunch, but we didn't know it would be quite so dreary, grey, wet and depressing. The maitre d' said they had had a couple of weather-related cancellations. The restaurant was almost empty when we dined at 2pm. Consequently, of course, there was no atmosphere. I was surprised it was so empty for Sunday lunchtime; perhaps it's busier in the evening. It's a lovely riverside location, with an outside terrace, which, obviously, wasn't open in the dreich. I hope it is busy when the sun shines, because such a good restaurant deserves to prosper, but couldn't, if two couples for late Sunday lunch is as busy as it gets.

 So, the criticism is over and done with. There's lot to praise. I like the decor, because it's clean and crisp and reflects its riverside location. The tableware was clinical. An overall impression of sleekness and attention to detail. My slight hesitation is that it may look dated fairly quickly - it's been open a couple of years. I tend to prefer a more relaxed or quirky decor - I've been to lovely restaurants with bicycles or plastic crabbing buckets suspended from the ceilings. But it's relaxing and unfussy.

 

I started with a Crab tortellini in a seafood bisque. A generous portion for a starter. A good balance of flavours - the strong flavour of the bisque not too strong to bury the crab; the pasta sufficiently thin and cooked just right.

We were then presented with an elderflower sorbet. I gather from the internet that they usually  present a sorbet in between courses. It seemed a quaint tradition I remember being quite widespread twenty years ago. I have subsequently been to more places offering an inter-course palette cleanser. Perhaps it is back on-trend. It was just the trick. Also, Jimmy normally hates sorbet because they are usually too acidic. This was an exception that he appreciated. We made a mental note. Elderflower sorbet - cleanses the palette.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My main course arrived. It was wild sea bass with clam risotto. It was a perfectly satisfactory dish. As you can see from the photo it was beautifully presented. Under the fish is potato and, if I recall correctly, spinach. The yellow, which doesn't photograph well, is buerre blanc, which is lovely. I'm not sure what to conclude about a dish such as this, which is a faultless preparation and presentation of good ingredients intelligently designed, but, really, not that memorable. That's actually, for me, pretty high praise, but it does seem conservative. And, ultimately,  I'm pretty sure that without the photo and without Twitter I would have quite forgotten it. 

Jimmy had roast beef with trimmings, including Yorkshire pudding. The Yorkshire was done perfectly; the beef was obviously a good cut, roasted perfectly (not like a boiled beef he had recently for a Sunday 'roast'). Indeed, I think he ruled it the best roast dinner he's had for a very long time!

We also liked the plates and briefly considered stealing them. We lack very large dinner plates at home and end up cramming stuff onto out-of-fashion plates I got in the 90s. Obviously, we don't steal plates from restaurants!

After a suitable pause, we both ordered chocolate fondant with Madagascan Vanilla ice cream. The ice cream met Jimmy's exacting standard, although I felt I'd had better. The chocolate fondant was exceptional, with a strong taste of - presumably - good quality chocolate, and a deliciously oozing centre, as it should be. 

I think the Fish Place has a lot going for it. The process for getting us seated and settled seemed over-fussy, and I was slightly nervous that under-occupied staff would want our company in an empty restaurant to ease their boredom. But this didn't happen - they were highly professional.

Miraculously, the sun broke through the clouds, and there was an increase in activity on the river and its bank. I would imagine that, on a nicer day, a window or terrace seat would provide endless variety. 

Unless you live near by, or happen to have a helicopter you can land at the heliport next door, it's not that easy to get to. A bit of a walk from Clapham Junction and across the busy York Road. York Road is well enough served by buses, but we found it a tedious trawl down through heavy traffic from Queenstown Rd, less so when returning. I guess the best way to reach is via the Thames Path. We will definite return on another occasion.

Other bloggers:

holdtheanchoviesplease

Cheese and Biscuits

Thoroughly Modern Milly

Greedy Diva

Campari & Soda

A Lady in London

Musings of a W8 Housewife

Grumblings from a Greedy Girl