A London Inheritance
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I am proud to present these extracts from A LONDON INHERITANCE, a private history of a public city by a graduate of my blog writing course who has been publishing regularly for nine and a half years. The author inherited a series of old photographs of London from his father and by tracing them, he discovers the changes in the city.
I am now taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on November 25th & 26th.
Come to Spitalfields and spend a weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, all catered by Townhouse, and learn how to write your own blog.
If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.
My father’s photograph from 1952
My photograph of the same view today
IN WATNEY MARKET & WATNEY ST, SHADWELL
In my father’s photo of 1952, the slogan “No Arms For Nazis” painted on the wall represented a concern about the level of Nazi sympathies still remaining in Germany in the aftermath of WWII. It was taken from the bombed site once occupied by a church, looking southwest towards the Masons Arms which faced onto Watney St and Watney Market.
In 1953, the US government undertook a survey which revealed residual undercurrents of Nazism in Germany needed to be taken seriously. It was claimed the growth of “nationalistic discontent among young men is ominous”. There was mass unemployment in Germany and economic grievances were intensified by the numbers of refugees from Eastern Europe.
This slogan “No Arms For Nazis”appeared at many sites in London and across the country, and the East Kent Times reported that in Ramsgate “Motorists and residents were startled to see on the parapet of the viaduct, high above the main Margate Road, the words ‘No Arms For Nazis’ painted in large white capitals.”
The southern end of Watney St meets Cable St, well known as the scene of the famous battle in 1936, when there were clashes between the Police, anti-fascists and the British Union of Fascists led by Oswald Mosley, who were attempting to march through the area.
In the thirties, this area was the scene of regular provocation of the Jewish community by members of fascist organisations. Watney St and Watney Market frequently appeared in newspaper reports of these events. On 30th of May 1936, the City & East London Observer carried a report titled “Fascists in Watney St.”
“There was great excitement among the many shoppers and stallholders in Watney Ston Sunday morning when about a dozen Blackshirts paraded up and down the market selling Fascist newspapers amid cries of ‘More Stalls for Englishmen’, ‘Foreigners Last and Nowhere’, while from another section of the crowd there were cries of ‘Blackshirt Thugs’, ‘Rats’, etc.
A great crowd gathered, and a Jewish girl, going up to one of the Blackshirts, bought a paper, tore it to pieces and stamped on the fragments. After this the police took a hand but they found it very difficult to keep the crowd on the move owing to the barrows in the market. Somebody picked up a cucumber from one of the stalls, but was prevented from throwing it at a Blackshirt.
A surprising number of the people present appeared to be in sympathy with the Blackshirts. The Blackshirts are, it is believed, about to open a branch in Stepney.”
A few months later, in July 1936, it was reported that the market place in Watney St “seems to be the chief hunting ground for Blackshirts selling their propaganda, who, according to reports, do their best to encourage hatred of the Jewish community.”
Many of the traders in the market were concerned about the lack of action from the authorities, and “rightly or wrongly, are of the opinion that the police are pro-Fascist”.
The traders were concerned that the Blackshirts were having a negative impact on their trade. Their actions and language put off many of the customers of the market, so when they arrived many of the traders packed up and left too. This all came to a head at the Battle of Cable St on 4th October.
AT CLOAK LANE POLICE STATION
When I walked along Cloak Lane in the City a couple of weeks ago, I noticed this foundation stone on the corner laid by a Deputy Chairman of the Police Committee.
Plainly decorated and mainly brick with stone cladding on the ground floor, the building still projects a strong, functional image but the foundation stone is now the only reminder that this was built for the City of London Police and opened as Cloak Lane Police Station.
I cannot find the exact date when the new station opened, however it appears to have been built quickly since by 1886 newspapers were carrying reports about events there, including what must have been a most unusual use for the new police station.
“AN ADDER CAUGHT IN A LONDON STREET. There is now to be seen at the Police Station, Cloak Lane, City, an adder, about 15 inches long, which was seen in Cannon Street a morning or two ago basking in the sun on the foot pavement, although large numbers of persons were passing to and fro at the time.
A constable’s attention was drawn to the strange sight, and he managed to get it into a box and take it to the station. It is conjectured that it must have been inadvertently conveyed to town in some bale or other package of goods. The creature, which is pronounced to be a fine specimen, has been visited by large numbers of persons.”
I could not find any record of what happened to the adder after its appearance at Cloak Lane police station.
The River Thames features in a number of events that involved Cloak Lane police station. These often involved tragedy, due to the nature of police work and the dangers of the river, such as in April 1924:
“POLICEMAN VANISHES – BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN BLOWN INTO THE THAMES. Police Constable Albert Condery is believed to have met with a tragic death by being blown into the Thames during a storm last night.
It is learned that Condery, who has been in the City Police Force for 20 years, left Cloak Lane Police Station last night to go on duty at Billingsgate Market. He was seen there by the sergeant, but later he was missed, and his helmet was found floating on the Thames near the market. The body has not been recovered.”
There were many strange events across the City. In November 1902, papers had the headline “EXTRAORDINARY AFFAIR AT BANK OF ENGLAND – ATTEMPT TO SHOOT THE SECRETARY. A sensation was caused in the Bank of England yesterday by the firing of a revolver by a young man who had entered the library. As he seemed about to continue his firing indiscriminately the officials overpowered and disarmed him. The police were called in, and he was removed to the Cloak Lane Police Station.”
He was unknown by anyone in the Bank of England and whilst at Cloak Lane, he was examined by a Doctor, who came up with the diagnosis that “the man’s mind had given way at the time”.
The very last report mentioning Cloak Lane Police Station was from December 1965 when an article titled “Foolish Driver in The City” . He was arrested on suspicion of being drunk and taken to Cloak Lane Police Station, where he “had to be supported by two officers because he was unsteady on his feet”. And so ended eighty years of policing from Cloak Lane.
The Oxford Sausage
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I am proud to publish these extracts from THE OXFORD SAUSAGE by a graduate of last spring’s blog writing course. The author set out to write a spicy mix of Oxford stories from a house once belonging to a city sausage maker.
I am now taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on November 25th & 26th. Come to Spitalfields and spend a weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, all catered by Townhouse, and learn how to write your own blog. Click here for details
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In 1785
Today
THE OLDEST TREE IN OXFORD
In truth, I do have a bit of a soft spot for the yew tree. And therefore on a bright, sunny day this week I made a pilgrimage in its honour. I wanted to pay homage to this age-old tree. And I knew just the place to go.
Yews have lifespans of up to 3,000 years. In fact it must live to be at least 900 years before it can be considered ancient. In order to see one like that, I am told by the gardener at the Oxford Botanic Garden, I must head to St Mary’s Church in Iffley. That is where I will find Oxford’s oldest tree.
You can cycle all the way to Iffley along the river, whose banks at this time of year are high with Himalayan balsam and meadowsweet. It may be just under two miles from Carfax tower but I fancy I am off on a trip to the country. Though Iffley now forms part of the city’s suburban sprawl, it still calls itself a village and its pretty cottages and local shop make it feel that way.
Across the water at Iffley Lock and up the hill and you find yourself in the churchyard of the Romanesque church of St Mary the Virgin. It has six yew trees in its grounds but there is no mistaking the one I have come to see. It is a giant amongst its kind, its top dwarfing the tower, its massive branches reaching wide, and then bending over to hide ivy-clad monuments and gravestones, its inner shelter dappled in sunlight. There you can see that the trunk is hollow, its bark rust red, furrowed and covered with large knots and nodules. But there is still a vigorous growth of evergreen needle like leaves that are laden with berries.
This one is thought to be over 1600 years old, so more than double the age of St Mary’s which was built around 1170. The church was almost certainly erected on a site of pre-Christian worship – druids considered the evergreen sacred – and there are references to pagan imagery on the building’s southern doorway in the form of carvings of centaurs, beak heads and the green man.
But there are more practical reasons for its inclusion as well. The yew’s poisonous berries prevented people grazing their livestock on church land. And its strong, flexible wood was perfect for making longbows, a stalwart of medieval weaponry. After 1252 it was mandatory for everyone to engage in archery practice, so great was the need for bowmen.
It is awe inspiring to think that the magnificent tree here ‘must have been full-grown long before the first Oxford spire was raised in the vale below’ – so reads an entry in Chambers Journal written in 1892. Here it is described as ‘an ancient tree, whose furrowed half-prostrate trunk seems ‘weary worn with care’, and as we stand beside its bending form, a feeling of sympathy, akin to that which we extend to a fellow human being stooping low with a load of years, rises within us.’ Hurrah to that, and here’s to another thousand years.
Lewis Carroll is thought to have often visited St Mary’s, Iffley, and it is said that this drawing he made for ‘Alice’s Adventures Underground’ was inspired by the great yew.
THE STONE SAINTS’ RETIREMENT HOME
Antonia Hockton has been coming to New College twice a year for twenty-six years. She arrives as the students leave for the long vacation. For this is when her work as a stone conservator with the many statues, memorials and monuments can be undertaken without interruption. And so it is, late in the summer that I have managed to catch up with her. I wanted to find out more about her ancient profession. But I was also interested in a particular set of statues that once stood overlooking the city at the foot of the spire of the University Church of St Mary the Virgin. Replaced at the end of the nineteenth century, after languishing in the basement, they were bought here to New College fo rehabilitation.
I came across them when, after attending evensong in the chapel, I had taken a wrong turn. I found myself in the fourteenth century cloisters. There was no lighting and, despite only a gentle breeze, the rafters seemed to move and creak. Feeling spooked, I was just turning to go when a shaft of moonlight, hidden before by a cloud, illuminated the face of what looked like a seven foot giant. And there were nine more of these huge stone figures, some with staffs, others with croziers, crosses and mitres. They were arranged as sentinels on the corners and along the aisles of the covered walkways. I was totally smitten.
Returning in the daylight they have a gentler presence. Here are the saints of their day, St Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, St John the Baptist wearing a wool shirt, St Hugh with his tame swan, St Edward the Confessor and St Cedd. Also, St Mary the Virgin with baby Jesus, St William of York, St David, St Thomas à Becket and St Cuthbert holding the head of St Oswald. ‘They’ve become like old friends,’ explains Antonia, as she takes a break to introduce them. ‘I think it must be their stance. They are like biblical soldiers. I feel they are protecting me.’
These are not the original fourteenth century statues, which was when, according to Antonia, ‘the level of skill amongst stonemasons was at its peak.’ When Victorian architect TG Jackson took them down in 1896 to install these reproductions by George Frampton (famous for his Peter Pan statue in Hyde Park), his report was damning. Centuries of inclement weather, bad patching with totally inappropriate materials, and several inferior replacements had – he claimed – made them and much of the masonry a public hazard. There were finials and crockets that had fallen from above, piled around the church. Jackdaws had made nests behind the saints’ hollow backs, their once wooden croziers had rotted away and the metal bars that held them in place were completely rusted. On Sunday March 17th 1889, there was ‘serious alarm caused by the fall of the face of one of the statues close to the north door of the church, just after the congregation had entered for the University Sermon.’
‘There were bits missing and they were pitch black,’ remembers Antonia when, after a century of neglect, she was commissioned to perform her magic. Apprenticed at Lincoln Cathedral, working with stone was something she had always wanted to do. ‘Way back in my ancestry on my mother’s side there were French stonemasons ,’ she explains as we pause to admire the figure of St Cedd, her very first patient all those years ago. ‘Stonemasons were always journeymen, going from building to building, just as I still do. And I believe they came from France to the West Country and then one came up to the Midlands where I am from, where they happened to meet my great grandmum. Some of his work can still be seen on the Coventry Town Hall. ’
Dexterity and patience are the most important requirement for the job. A steady hand is essential too because a slip of the wrist could ruin months of work. What Antonia is doing is sympathetic restoration. ‘I was asked to put features back to how they would have looked,’ she explains in front of an imposing St Mary and a rather grumpy Christ child. Both have alarmingly large, out-of-proportion heads – apparently so when seen high up on the church they did not look too small. ‘For this one, I had to put a whole new head on the baby,’ she smiles. ‘People have said to me, ‘Couldn’t you have made him a bit prettier?’ but I had been given photographs from Jackson’s time as reference, so I can’t put my personality in really.’
When the statues were first carved, the stone came from local quarries, no longer extant. The belt of limestone is still there, running down from Lincolnshire, snaking across Oxfordshire and then under the channel to Northern France. As there was not enough height in these beds of stone to make the tall stature needed, they had to either be carved in sections or by what is known as ‘off the bed’. This is when they turn the block upward so the layers are stood on end. But this creates a vulnerability which explains the deterioration of the pieces. It was rain seeping in through the head that caused the face of that archbishop to fall off.
Antonia uses lime mortar to mould the shape. ‘It’s the same components as the blocks in the wall behind are made of,’ she says of the warm stone used to build the new college founded by William of Wykeham in 1379. ‘It’s just the seabed really. The bones of millions and millions of sea creatures. It’s amazing to think we dig something out of the earth that was once miles under the sea and carve it.’
Next to her stands St Hugh of Lincoln, the place where her work first started. He is my favourite figure, lovingly caressing the neck of his pet swan. And as I take my leave I cannot help but feel they both look serene and happy. St Hugh in his retirement with Antonia at hand should he require attention.
St Cedd, before and after
St Thomas à Becket
St Patrick, patron saint of Ireland
St William of York
St John the Baptist
St Hugh with his pet swan
St Edward the Confessor
St David, patron saint of Wales
Bug Woman London
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I am proud to publish these extracts from BUG WOMAN LONDON – a graduate of my blog writing course who has been publishing posts online for nearly ten years now. The author set out to explore our relationship with the natural world in the urban environment, yet her subject matter has expanded in all kinds of ways. Follow BUG WOMAN LONDON, because a community is more than just people
I am now taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on November 25th & 26th. Come to Spitalfields and spend a weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, all catered by Townhouse, and learn how to write your own blog. Click here for details
If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.
THE OWLS’ DUET
Dear Readers, there is something magical about owls and they are often nearer to us than we think. The two chicks above were photographed in Kensington Gardens, of all places, and there are Little Owls there too. And there are Tawny Owls in both of our local cemeteries (St Pancras and Islington and East Finchley) and probably in Coldfall Wood too.
The prime time for owl ‘conversations’ is in the spring, but there is something particularly spine-chilling about hearing them at this time of year, as the nights draw in and Halloween approaches. Of course, for the owls themselves the calls are many things, but mostly they are a way of helping the male and female owls to establish their territories in preparation for the spring breeding season. The ‘tu-whit, tu-whoo’ call is the two owls duetting, and typically it’s thought that the ‘tu-whit’ is the female’s soliciting call, the ‘tu-whoo’ part the male answering.
However, I learnt that male owls can also make the ‘tu-whit’ call (though at a lower pitch than the female does), and both sexes can answer. Which just goes to show that just when I think I have something about the natural world nailed down, it turns out to be more complicated which is a source of some pleasure.
Owls can tell a lot from one another’s calls, not just the sex of the caller but their size, weight, health and level of aggression. These are all important factors in choosing a mate. Will they be able to defend and hold a territory? Are they good hunters? Males with the highest levels of testosterone call more frequently and for longer, and this is often related to the size and quality of their territories.
The combination of the two owl ‘voices’ is a signal to other owls that the partnership is working, and that they are cooperating in defending their territories. It is hard work providing for owlets, so this teamwork is essential.
Although the cry of the owl has been seen as a harbinger of doom since before Shakespeare’s time, for me it signals that something in the ecosystem is working. If it can support two tawny owls, then the rest of the food chain is likely to also be relatively healthy.
The woods at night are an interesting soundscape but note that at this time of year you are most likely to hear the owls just after sunset, rather than at the dead of night. It is definitely worth going for a dusk walk, just to see what you can hear and see.
THE SAD STORY OF THE COMMUNITY VOLE
Dear Readers, I was rushing off to a meeting when I was stopped in my tracks by this little rodent all alone in the middle of the pavement. What on earth was s/he? With those tiny ears it was not a mouse and I wondered for a second if s/he was an escaped gerbil but then it clicked. I was looking at an East Finchley bank vole.
Two young women popped out from the house and we all looked at the vole. I was worried because you would never normally get this close to a wild rodent, bank voles are very skittish and can climb trees and shrubs. My Guide to British Mammals says that they ‘walk and run, often in quick stop-start dashes’, but not this one.
“Do either of you girls have a box?” I asked. I knew that the vole would get eaten by a cat or pecked to death by a magpie if s/he was left where she was. Neither girl had a box, so I dashed back home to get one. I thought that we needed to check a) if it was actually some kind of rodent pet and b) if it was a wild animal. I would keep it safe until after dark and then release it if it was well enough.
When I came back, the mother of the girl was also there and all four of us stood and gazed at the oblivious rodent. “He’s rather sweet”, said one of the girls. I always find it heartening when people are not scared of small furry things.
I scooped the vole up and popped them into a box. I got the slightest of nibbles – which did not break the skin – so I felt as if there was still some feistiness left, a good sign. I told my long-suffering husband what was going on and left him to find food/shelter/water etc for our guest.
When a message went out on the Whatsapp for the road, the little rodent was quickly christened ‘the Community Vole’.
When I got back, the Community Vole was having a little nibble at some muesli but clearly they were not well. There was that slight tremor I have seen before in mice that have eaten something poisoned, either by rat/mouse poison, or from their food plants being sprayed with pesticide or herbicide. But bank voles only have a lifespan of a year, so s/he could simply be getting to the end of their natural life. I realised that s/he was much too weak and wobbly to be released into a night-time garden full of cats and foxes. Plus, if s/he was poisoned, anything that ate them would also pick up some of the toxin.
Meantime, the street was full of suggestions for Community Vole’s name.
“Vole-taire”
“Vole-demort”
“Vole-erie”
But in between the jollity there was genuine concern for the well-being of this small animal.
I put some bedding into the box, made sure there were various kinds of food (grass, grapes, cashew nuts, sunflower seeds), covered the box and found a quiet spot for it. If the vole rallied by the next morning, I could release them. If they were still unwell, I would see if I could find a vet. But in my heart I knew that this little one was on its way out.
Next morning, they were tucked up in their bed, dead.
People were genuinely sad that s/he had died. There are an estimated twenty-three million bank voles in the United Kingdom but there is something about seeing an individual animal, or person, that activates our empathy. It is easy to dismiss whole rafts of animals as ‘vermin’ and frighteningly easy to do that to people as well. But when we hear the story of one creature or person we can somehow understand and start to build connections. Maybe that is how we save ourselves, one story at a time?
So Long, John Dolan
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Today we remember artist John Dolan who died a year ago, on 20th October 2022, aged fifty. He is survived by his dog, George.
John Dolan and his thoughtful dog, George, became an East End landmark in recent years, sitting patiently day after day in the same spot opposite the petrol station on Shoreditch High St while the world and the traffic passed by. Yet, all that time, John was watching and, after a year of looking at the same view each day, he picked up a pen and began to draw what he saw before him. Soon after, John’s drawings were published in a local magazine and it proved to be a life-changing moment.
“That’s when I knew in life what I should do,” he assured me, standing in the Howard Griffin gallery where he had his first exhibition. The show was just across the road from the spot where John used to sit and had been a sell-out success, leaving him inundated with commissions and a book deal. Yet George took it all in his stride even if John was rather startled by the attention, gratefully embracing this opportunity to forge a new identity for himself as a artist. “None of this could have happened without the support of Roa, the street artist,” John admitted to me, in relief at this twist of fate, “It’s got me away from breaking into shops to steal money.”
When you met John, you were aware of a restless man with a strong internal life and he looked at you warily, his eyes constantly darting and moving, as if he might leave or take flight at any moment. But although John may have had only one foot on the ground, George planted himself down and surveyed the world peacefully – as the natural counterpoint to his master’s nature.
“I’m from King’s Sq, Goswell Rd, and I could walk from my door to St Paul’s in five minutes when I was a kid,” John revealed, speaking with affection for the neighbourhood in which he spent his life, “From my window I could see the three towers of the Barbican and the dome of St Paul’s. At fourteen, I climbed up the to the top of St James Clerkenwell when it was covered in scaffolding.” John’s minutely detailed urban drawings were equally the result of an observant sensibility and an intimate knowledge of the streets and street life of Shoreditch.
A few years ago, a series of misadventures and spells in Pentonville Prison led to a low point when John found himself bereft. “I was spending my days in day centres and only mixing with homeless people and I couldn’t relate to my family at that time,” he confessed, “but having this exhibition has been a way of getting back to them – when they came on the opening night, they were very impressed. It’s been called ‘a successful debut show’ and you can’t get much better than that.”
“I got rehoused in a flat in Arnold Circus after I had been living in temporary accommodation on Royal Mint St and before that I was homeless,” he explained, “In the recent benefits shake-up, I had my benefit cut to £36 a week and, each time I appealed, they cut it down more until I had nothing. I’ve got arthritis in my legs and I can’t walk very far, so I came down here to Shoreditch High St and started begging to get some money. But I’m no good at it, so I put a cup in front of George like he was begging and people gave him money. Then I got bored and I started drawing the two buildings on the opposite site of the road.”
John outlined to me how he acquired George, the dog that gave him the new focus. “When I was living in Tower Hill, I used to let homeless people come and live with me and there was this couple – and one of them, Sue, she was offered the chance to buy George for the price of a can of lager by a Scottish fellow, so she gave him £20.” John recalled, speaking in almost a whisper, underscored by an emotional intensity, “He was a pretty violent guy who would go round robbing homeless people.”
“George is my first dog in a very long time, I had a dog from the age of ten until I was twenty-three – Butch. He was named after a dog that my grandfather had that was legendary. It was so painful when Butch died, I said I would never have another – but George was such a lovely dog and needed a home. When the Scottish fellow came back and told people he was going to take the dog off me and expecting money every time he saw me, I had to have serious words with him.”
John gave me a significant look that indicated he and George were never to be separated. “I went to Old St Central Foundation School and the only thing I was good at was Art,” he informed me proudly, puffing on his cigarette in excitement, “The teacher said I was so bad at Geography it was a wonder I could find my way home.”
Photographs copyright © Estate of Colin O’Brien
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The Bread, Cake & Biscuit Walk
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This biscuit was sent home in the mail during World War I
As regular readers will already know, I have a passion for all the good things that come from the bakery. So I decided to take advantage of the fine afternoon yesterday to take a walk through the City of London in search of some historic bakery products to feed my obsession, and thereby extend my appreciation of the poetry and significance of this sometimes undervalued area of human endeavour.
Leaving Spitalfields, I turned left and walked straight down Bishopsgate to the river, passing Pudding Lane where the Fire of London started at the King’s Bakery, reminding me that a bakery was instrumental in the very creation of the City we know today.
My destination was the noble church of St Magnus the Martyr, which boasts London’s stalest loaves of bread. Stored upon high shelves beyond the reach of vermin, beside the West door, these loaves were once placed here each Saturday for the sustenance of the poor and distributed after the service on Sunday morning. Although in the forgiving gloom of the porch it is not immediately apparent, these particular specimens have been there so many years they are now mere emblems of this bygone charitable endeavour. Surpassing any conceivable shelf life, these crusty bloomers are consumed by mould and covered with a thick layer of dust – indigestible in reality, they are metaphors of God’s bounty that would cause any shortsighted, light-fingered passing hobo to gag.
Close by in this appealingly shadowy incense-filled Wren church which was once upon the approach to London Bridge, are the tall black boards tabulating the donors who gave their legacies for bread throughout the centuries, commencing in 1674 with Owen Waller. If you are a connoisseur of the melancholy and the forgotten, this a good place to come on a mid-week afternoon to linger and admire the shrine of St Magnus with his fearsome horned helmet and fully rigged model sailing ship – once you have inspected the bread, of course.
I walked West along the river until I came to St Bride’s Church off Fleet St, as the next destination on my bakery products tour. Another Wren church, this possesses a tiered spire that became the inspiration for the universally familiar wedding cake design in the eighteenth century, after Fleet St baker William Rich created a three-tiered cake based upon the great architect’s design, for his daughter’s marriage. Dedicated today to printers and those who work in the former print trades, this is a church of manifold wonders including the pavement of Roman London in the crypt, an iron anti-resurrectionist coffin of 1820 – and most touching of all, an altar dedicated to journalists killed recently whilst pursuing their work in dangerous places around the globe.
From here, I walked up to St John’s Gate where a biscuit is preserved that was sent home from the trenches in World War I by Henry Charles Barefield. Surrounded by the priceless treasures of the Knights of St John magnificently displayed in the new museum, this old dry biscuit has become an object of universal fascination both for its longevity and its ability to survive the rigours of the mail. Even the Queen wanted to know why the owner had sent his biscuit home in the post, when she came to open the museum. But no-one knows for sure, and this enigma is the source of the power of this surreal biscuit.
Pamela Willis, curator of the collection, speculates it was a comment on the quality of the rations – “Our biscuits are so hard we can send them home in the mail!” Yet while I credit Pamela’s notion, I find the biscuit both humorous and defiant, and I have my own theory of a different nuance. In the midst of the carnage of the Somme, Henry Barefield was lost for words – so he sent a biscuit home in the mail to prove he was still alive and had not lost his sense of humour either.
We do not know if he sent it to his mother or his wife, but I think we can be assured that it was an emotional moment for Mrs Barefield when the biscuit came through her letterbox – to my mind, this an heroic biscuit, a triumphant symbol of the human spirit, that manifests the comfort of modest necessity in the face of the horror of war.
I had a memorable afternoon filled with thoughts of bread, cake and biscuits, and their potential meanings and histories which span all areas of human experience. And unsurprisingly, as I came back through Spitalfields, I found that my walk had left me more than a little hungry. After several hours contemplating baked goods, it was only natural that I should seek out a cake for my tea, and in St John Bread & Wine, to my delight, there was one fresh Eccles Cake left on the plate waiting for me to carry it away.
Loaves of bread at St Magnus the Martyr
Is this London’s stalest loaf?
The spire of Wren’s church of St Bride’s which was the inspiration for the tiered design of the wedding cake first baked by Fleet St baker William Rich in the eighteenth century
The biscuit in the museum in Clerkenwell
The inscrutable Henry Charles Barefield of Tunbridge Wells who sent his biscuit home in the mail during World War I
The freshly baked Eccles Cake that I ate for my tea
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On The Beat With PC Lew Tassell Again
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PC Lew Tassell in 1969
My pal Lew Tassell and I decided to take advantage of the October sunlight to enjoy a gentle perambulation around Lew’s old stomping ground from the days when he was an officer in the City of London Police, and he told me stories of his time in the constabulary.
“Until recently Liverpool Street Arcade was a busy cut-through between Old Broad St and Liverpool St but now it is closed for redevelopment. The Arcade sits directly over the Metropolitan line which was originally a steam railway. Once the line switched to electric trains, they built over the station and the Arcade was opened on 11th March 1912. In the eighties, the Arcade was due to be demolished but, due to a petition of over 6,000 people, it was saved.
When I joined the City of London Police in 1969, and throughout my uniform years, one of my duties when working a night duty shift at Bishopsgate Police Station was to inspect the Arcade and it’s glazed roof.
The Arcade was locked from early evening until early morning. At about 2.00am every morning, a pair of officers collected a set of keys at Bishopsgate to open the Liverpool Street entrance, then we unlocked a door halfway down the Arcade with stairs that led to the roof. Next, we searched the whole of the roof above the shops to see if there was anything untoward, not that there ever was.”
“The church hall for St Botolph-without-Bishopsgate is a nineteenth century school room and former livery hall of the Worshipful Company of Fan Makers. At the front, there are two niches containing painted figures of charity children made of Coade stone.
When I was a detective at Bishopsgate Police Station in the early seventies, I was called to the church hall. The two figures had been stolen. They had been removed from the niches but were fortunately recovered nearby. As the figures had some value, I completed a crime report and the niches remained empty whilst the recovered figures were stripped of paint, cleaned and placed inside the hall. Replicas now stand in the niches at the front.
My other association with St Botolph’s is that my marriage banns were read here since I was living in Bishopsgate Police Station at the time.”
“Quite often when working a night shift at Bishopsgate in the seventies I would be assigned to place ‘cotton marks’ inside the entrance to a courtyard or alleyway that led to a dead end.
I stretched the cotton across the entrance about a couple of feet off the ground and checked later to see if it had been broken during the early hours, before any deliveries were made.
Many burglaries during this period were committed by ‘climbers’ who clamberd up drainpipes to enter buildings at night. They gaind access to all buildings from the roofs in the block by jumping across the narrow gaps between the buildings.
The picture here is of Brabant Court where I remember laying cotton marks. This courtyard houses an old building at no.4 which was built in 1710.”
“Walking the beat alone at night can be quite lonely especially in the early hours. I found you make quite a bit of noise in the stillness as you stroll through the empty streets. So I would often find an out of the way spot on my beat to sit and listen.
My favourite spot was the churchyard of St Olave’s where the gateway was usually left unlocked.
The church has a fascinating history. It’s most famous worshipper being Samuel Pepys whose tomb is inside the church. The Great Plague of 1665 is said to have broken out close by and 300 victims were buried in the churchyard, including Mary Ramsay who was widely blamed for bringing the disease to London.
I cannot help thinking that the reason the churchyard is raised, to the degree that you have to walk down steps to enter the church, is due to what lies beneath. Yet I never found it spooky, just peaceful and beautiful.
The church was hit by an incendiary bomb in 1941 and the heat from the fire melted the bells. In the early fifties, this metal was recast into new bells by the same foundry that created the originals, the Whitechapel Bell Foundry.”
“Charles Dickens in ‘The Uncommercial Traveller’ refers to the gateway and churchyard of St Olave’s as ‘one of my best beloved churchyards, I call the churchyard of Saint Ghastly Grim.’
He recalls visiting the churchyard after midnight during a thunderstorm and seeing the skulls on the gateway ‘having the air of a public execution.'”
“Close to Tower Hill station stands quite a large section of Roman Wall, although the higher parts were added during medieval times.
In the seventies, the wall was not as appreciated as it is today. Whilst patrolling I often walked through or past it and it was surrounded with what I recall was nothing more than wasteland.
Today it is well preserved with raised walkways and has become a feature of the City of London. But the downside is that it is now surrounded by large buildings, some built within inches of the wall itself.”
“The Still & Star is boarded up and remains one of the last undeveloped plots in Aldgate. Its future is uncertain. Tucked away from the hustle and bustle, Little Somerset St leads from Aldgate to Mansell St which is the boundary of the City of London. This was where I used to patrol when walking to Tower Bridge or Shorter Street, a traffic control point at the end of the Minories.
I always felt I was in the proper East End when taking this route past the pub and just around the corner was a seedy snooker hall that always seemed to be busy. Both gone now.”
Another tale of burglary in the City, this time at the Aquascutum shop on the corner of Gracechurch St and Leadenhall Market. In the seventies I was called to the shop when there was a break-in.
Whilst examining the crime scene, I noticed a pile of brick foundations in the basement which was being used as a storeroom. Piles of boxes were scattered all around the brickwork.
‘Oh that’s part of the Roman Wall’ I was informed. At the time, I did not know the Wall existed here and it was fascinating to see it. Today the shop is a hair salon.”
You may also like to trace our previous walk
Ed Gray’s Innocence & Experience
We may not have quite hit our target, but we have raised an astonishing £31,833 to relaunch Spitalfields Life Books. Meanwhile, our crowdfund page will remain open until we reach £35,000.
YOU CAN STILL VISIT OUR CROWDFUND PAGE & CONTRIBUTE HERE
Portrait of Ed Gray by Sarah Ainslie
It is my delight to introduce this lively selection of paintings and drawings from Ed Gray’s new exhibition, Scenes of Innocence & Experience, 20th October – 6th November at House of Annetta, 25 Princelet St, E1 6QH.
Ed’s visceral paintings capture the tumultuous street life of the capital superlatively, teeming with diverse characters and delighting in the multiple dramas of daily existence. Despite his mild manners, his is an epic, near-apocalyptic vision that glories in the endless struggle of humanity within the urban stew. Yet the overriding impression is not cynical but rather a life-affirming raucous celebration of the indefatigable vitality of Londoners.
Lucky Tiger, Whitechapel Market, 2008
“I often walk through Whitechapel Market on my way to the studio. From a cafe, I watched the men set up the cardboard boxes and I took out my pencil and I began to draw. There is no ‘Lucky Tiger’ in this painting because there is no luck here, no punter will win. The child senses this and she can see past the man’s arm which is covering the switch he is about to make.”
On Whitechapel Waste, 2021
8:48am Liverpool St
Hellfire and Damnation, Mile End Underground Station, 2014
Shoreditch High St Sketch. Late summer evening
Torsion, St Thomas’s Hospital Lambeth (Huck Funt) 2016-20
Ladbroke Groovers, Notting Hill Carnival 2011
Ode to Joy, Westminster Old Palace Yard 2018-19
Still Dreaming, Olympic Way Wembley 2021
Everybody Loves The Sunshine, Parliament Hill Fields Lido
Paintings copyright © Ed Gray
Portrait copyright © Sarah Ainslie
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