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Gillian Tindall In Ship Tavern Passage

December 7, 2025
by the gentle author

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Remembering writer and historian Gillian Tindall who died on 1st October, I am publishing her account of her first job in a bookshop in Ship Tavern Passage in the City of London in the fifties. 

Gillian Tindall in the fifties

I was born in London but the blitz of the Second World War intervened too soon for me to have retained any memory of the house of my birth. Like most of the London babies and children of my generation I was bundled off to the countryside, in my case Sussex.

With the passing years this became my place of childhood. For though most of London had not been comprehensively wrecked by German bombs, the notion persisted for a good ten years after the war that most of it was only fit for redevelopment. London was admittedly very dirty still in that time of open fires before Clean Air Acts and the disappearance of steam trains. I remember my seven-year-old surprise – on a rare London visit one spring – at seeing how green the new leaves were in the parks. I was used to the joys of primrose and bluebells in the country, but against the sooty black town branches that ‘came off’ on your hands (“Darling, I told you not to touch!”) these London leaves amazed me with their delicate beauty.

In other respects London seemed a compelling but faintly sinister place, wonderfully busy with huge shops, tall buses and taxis hailed ‘for a treat,’ yet reputedly full of ‘slums’ that I never managed to locate. My mother wore a hat and her best coat when going ‘up to Town,’ yet sometimes I would glimpse in dark doorways or down side-streets people far shabbier and stranger than any to be seen in our country village. I longed to explore further.

The years passed and everything changed. My mother was dead, we moved house, and I found myself living near Hampstead Heath with my father. Grocery shopping and cooking in the intervals of working for a college entrance exam suited me fine, and my exploring project took off. But once the exam was done there was a vague feeling I ought to have a job. This was the modernity of the fifties: goodness me, a girl should not be hanging round at home, poor dear! A job was found for me in a bookshop off Gracechurch St in the City of London and, for a mercifully brief period in my life, I joined the inexorable morning and evening tide of rush hour travel.

Neither the bookshop nor its two other branches exist any more. Several years after my brief sojourn there it collapsed with, what I have been told, was an impressive backlog of debt and mismanagement. Indeed, even to my utterly ignorant perceptions, it seemed rather chaotically run. It was in Ship Tavern Passage which led into one end of Leadenhall Market and still does, though the alley as I knew it is gone. The market is flourishing still, if somewhat transformed. Its elaborate columns and façades beautified with dark red paint and gilding. The tempting meat and vegetable stalls that I remember and the one sandwich bar – to which I gratefully escaped for a late snack when lunch-hour customers had returned to their offices – have gone, to be replaced by restaurants and wine bars. The sole remaining old building in Ship Tavern Passage is, confusingly, an inn called the Swan (which I am told was only saved in 1985 from the developers’ wrecking ball by a last minute protest). The site that was occupied by the bookshop where I worked and by its modest neighbouring shops is now covered by the corporate architecture of Marks & Spencer.

I liked talking to customers about the books they were seeking, though many of these seemed to be allocated monthly by a national membership organisation, an institutional precursor to modern, informal book clubs. (Why – if these volumes were for members at a special rate – they had to be obtained in a bookshop puzzles me today. But so it was. The standard price for a hardback was seven shillings and sixpence, and there were relatively few paperbacks). However, my task – according to the dragon-lady who was head-assistant – was to dust the books full-time, since soot still reigned everywhere. I remember my forearms being permanently grey, for I soon learned to push up the sleeves of the black jersey I seem to have worn every day. The habit, though not the jersey, has remained with me for life.

In the basement was a less prestigious department where china was sold (a bad sign in a bookshop, as I now know) and pictures were brought in to be framed. Sometimes I would be sent down there, where I was terrorised by an ever-returning customer who was enraged that the picture he had left for framing had disappeared. In vain, would I repeat to him that it was nothing to do with me, while the other assistant (who knew nothing of the picture either and talked to me of little else beside her secret and exciting extra-marital affaire) hid in the stock-room. Once, I was rescued from the furious customer by a grander and much nicer lady than the dragon upstairs. She was the buyer for books, who used to take refuge in the basement to avoid being overwhelmed by publishers’ reps.

I was paid £5 a week cash in a small brown envelope, handed to me by a pay-clerk who for some reason disapproved of me – or perhaps just of life and his own circumstances. This modest sum would have been just enough for me to live on week to week, bed-sitters and fares both then being extraordinarily cheap. But as I was living at home with my father my wage was all – apart from the small cost of sandwiches – spending money. Only it was very difficult then in the City to buy the sort of things girls needed, such as stockings, underclothes and hair-ribbons. Even though ‘lady-typists’ had been a known species for most of the twentieth century, the Square Mile remained a preserve of men in three-piece suits and bowler hats.

I had got onto terms with only small segments of London and the City not at all, as I scuttled between Liverpool St tube station and Ship Tavern Passage, afraid of being late and incurring the dragon’s displeasure. Yet occasionally the nicer lady would suggest that I be sent on an errand to one of the big banks in Lombard St with – what I can only suppose – were the day’s takings, in a small canvas bag. Security did not seem to have been an issue in those peace-seeking, post-war times.

I enjoyed these outings into the sparrow-populated, starling-haunted streets, that were still lined with heavy Victorian buildings, not a glass tower in sight. But how ignorant I was! As I went by, Mary Woolnoth’s bell would chime – ‘with a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.‘ I had barely heard of TS Eliot then, let alone that he passed eight years in his thirties in tedious bank-employment just there, or had I any idea that he would become for me the prince of poets, haunting much of my adult work on place and history.

I also do not think I knew that a year or two before a temple of Mithras had been unearthed on a building site not far off, and was even then being laboriously (and rather ineptly) removed for re-erection at a different site nearby. I certainly did not know (since no one else seemed to then either) that the space which became Leadenhall Market was once the heart of the Roman basilica and forum, constructed in the first century AD. Its ruins were uncovered in 1881, when the iron structure of the Victorian market was going up. Only recently has it been confirmed that this was indeed the forum, the epicentre of judicial and financial administration. Some of the ruins are there to this day, carefully preserved in the basement of an upmarket gentlemen’s barbers, Nicholson & Griffin, on the corner of Gracechurch St.

I should like to go back to the old, unpretentious Leadenhall Market and the days when a cup of tea cost tuppence ha’penny and a cup of weak coffee thripence because coffee was posher. I should like to go back to the time when tube fares too were in pennies and no-one but the drunks round Spitalfields slept in the streets, because the newspapers every evening had columns and columns of attics and basements and little backrooms to rent for tiny weekly amounts.

I should not like to go back to being that dreamy girl in a grubby black jersey, a duffle coat and ‘ballet-slippers,’ who knew nothing much about anything and had all her life before her. However alarming various different national and world trends seem to be, and however tiresome it is for me no longer being able to walk all day round London (after a lifetime of doing this my over-used feet hurt and I get too tired), I think I should much rather be the me of today. Life has been satisfactory, and sometimes wonderful, but I do not want the labour of starting it all over again.

Ship Tavern Passage off Gracechurch St as portrayed by Henrie Pitcher in 1911 yet it was unaltered in the fifties when Gillian Tindall first knew it

Ship Tavern Passage today

 

Spitalfields Life Books For Christmas

December 6, 2025
by the gentle author

 

If you are seeking Christmas presents for family and friends, you need look no further because Spitalfields Life Books make ideal gifts which you can have personally inscribed by The Gentle Author

 

CLICK HERE TO ORDER TESSA HUNKIN’S HACKNEY MOSAIC PROJECT

 

Tessa Hunkin’s Hackney Mosaic Project has been responsible for some of the most witty and imaginative mosaics of recent years.

In a bold reinvention of the classical tradition, Tessa has assembled a passionate and diverse team of makers, creating beautiful mosaics that have become cherished landmarks, celebrating community and elevating the streets of East London.

This inspirational collection reveals the scope of Hackney Mosaic Project’s achievement for the first time, ranging from modest pieces in private gardens to expansive murals and pavements in public parks.

Includes an interview with Tessa Hunkin by The Gentle Author, commentary by Wendy Forrest, a map with locations of the mosaic and a description of the working process.

 

CLICK HERE TO ORDER ENDURANCE & JOY IN THE EAST END 1971 – 1987

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David Hoffman’s bold, humane photography records a lost era, speaking vividly to our own times.

When David Hoffman was a young photographer, he came to live in a squat in Fieldgate Mansions in Whitechapel and it changed his life.

Over the following years, he documented homelessness, racism and the rise of protest in startlingly intimate and compassionate pictures to compose a vital photographic testimony of resilience.

 

CLICK HERE TO ORDER JOURNAL OF A MAN UNKNOWN

 

Culminating a distinguished career spanning more than sixty years, historian Gillian Tindall has written a novel as her final statement. In an astonishing feat of literary imagination, she projects herself back onto one of her forebears to conjure a compelling vision of 17th century England.

The protagonist is a Huguenot metal founder, an occupation that leads him from the Sussex Weald to the Whitechapel Bell Foundry, and beyond to the North Country. While in London, he lives above a coffee house in Brick Lane and the book conjures a vivid evocation of Spitalfields at the time of the Huguenots.

This is a hymn to those who pass through life not leaving a trace, except in the hearts of those into whose lives they have been cast.

‘Gillian Tindall’s JOURNAL OF A MAN UNKNOWN is a novel of rare distinction. Tindall’s voice is richly her own: tender but unsentimental and lit by intimate knowledge of her chosen world.’ Colin Thubron

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Between the covers of this magnificent red Album with a gilded cover you will discover more than 600 of the Gentle Author’s favourite pictures of London in print for the first time, setting the wonders of our modern metropolis against the pictorial delights of the ancient city, and celebrating the infinite variety of life in the capital.

Take a walk through time with the Gentle Author as your guide – be equally amazed at what has been lost of old London and charmed by the unfamiliar marvels of London today.

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The Gentle Author assembles a choice selection of CRIES OF LONDON, telling the stories of the artists and celebrated traders, and revealing the unexpected social realities contained within these cheap colourful prints produced for the mass market.

For centuries, these lively images of familiar hawkers and pedlars have been treasured by Londoners. In the capital, those who had no other means of income could always sell wares in the street and, by turning their presence into performance through song, they won the hearts of generations and came to embody the spirit of London itself.

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CLICK HERE TO ORDER THE CREEPING PLAGUE OF GHASTLY FACADISM

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The Gentle Author presents a humorous analysis of facadism – the unfortunate practice of destroying an old building apart from the front wall and constructing a new building behind it – revealing why it is happening and what it means.

As this bizarre architectural fad has spread across the capital, The Gentle Author has photographed the most notorious examples, collecting an astonishing gallery of images guaranteed to inspire both laughter and horror in equal measure.

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CLICK HERE TO ORDER THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY

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“This small, beautiful book is an elegy to companionship. Encompassing both the everyday and the profound, it should be judged no less valid for the fact that the friend in question is a cat.” Times Literary Supplement

Anyone that has a cat will recognise the truth of this tender account by The Gentle Author. Filled with sentiment yet never sentimental, THE LIFE & TIMES OF MR PUSSY is a literary hymn to the intimate relationship between humans and animals.

CLICK HERE TO ORDER A MODEST LIVING, MEMOIRS OF A COCKNEY SIKH

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“a timely reminder of all that modern Britishness encompasses” The Observer

In this first London Sikh biography, Suresh Singh tells the candid and sometimes surprising story of his father Joginder Singh who came to Spitalfields in 1949.

Joginder sacrificed a life in the Punjab to work in Britain and send money home, yet he found himself in his element living among the mishmash of people who inhabited the streets around Brick Lane.

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CLICK HERE TO ORDER THE MAP OF THE GENTLE AUTHOR’S TOUR

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Follow in the footsteps of all those who came before, with a keen eye and an open heart, to discover the manifold wonders of Spitalfields.

Adam Dant has populated The Gentle Author’s Tour with portraits of more than fifty people – both the living and the dead – who have lived and worked in Spitalfields over the past two millennia.

Ramble through two thousand years of culture in the heart of London and discover some of the people and places that make this historic neighbourhood distinctive.

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CLICK HERE TO ORDER A HOXTON CHILDHOOD

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AS Jasper’s tender memoir of growing up in the East End of London at the beginning of the twentieth century was immediately acclaimed as a classic when it was described by the Observer as ‘Zola without the trimmings.’

In this definitive new edition, A Hoxton Childhood is accompanied by the first publication of the sequel detailing the author’s struggles and eventual triumph in the cabinet-making trade, The Years After.

 

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Seen By Meg Khan

December 5, 2025
by the gentle author

Click here to buy gift vouchers for The Gentle Author’s Tours With each voucher TGA will send the recipient a handwritten Christmas card.

 

Zinat Abdullah, Florence St 5:40pm 20/01/21

 

Photographer Meg Khan has been documenting East Londoners since 2020, creating a panoramic collection of vivid images and stories entitled SEEN. Here you can see my selection from more than four hundred portraits she has taken over the past five years, all of which are to be found on her website.

Meg described the genesis of her burgeoning project to me: ‘In 2020, when the world came to a sudden halt I sat notebook in hand on my balcony, writing the names of everyone I knew. An idea I had carried in my heart for some time found room to surface. One by one, over the coming days and weeks, I worked my way through the list sharing my desire to meet, to sit opposite one another, for the storyteller in me to see the storyteller in them.’

 

Charlotte Lynch, Power League  12:10pm 19/09/22

Common Room, Hackney Downs Studios 2:45pm 6/02/23

Costakis Costa, Mario’s Leyton High Rd 6pm 22/06/24

Loho, Islington Tunnel 12:10pm 8/06/21

Mahrukh Samdani Khan (Ma), here now always

Luke Norton, Courtenay Mews 1:05pm 21/01/22

Charlotte Bracegirdle, Leyton 12:29pm 1/03/22

Virgilus Nwosu, London Aquatics Centre 4:36pm 19/02/2021

Gazza Saleem, Leyton Orient Stadium 10:54pm 26/05/21

Sukai Secka, Thames Barrier Park 3:38pm 17/12/20

Jack Burrill, Kennington Park 3:49pm 20/11/21

Zoe Goodall, Oval 4:10pm 20/11/21

Ayaan Younis, Regent’s Canal 5:17pm 24/10/20

Dovydas Vaitulionis, Brannetts Wood 2:23pm 8/04/21

Hajara & Waseem Hussain, Furniture Island 11:15pm 21/06/24

Wahid Hassan, Montgomery Sq 2:34pm 27/09/20

Dise Ockri, Ebor St 3:05pm 9/09/20

Mihrimah Khan, Manor Park 4:20pm 12/02/22

Photographs copyright © Meg Khan

Leo Epstein, Epra Fabrics

December 4, 2025
by the gentle author

Click here to see the full range of titles

 

Leo Epstein

When the genial Leo Epstein, proprietor of Epra Fabrics said to me, “I am the last Jewish trader on Brick Lane,” he said it with such a modest balanced tone that I knew he was just stating a fact and not venturing a comment.

“If you’re not a tolerant sort of person you wouldn’t be in Brick Lane,” he added before scooting across the road to ask his neighbour at the Islamic shop to turn down the Friday prayer just a little. “I told him he can have it as loud as he wants after one o’clock when I’ve gone home,” he explained cheerily on his return. “We all get on very well,” he confirmed.”As one of my Bengali neighbours said to me, ‘On Brick Lane, we do business not politics.'”

While his son was in Israel organising Leo’s grandson’s wedding, Leo was running the shop single-handedly, yet he managed – with the ease and grace of over half a century of experience – to maintain the following monologue whilst serving a string of customers, cutting bolts of fabric, answering the endless phone calls and arranging a taxi to collect an order of ten rolls of velvet.

“I started in 1956, when I got married. I used to work for a company of fabric wholesalers and one of our customers on Brick Lane said, “There’s a shop to let on the corner, why don’t you take it?” The rent was £6.50 a week and I used to lie awake at night thinking, “Where am I going to find it?” You could live on £10 a week then. My partner was Rajchman and initially we couldn’t decide which name should come first, combining the first two letters of our names, but then we realised that “Raep” Fabrics was not a good trade name and so we became “Epra” Fabrics.

In no time, we expanded and moved to this place where we are today. In those days, it was the thing to go into, the fabric trade – the City was a closed shop to Jewish people. My father thought that anything to do with rebuilding would be a good trade for me after the war and so I studied Structural Engineering but all the other students were rich children of developers. They drove around in new cars while I was the poor student who could barely afford my bus fare. So I said to my father, “I’m not going to do this.” And the openings were in the shmutter trade, I didn’t ever see myself working in an office. And I’ve always been happy, I like the business. I like the social part.

In just a few years, the first Indians came to the area, it’s always been a changing neighbourhood.The first to come were the Sikhs in their turbans, and each group that came brought their trades with them. The Sikhs were the first to print electronic circuits and they had contacts in the Far East, they brought the first calculators. And then came the Pakistanis, the brought the leather trade with them. And the Bengalis came and they were much poorer than the others. They came on their own, as single men, at first. The head of the family, the father would come to earn the money to send for the rest of the family. And since they didn’t have women with them, they opened up canteens to feed themselves and then it became trendy for City gents to come and eat curry here and that was the origin of the curry restaurants that fill Brick Lane today.

Slowly all the Jewish people moved away and all their businesses closed down. Twenty years ago, Brick Lane was a run down inner city area, people didn’t feel safe – and it still has that image even though it’s a perfectly safe place to be. I’ve always like it here.”

At any time over the last half a century, you could have walked up Fashion St, crossed Brick Lane and entered Epra Fabrics to be greeted by Leo, saying “Good morning! May I help you?’ with respect and civility. After all those years, it was no exaggeration when he said, “Everyone knows me as Leo.” A tall yet slight man, always formally dressed with a kippa, he hovered at the cash desk, standing sentinel with a view through the door and West along Fashion St to the towers of the City.

In his shop you found an unrivalled selection of silks and satins. “This is Brick Lane not Park Lane,” was one of Leo’s favourite sayings, indicating that nothing cost more than a couple of pounds a metre. “We only like to take care of the ladies,” was another, indicating the nature of the stock, which was strong in dress fabrics.

“I lived through the war here, so the attack wasn’t really that big a deal,” he said with a shrug, commenting on the  Brick Lane nail bomb of 1999 laid by racist David Copeland, which blew out the front of his shop, “Luckily nobody was seriously hurt because on a Saturday everything is closed round here, it’s a tradition going back to when it was a Jewish area, where everything would close for the Sabbath.”

“Many of the Asian shop owners come in from time to time and say,’Oh good, you’re still here! Why don’t you come and have a meal on us?’ You can’t exist if you don’t get on with everybody else. It was, in a way, a weirdly pleasant time to see how everyone pulled together.” he concluded dryly, revealing how shared experiences brought him solidarity with his neighbours.

Leo Epstein was the last working representative of the time when Brick Lane and Wentworth St was all Jewish and the heart of the schmutter trade, but to me he also exemplified the best of the egalitarian spirit that exists in Brick Lane, defining it as the place where different peoples co-exist peacefully.

Dennis & Christine Reeve, Walnut Farmers

December 3, 2025
by the gentle author

CLICK HERE TO BOOK

 

The Romans introduced walnut trees into this country and they have been cultivated here ever since, but you would have to go a long way these days to find anyone farming walnuts. Contributing Photographer Sarah Ainslie & I travelled to the tiny village of West Row in East Anglia – where walnuts have been grown as long as anyone can remember – to meet Dennis & Christine Reeve, the last walnut farmers in their neck of the woods.

Dennis’ grandfather Frank planted the trees a century ago which were passed into the care of his father Cecil, who supplemented the grove of around thirty, that today are managed by Dennis and his wife Christine – who originates from the next village and married into the walnut dynasty. Dennis has only planted one walnut tree himself, to commemorate the hundredth birthday of his mother Maggie Reeve who subsequently lived to one hundred and five, offering a shining example of the benefits to longevity which may be obtained by eating copious amounts of walnuts.

I was curious to understand the job of a walnut farmer beyond planting the trees and Dennis was candid in his admission that it was a two-months-a-year occupation. “You just wait until they fall off the trees and then go out and pick ’em up,” he confessed to me with a chuckle of alacrity that concealed three generations of experience in cultivating walnuts.

Perhaps no-one alive possesses greater eloquence upon the subject of walnuts than Dennis Reeve? He loves walnuts – as a delicacy, as a source of income and as a phenomenon – and he can tell you which of his thirty trees a walnut came from by its taste alone. He is in thrall to the mystery of this enigmatic species that originates far from these shores. Even after all these years, Dennis cannot explain why some trees give double walnuts when others give none, or why particular trees night be loaded one season and not the next. “There’s one tree that’s smaller than the rest yet always produces a lot of nuts while there’s nothing on the trees around it,” he confessed, his brow furrowed with incomprehension.

Yet these insoluble enigmas make the walnut compelling to Dennis. The possibility of ‘a sharp frost at the wrong time of the year’ is the enemy of the walnut but Dennis has an answer to this. “They say ‘keep your grass long in the orchard and the frost won’t affect them,'” he admitted to me, raising a sly finger to his nose in confidence.

“Walnuts are the last tree to come into leaf in the orchard, in Maytime, and you start to harvest them at the end of the September right through to November. I used to climb into the tree with a bamboo pole about twenty foot long and I thrashed them because walnuts are sold by weight and the longer you leave them the more they dry out. We call it ‘brushing.’ Nowadays, I am a bit long in the tooth to get up into the trees, so I have to wait until the walnuts drop and I walk round every day from the end of September picking them up. They get dirty when they fall on the ground so I put them in my old tin bath and clean them up with water and a broom, and then I put them on a run to dry.”

You would be mistaken if you assumed the life of a walnut farmer was one of rural obscurity, celebrity has intruded into Dennis & Christine’s existence with requests to supply their produce to the great and the good. “One year in the seventies, my father had a call in the summer from a salesman in London saying they needed about eight pounds of walnuts urgently,” Dennis revealed to me, arching his brows to illustrate the seriousness of the request as a matter of national importance.

“‘I don’t care how you get them here, but we’ve got to have them,’ they said. They were for Buckingham Palace, but the walnuts on the tree were still green with the green husk around them. We told them, ‘They’re not ready yet and there’s nothing we can do about it.’ They said, ‘We don’t care, we’ve got to have them.’ Now we kept pigs at the time and there was a muck dump where we put all the waste, so we put the walnuts in the muck dump for them to heat, just like in a cooker. After about two days the husks started to crack, and that’s how we ripened the nuts for the Queen, in our muck dump!'”

Christine recounted a comparable story about how their walnuts went to Westminster. “There was a dinner in the Houses of Parliament to celebrate British produce and our walnuts were served,” she explained to me with a thin smile, “and they sent us the printed menu which listed the provenance of all the ingredients, including ‘walnuts from Norfolk,’ which was a bit of a let down – because we are in Suffolk here.” Yet I did not feel Christine was unduly troubled by this careless error. Both stories served to confirm the delight that she and Dennis share – of living at the centre of their own world secluded from the urban madness, in a house they built on land bought by Dennis’ grandfather and surrounded by their beloved walnut trees.

Too few are aware of the special qualities of English walnuts, especially the distinctive flavour of wet walnuts early in the season when they possess an appealing sharpness that complements cheese well. “Sometimes people want them earlier before they are ripe if they are going to pickle them,” Dennis told me, “if you can stick a match right through from one side to the other, that is the ideal time to pickle walnuts.” Over the years, those who know about walnuts have sought out Dennis & Christine for their produce. “We have a regular customer in Kent who found our nuts in Harrods,” Christine informed me proudly, “she rang us and now we send her our wet walnuts every year. She peels them and eats them with a glass of sherry and that’s the highlight of her Christmas.”

The walnut grove

Dennis & Christine Reeve

Dennis with the tin bath and brush that he uses for washing his walnuts

Dennis with his scoop for walnuts

Dennis outside his father’s cottage

Dennis Reeve, third generation walnut farmer

Photographs copyright © Sarah Ainslie

At The Savoy Chapel

December 2, 2025
by the gentle author

 

I am delighted to publish this extract of a post from A London Inheritance, written by a graduate of my blog writing course. Follow A LONDON INHERITANCE, A Private History of a Public City

We are now taking bookings for the next course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on February 7th & 8th 2026. Come to Spitalfields and spend a winter weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches, eat cakes baked to historic recipes by Townhouse and learn how to write your own blog. Click here for details

This course is suitable for writers of all levels of experience – from complete beginners to those who already have a blog and want to advance.

If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.

 

Savoy Chapel in 1808

 

From the Strand, head down Savoy St then into Savoy Hill and you will find a remarkable little chapel, which is today amongst much taller buildings but once was surrounded by a very different estate. This is the King’s Chapel of the Savoy.

There are many remarkable things about this chapel, one is how much larger the interior is when compared to the view from outside, another is the unexpected colour and decoration to be found within.

It is the only survivor of a much larger institution and carries the name of the medieval landowner. In the thirteenth century this riverside property was owned by Simon de Montfort, the 6th Earl of Leicester, who created an estate to the west of Somerset House and built a palace there. He supported and then fought against the king, and for a time he ran an early form of Parliament. De Montfort died at the Battle of Evesham on the 4th of August, 1265, when he led a small army of rebellious barons against Edward, the son of King Henry III. His land eventually became part of the Duchy of Lancaster, which is still in existence today and continues to be a landowner with assets held in trust for the monarch.

The name ‘Savoy’ refers to Peter of Savoy. Interestingly, he owned the estate for only a relatively short period of time in the thirteenth century, yet the use of his name has continued for many centuries and today can be found not just in the name of the chapel, but in many of the surrounding streets, the hotel and the theatre. The chapel was built in the early sixteenth century when Henry VII founded the Hospital of Henry late King of England of the Savoy.

The Savoy Palace had been attacked during the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381 when the rebellion, angered by the actions of then owner, John of Gaunt, destroyed all the contents of the palace and set fire to the building, and it remained semi-derelict until the founding of the hospital by Henry VII.

According to Henry Chamberlain in A New and Complete History and Survey of London and Westminster (1770), the hospital was ‘controlled by a Master and four brethren, who were to be in priests orders, and officiate in their turns, and they were to stand alternatively at the gate of the Savoy, and if they saw any person who was an object of charity, they were obliged to take him in and feed him. If he proved to be a traveller he was entertained for one night, and a letter of recommendation, with so much money given to him as would defray his expenses to the next hospital.’

The chapel was part of an elaborate hospital complex with the main dormitory being described as larger than Westminster Hall. Although the hospital was dissolved in the Reformation, many of the buildings survived until to the early nineteenth century when there was pressure to redevelop the area and major construction projects such as Waterloo Bridge required land for the approach road to the bridge which was built over the eastern edge of the Savoy estate.

Throughout all this time, the chapel of the Savoy has survived. Inside, the core of the walls is Tudor, from the time of the chapel’s original construction, but everything else was destroyed in a fire as this newspaper report of 15th of July 1864 describes.

‘On Thursday afternoon, one of the most ancient structures in London, the Savoy Chapel, was destroyed by fire. When first it was seen it would appear that only the organ was burning; but in a few minutes the whole interior woodwork, open seats, pulpit, &c were in flames. The fire presently burst out of the stained glass window at the northern end, and caught the veranda of the house in front of it, 109 Strand, a tailor’s shop. The upper part of the house, occupied by the Press newspaper, was also on fire for a short time, but the flames were got under control by the timely arrival of the steam engine.

This fire was the last of several and a 1911 report states ‘Owing to three fires between 1842 and 1864, very little of the old interior is left’. Almost everything you see today is restoration following the form of the original.

As a consequence of ownership by the Duchy of Lancaster, it exists as a private royal chapel for the monarch not as a parish church. Until recently this was the Queen’s Chapel of the Savoy but, with the coronation of Charles III, it became the King’s Chapel.

This is a fascinating place to visit, just a short detour from the Strand to see a unique chapel that bears the name of the owner of a long lost estate from the thirteenth century and was part of a hospital founded by Henry VII.

There is a cleaner working on the pews with their bucket in the aisle. In a bit of historical symmetry, the print above from 1808 shows a much plainer interior, but with two cleaners working on the flag stones which then paved the floor.

Stained glass window dedicated to the memory of Richard D’Oyly Carte who was behind the construction of the Savoy Theatre (using the profits from his Gilbert & Sullivan productions) and the Savoy Hotel (using profits from the Mikado).
Photographs copyright © A London Inheritance

In Old Stepney

December 1, 2025
by the gentle author

We are delighted to join the annual book sale at Tower Hamlets Archives this Saturday 6th December. The archive will be selling duplicate copies from their collection and we will have a stall with the full range of Spitalfields Life Books. 10am-2pm, Tower Hamlets Archive, 277 Bancroft Rd, Stepney, E1 4DQ

 

Albert Gardens

In spite of the bombing, the slum clearances and redevelopments, the East End is still with us. In Stepney, there is an entire quarter of early nineteenth century terraces and squares that have survived the changes of the twentieth century. They are magnificent examples of the human quality of streetscape cherished by East Enders and also plangent reminders of what has been lost.

The Peacock, Aylward St

Corner of Antil Terrace and Senrab St

Corner of Antil Terrace and Dunelm St

Corner of Dunelm St

 

Senrab St

Who will rescue The Royal Duke, 474 Commercial Rd, designed by W.E. Williams, 1879

Shepherd Boy in Albert Gardens, dated 1903, “Fonderies d’art du Val D’Orne, Paris”

In Albert Gardens

South East corner of Albert Gardens

North West corner of Albert Gardens

South East corner of Arbour Sq

In Arbour Sq Gardens

South West corner of Arbour Sq

North West corner of Arbour Sq

Terrace in East Arbour St

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Fred Wright, Head Messenger

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The Lost Squares Of Stepney