A Walk Along The White Cliffs
Homeless men sleep in a church at the first Crisis at Christmas, 1972
Thanks to the generosity of one hundred donors we have now raised over half our target and have fifteen days left to find the rest
CLICK HERE TO HELP ME STAGE DAVID HOFFMAN’S EXHIBITION IN OCTOBER
The White Cliffs are a popular source of inspiration for artists
In common with thousands of other travellers, the point of departure for my journey was Dover yet, unlike everyone else, I turned left at the ferry terminal to follow the coastal path eastward towards Deal.
Before I even began the climb uphill to the cliffs, I was confronted with a poignant reminder of the strategic importance of this small town situated at the narrowest point of the English Channel. A statue was being unveiled commemorating the seamen of the Merchant Navy who lost their lives in the Second World War, a third of whom never returned. Just a few frail veterans with medals gathered in sadness, as sailors lined up with flags and local dignitaries made speeches, while a vintage airplane puttered overheard in gathering clouds.
As the ceremony concluded and umbrellas unfurled, I walked on past narrow terraces tucked in at the foot of the tall cliffs towering aloft. The epic spectacle of the ferry port only becomes apparent as you ascend the narrow path crossing beneath the motorway suspended above, feeding the terminal with a ceaseless flow of traffic.
At this point, it seemed that my excursion might be over when a thunderstorm broke over my head, sending arrows of forked lightening into the sea. Impatient with standing under the concrete bridge waiting for the rain to stop, I set out again and was forced to take shelter again in a thicket, contemplating an abandoned shopping trolley and an old lawnmower. Once the storm relented, I struggled uphill to the cafeteria for visitors to the White Cliffs Experience, joining the melancholy throng eating all-day breakfasts and gazing jealously across the channel at the sunlit French coast.
How grateful I was when the rain stopped and I set out in earnest through the puddles and muddy paths. After a mile or so, I left the visitors behind and the grassy footpath became less worn, bordered with wild thyme and fennel. The undulating nature of the cliff exposed impressive deep chasms faced with sheer walls of chalk descending hundred of feet to the water below, inducing a sense of giddy exhilaration tinged with vertigo. The dark clouds were behind me and a warm wind was in my face, and the French coast gleamed in the sunlight twenty-three miles across the sparkling sea. When I descended to the bay at St Margaret’s At Cliffe, barely a soul disturbed the peace underscored by the gentle rise and fall of the waves.
Autumn declared itself in the red hips, hawthorn and sloe berries along the path and in the sight of a tractor ploughing up the stubble, trailed by a flock of seagulls. Yet, after the opening the squall, the weather was benign, the walking was good and within a few hours the cliffs declined, delivering me to the long shingle beach at Kingsdown. On the last stretch, a hawk hovered overhead, drifting and swooping on the currents of warm air before folding his wings and dropping like a dart towards his prey.
For places so close to London, both Kingsdown and Walmer were unexpectedly quiet and unspoilt seaside towns. A magnificent long line of Edwardian villas borders the beach, which has a sparse forest of dwarf evergreen oaks shielding the land from the sea. This was where Julius Caesar landed two thousand years ago and it is not difficult to imagine the Roman galleys pulled onto the beach here. Castles at Walmer and Deal, and eighteenth century barracks in Deal, serve as a reminder of the threat of invasion that persisted into the last century. At Walmer, a handsome stone gothic boathouse on the seafront reveals the importance of the lifeboat to these small communities that relied upon the sea for their livelihood. Today just a handful of fishing boats remain, surrounded by their paraphernalia of plastic fish trays, lobster pots and nets.
A portion of cod and chips provided necessary sustenance to make it along this seemingly-endless seafront to Deal, where a cup of tea outside the ramshackle shed known as the Sea Cafe offered welcome refreshment upon arrival. The last of the afternoon sun was fading and the shops had all shut, which meant that an exploration of the manifold delights of Deal would have to wait for another day.
At Herne Bay
So far we have raised £4,516 towards our target of £10,000
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Reculver Towers
Several years ago, I grew fascinated with a ruin upon the seashore in the background of a photograph of members of the Cambridge & Bethnal Green Boys’ Club taken by Harry Tichener in 1938 . When Maxie Lea, who is featured in the picture, told me that it was taken at Herne Bay, I knew that one day I must go and seek this location for myself.
Yet, when I arrived and walked from the railway station to the deserted seafront, I discovered there were many other attractions that make this secluded corner of the Kent coast worthy of a visit. Set back fifty yards from the shingle beach, sits a magnificent line of grand hotels and seafront villas. Some are whimsical Victorian fripperies and others are elegant bow-fronted Georgian, and it makes an appealing backdrop to the well-kept and newly-renovated municipal gardens, basking in the September sunlight beneath an azure sky flecked with feathery trails.
A proud white stucco gatehouse guards a poignant remnant of what was Britain’s second longest pier in 1896, now just a stub attached to the shore with the far end marooned out at sea, unreachable and distant since the storm of 1978. You can take a stroll past the huts, adorned with saucy paintings in the style of Donald McGill, to reach the end of what remains and join a sparse line of fishermen and senior local residents, casting their eyes wistfully towards the horizon and awaiting a miraculous reconstruction.
Turning my gaze to the east, I could already recognise the towers at Reculver shining white in the far distance and encouraging me to take my leave of the town and seek the coastal path. The outskirts of Herne Bay present a curious mixture of dereliction and some cherished Regency villas, culminating in Marckari’s ice cream parlour where I had my first taste of an authentic Turkish delight ice cream. Thus fortified, I strolled onward upon the broad featureless concrete promenade with the towers reassuringly present, constantly in my vision.
Climbing a winding stairway takes you to the cliff path, lined with sloes and hawthorn, and giving way to meadows that descend towards Reculver. Soon, the towers are no longer an image on the horizon but looming above you. You ascend the path beneath them as a colony of swifts swoop and dive over your head, filling the air with their cries before returning to roosting places high in the turrets. You have arrived upon a raised platform of green, overlooking the sea, where the sweet fragrance of nectar hangs in the air. This was where the Romans built a fort in 42AD, when this was the end of the land and the marshes to the east were open water, known as the Wantsum, a channel that isolated the Isle Of Thanet from the mainland.
St Augustine brought Christianity to Kent at the end of the sixth century and, by AD 669, King Ecgbert gave this land for the foundation of a monastery. A tall church was built upon the Roman ruins, creating a landmark that signalled the spiritual significance of this favoured spot, visible from such a great distance. In 1810, the ruins of this church were reconstructed by Trinity House to create a stable structure that could function as a navigational aid. Once there was a thriving village of Reculver, yet the encroachment of the sea and regular flooding led to its decline until only a couple of houses are left today. Yet it retains a distinctive atmosphere and, after all this time, the imposing sea-battered towers are like natural excrescences of rock.
Setting out across the marshes as the afternoon sun declined, I was entranced by the naturally occurring gardens upon the shingle, where grey-green sea kale grew in star shapes complementing the pink leaves of sorrel spreading close to the ground and interspersed with curious bushes of yellow poppies that seeded themselves all along the beach. Glancing over my shoulder, the towers of Reculver seemed to get no further away, watching over me now as they had beckoned me earlier.
Nine miles to the east of Herne Bay, I arrived at Birchington – a suburban resort with art deco villas, some dignified austere brick farmhouses and an unexpected half-timbered medieval cottage. My feet were sore and my face was burned from wind and sunshine, and I fell asleep upon the train – only waking again as we drew into London to wonder if the whole excursion had been a dream.
Herne Bay pier was once the second longest in Britain
Bow-fronted Georgian terrace on the seafront
Regency villas in a side street
The path to Reculver
At Reculver
Harry Tichner’s photograph of Maxie Lea (standing right) at Herne Bay in 1938
1685 Map of the lost village of Reculver
At Minnis Bay
Cottage at Birchington-on-Sea
Fifteenth Annual Report
Fifteen years ago, I began to publish a daily story here in these pages. It has been such a eventful journey that I can barely recall any of it as sit here writing to you now, except to say that I am without regrets because it has enriched my own life immeasurably. I have met so many inspiring people and learnt so much that I should never have done without Spitalfields Life.
As I write this fifteenth annual report, I have two things in mind.
Firstly, this past year has been especially busy as we prepare to relaunch Spitalfields Life Books in October with David Hoffman’s two-hundred-and-forty page hardback photographic monograph, ENDURANCE & JOY IN THE EAST END 1971-1987.
When David was a young photographer, he came to live in a squat in Whitechapel and it changed his life. Over the next decade, he documented homelessness, racism and the rise of protest in startlingly intimate and compassionate pictures to compose a vitally important photographic testimony of resilience.
It is the forefront of my mind that we only have three weeks to raise the remaining £6000 we still need to stage the accompanying exhibition. If we can frame David’s photographs in museum quality frames, the Museum of the Home will host the exhibition from October until March and then take the pictures into their permanent collection as a legacy of our project.
CLICK HERE TO CONTRIBUTE TO DAVID HOFFMAN’S EXHIBITION
Secondly, there is a new planning battle looming that is set to dominate the next year in Spitalfields.
I am sure you will recall the fight four years ago when the Truman Brewery applied for permission to build a hideous shopping mall with a block of corporate offices on top. Our fight to stop this reached the Supreme Court this summer and we hope for a verdict in our favour this autumn.
Regrettably, the shopping mall has proved to be merely the tip of the iceberg as the Truman Brewery has now submitted a new planning application to build corporate office blocks across the entire site.
I believe the needs of the local community for genuinely affordable homes and workspaces must be prioritised in the redevelopment of the brewery. This appalling proposal for soulless corporate style development would push up rents on Brick Lane, driving out the small independents and undermining the long-established Bangladeshi community, destroying Spitalfields as we know it today.
Yet, on contemplation,I realise that these two things I have in mind are not unrelated.
David’s Hoffman’s photography is a salient reminder of the enduring nature of East End communities, how they have united repeatedly through the years to resist different threats, and how they have always shown resourcefulness and thrived despite inopportune circumstances.
Thus, with all these thoughts in mind, I come to the end of the fifteenth year in the pages of Spitalfields Life.
I am your loyal servant
The Gentle Author
Spitalfields
23rd August 2024
PS You can still book here for THE GENTLE AUTHOR’S TOUR OF SPITALFIELDS through September and October
Schrodinger sleeping peacefully
David Hoffman’s monograph published October 14th
Office blocks planned across the Truman Brewery
The Truman Brewery’s proposed towers overshadowing Allen Gardens
You may like to read my earlier Annual Reports
At The Halal Restaurant
Following the random racist murder of Altab Ali, a twenty-five-year old Bengali textile worker, anti-racists occupied Brick Lane preventing the National Front from setting up a stall, 1978.
We have now raised over four thousand pounds towards our target of ten thousand pounds to stage David Hoffman‘s exhibition of photography at the Museum of the Home in October.
PLEASE CLICK HERE TO SUPPORT DAVID HOFFMAN’S EXHIBITION
It is just before midday at the Halal Restaurant, the East End’s oldest Indian restaurant, and Mahaboob Narangali braces himself for the daily rush of curry hounds that have been filling his dining room every lunchtime since 1939. On the corner of Alie St and St Mark’s Place, occupying a house at the end of an eighteenth century terrace, the Halal Restaurant has plain canteen-style decor and an unpretentious menu, yet most importantly it has a distinctive personality that is warm and welcoming.
For the City workers who come here between midday and three each day – nipping across the border into the East End – the Halal Restaurant is a place of retreat, and the long-serving staff are equally comfortable at this establishment that opens seven days a week for lunch and dinner but only get busy at lunchtime on weekdays. Stepping in by the modest side door of the Halal Restaurant, it is apparent that the small dining room to your right was the original front room of the old house while the larger room to your left is an extension added more recently. The atmosphere is domestic and peaceful, a haven from the nearby traffic thundering along Aldgate High St and down Leman St.
Even though midday was approaching, Mahaboob was happy to talk to me about his beloved restaurant and I was fascinated to listen, because I realised that what I was hearing was not simply the story of the Halal Restaurant but of the origin of all the curry restaurants for which the East End is celebrated today.
“Usman, my father, started working here in 1969. He came to Britain in the merchant navy and at first he worked in this restaurant, but then he became very friendly with the owner Mr Chandru and soon he was managing all three restaurants they had at that time. The other two were in Collum St in the City and in Ludgate Circus. Mr Chandru was the second owner, before that was Mr Jaffer who started the Halal Restaurant in 1939. Originally, this place was the mess of the hostel for Indian merchant seamen, with rooms up above. They cooked for themselves and then friends came round to eat, and it became a restaurant. At first it was just three kinds of curry – meat, meatball or mince curry. Then Vindaloos came along, that was more spicy – and now we sell more Vindaloos than any other dish. In the early nineties, Tandoori started to come in and that’s still popular.
My father worked hard and was very successful and, in 1981, he bought the restaurant from Mr Chandru. At twenty-one years old, I came to work here. It was just on and off at first because I was studying and my father didn’t want me to join the business, he wanted me to complete my studies and do something else, but I always had my eye on it. I thought, ‘Why should I work for someone else, when I could have this?’ And in 1988, I started running the restaurant. The leases of the other restaurants ran out, but we own the freehold here and I enjoy this work. I’ve only been here thirty-four years while many of our customers having been coming for forty years and one gentleman, Mr Maurice, he has been coming since 1946! He told me he started coming here when was twelve.”
Intrigued to meet this curry enthusiast of so many years standing, I said my farewells to the Halal Restaurant and walked over from Aldgate to Stepney to find Mr Maurice Courtnell of the Mansell St Garage in Cannon St Row. I discovered him underneath a car and he was a little curious of my mission at first, but once I mentioned the name of the Halal Restaurant he grew eager to speak to me, describing himself proudly as “a true East Ender from Limehouse, born within the sound of Bow Bells.” A little shy to reveal his age by confirming that he had been going to the Halal Restaurant from the age of twelve, yet Maurice became unreservedly enthusiastic in his praise of this best-loved culinary insitution. “My father and my uncles, we all started going round there just after the Second World War.” he recalled with pleasure, “Without a doubt it is the best restaurant of any kind that I know – the place is A1, beautiful people and lovely food. I remember Mr Jaffer that started it, I remember holding Mahaboob in my arms when he was a new-born baby. Every Christmas we go round there for our Christmas party. It is the only restaurant I recommend, and I’ve fifteen restaurateurs as regular customers at my garage. When Leman St Police Station was open, all the police officers used to be in there. It is always always full.”
Held in the affections of East Enders and City Workers alike, the Halal Restaurant is an important landmark in our culinary history, still busy and still serving the same dishes to an enthusiastic clientele after more than eighty years. Of the renowned Halal Restaurant, it may truly be said, it is the daddy of all the curry restaurants in the East End.
Asab Miah, Head Chef at the Halal Restaurant, has been cooking for forty-two years. Originally at the Clifton Restaurant in Brick Lane, he has been at the Halal Restaurant for the last nineteen years.
Quayum, Moshahid Ali, Ayas Miah, Mahadoob Narangoli, Asab Miah and Sayed.
At 12:01pm, the first City gent of the day arrives for curry at the Halal Restaurant.
Abdul Wahab, Mohammed Muayeed Khan and J.A. Masum.
At 12:02pm, the second City gent of the day arrives for curry at the Halal Restaurant.
Maurice Courtnell, owner of the Mansell St Garage and the Halal Restaurant’s biggest advocate, has been going round for curry since 1946. – “The place is A1, beautiful people and lovely food. I remember Mr Jaffer that started it, I remember holding Mahaboob in my arms when he was a new-born baby.”
Mahaboob Narangoli, owner of the East End’s oldest Indian restaurant.
David Hoffman At The Wet Shelter
Thanks to all the readers who have contributed, in the first week of our crowdfund, we have raised £3825.
If, in the remaining three weeks, we can hit our target and raise sufficient funds to frame David’s photographs to museum standard, then the Museum of the Home have offered us an exhibition from October to March. Afterwards, the exhibition will become part of the museum’s permanent collection so they can be shown in future as a legacy of our project.
Please forward the details of our crowdfund to you family, friends and work colleagues.
CLICK HERE TO HELP US STAGE DAVID’S EXHIBITION IN OCTOBER
Bobbie Beecroft cuts Mr Sheridan’s hair, 1976
When photographer David Hoffman was squatting in Fieldgate Mansions in Whitechapel in the seventies, he was asked to do fund-raising shots for the shelter in the crypt of St Botolph’s in Aldgate which offered refuge to all homeless people without distinction. Yet this commission turned into a photographic project that extended over many years and resulted in a distinguished body of work documenting the lives of the dispossessed in hundreds of intimate and unsentimental images.
Initially, David found the volatile conditions of the crypt challenging but, over months and years, he became accepted by those at the shelter who adopted him as their own photographer. Rev Malcolm Johnson was the enlightened priest responsible for opening the crypt but, once he moved on, his brave endeavour was closed down. More than thirty years later, most of the people in David’s pictures are dead and forgotten, and his soulful photographs are now the only record of their existence and of the strange camaraderie they discovered in the crypt at St Botolph’s.
“St Botolph’s in Aldgate had a ‘wet shelter,’ an evening shelter for damaged or lost souls where alcohol and drugs were permitted. It was run by Rev Malcolm Johnson and Terry Drummond, who were very generous and accepting, and the purpose was a Christian one, based on the notion that you are accepted whoever you are. I’m not keen on organised religion, but here they were doing something that needed to be done.
I was asked if I could do some photographs to raise funds for the work and I remember arriving at the top of the steps outside the crypt and standing there for five minutes because I didn’t dare to go down. The noise was deafening and it really stank of piss and unwashed bodies. I was frightened I’d get attacked and my camera smashed but, equally, I thought it needed documenting, it was a part of life I’d never seen before. It was very noisy, very smelly, chaotic, and there was a lot of violence.
It was a place to get something to eat, get washed and get clean clothing. Not everybody was on drink or drugs but ninety per cent were. A lot were ex-servicemen who had travelled the world and would reminisce about bars in Cairo or Baghdad. It was amazing what they would talk about.
When I returned, I gave them eighth-size A4 prints so they could put them in their pockets. They gave me permission to take their pictures and, on each visit, I’d bring them prints from the previous evening. So I became their photographer.
Over six or seven years, I’d go every night for two or three months at a stretch. It was important to be regular while you were doing it. You needed to come frequently, so people relaxed and accepted you as part of the scene. I’d go every night for a couple of months. It was a place where nobody else goes, it was a humble part of life.”
Washing a shirt at St Botolph’s, 1978
A volunteer serves tea and sandwiches
Azella, a regular at St Botolph’s, makes herself up before heading to the pub with a pal in 1977. Later that year, Azella was killed when a lorry drove over the cardboard box where she slept in Spitalfields Market.
At St Botolph’s, 1978
At St Botolph’s, 1976
At St Botolph’s, 1978
At St Botolph’s, 1978
At St Botolph’s, 1978
At St Botolph’s, 1978
Leo, eighty-two years old and a non-drinker at St Botolph’s, 1976
At St Botolph’s, 1978
Percy & Jane, non-drinkers, at St Botolph’s, 1978
At St Botolph’s, 1978
At St Botolph’s, 1977
At St Botolph’s, 1978
At St Botolph’s, 1978
At St Botolph’s, 1978
At St Botolph’s, 1978
At St Botolph’s, 1978
Photographs copyright © David Hoffman
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Cat Women
So far we have raised £3,655 in less than a week
CLICK HERE TO HELP ME STAGE DAVID HOFFMAN’S EXHIBITION IN OCTOBER
Since there are rumblings against cat women on the other side of the Atlantic, I thought this was a good time to publish this fine collection of portraits of females and their felines assembled by Alice Maddicott author of CAT WOMEN : An Exploration of Feline Friendships and Lingering Superstitions.
“I became a cat woman the moment I was hit with a thud of love that I’d never realised a creature could produce,” Alice admitted to me. “I never thought I’d become a cat lady but, as I think of it now, the strangest thing is that it is something you can become.”
“It is easy to miss the second cat, he disappears into the white of her floral dress, next to the tabby stripes of his friend.”
“Girl and cat are all the life of this photograph – her happiness so bright.”
“A mother sits, her daughter stands, made one by the curve of her arms. The cat has been grabbed to make a triptych – their little family – a tumble of curves.”
“Look at me and Mary, he says, we are one and you can never tear us apart.”
“Rosalind lifts Marmalade out of the pram – her precious patient.”
“There are some pains only cats can make better.”
“The invisible ribbons that bind her and Sadie are stronger than any threat. She will not leave her.”
“He’s wrapped in arms, she frames him, a tender representation of perfect teenage dreaminess, when the world was vast and full and for the taking.”
“The kitten she holds is Gretel, her brother Hansel is elsewhere, a black blur battling the wire fence.”
“This is not their first Christmas together and each year they pose together by the sparkling tree.”
“On her dress near her shoulder, that could be a tear from naughty claws and teeth.”
“She is smiling but it is the love for her cat that stands out. She cuddles him properly.”
“He’s going doolally, blissed out as she holds him so protectively.”
“Cradling the loose end of a washing line, she rests. A well-earned sit on the steps and a bowl of food for the cat.”
“Her neatly parted hair, clips in place, hides her true wildness, how much she and Moppet share and the joy of freedom waiting for them.”
“She doesn’t look mean, more frustrated and worn out, the feeling any parent of toddlers would understand.”
“This cat is somewhat grander and gazes more at ease than her owner, who is strangely still, arms obscured, buckled feet neatly turned out.”
“Her garden is beautiful and full of sun. Her cat is white and all candyfloss despite the strange grip she has on her.”
“She could have forgotten the strength of the bond she had with her cat then suddenly be flooded with the memory, months or years later.
Photographs and text copyright © Alice Maddicott
You may also like to read about
The Petticoat Lane Mosaic
Thanks to those who have contributed so far we have raised a third of our target in less than a week
CLICK HERE TO HELP ME STAGE DAVID HOFFMAN’S EXHIBITION IN OCTOBER
Mosaic makers, Elspeth, Ken, David, Sheri, Alice, Beryl, Dani and in the front row, Lee, Tessa, Janice
Petticoat Lane Market has a special place in my affections because it was where my parents went on their honeymoon in 1958. Today it commands my respect as the most authentic local market, because Petticoat Lane is not a recreational market as the others are but the place where you go if you need to buy things cheap.
So it was an especial delight to go over there and congratulate Tessa Hunkin and her colleagues from Hackney Mosaic Project, the makers of the new Petticoat Lane mosaic which celebrates the history of the market.
For many months, they have been working to complete the mosaic in the pavilion on Hackney Downs which serves as their workshop and yesterday came to admire their latest creation now installed on the wall of the Petticoat Tower Estate on the west side on Middlesex St.
Even as we stood there, passersby stopped to take photos of themselves in front of the mosaic which gave the proud makers a visible and gratifying confirmation that they have created a popular success.
At the centre of the mosaic is a view down Middlesex St, flanked by roundels of textile designs and the market personalities of yesteryear (including Prince Monolulu and Sid Strong), embellished with images of petticoats. If you look closely, there are even some actual pearl buttons set into the mosaic in honour of the pearly kings and queens.
Afterwards, the mosaic makers took the opportunity for a stroll around the market followed by a hearty lunch at Nora’s Cafe on Wentworth St to celebrate the completion of yet another successful project to add to the dozens of mosaics they have installed over the past ten years which elevate our East End streets with their wit and beauty.
A Spitalfields silk design and Sid Strong, the crockery juggler
A Bengali textile design and an Organ Grinder
A Pearly Queen and a Wax Batik textile design
THE HACKNEY MOSAIC PROJECT is seeking commissions, so if you would like a mosaic please get in touch hackneymosaic@gmail.com
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The Mosaic Makers of Hackney Downs
The Award-Winning Mosaic Makers of Hackney
