Network Rail have been announcing the big news for weeks. The new entrance to King's Cross station opens today. Except it actually opened yesterday. Never open in the rush hour when you can soft launch at the weekend.
A brand new semicircular atrium has been bolted onto the western side of the existing station building. It's vast, and tall, with a swirling lattice of white metal rising up from a central point and spreading out to form a roof. Actually 'roof' is underselling it, it's a fantasticstructure. The eye of every traveller, and the camera lens of a substantial proportion, is drawn to look up at the ceiling and to capture the scene. And the funnel's not simply decoration. The concourse has been built directly over the tube station's northern ticket hall, so the lofty roof has to be supported solely from one side where the floor's less weak.
You'll see this redevelopment soon enough, the next time you board a train to Edinburgh, Leeds or Potters Bar. But the comment that most struck home when I wandered around yesterday came from an angry mother as she struggled to work out where on earth to go to catch her train. "It's like a bloody airport," she said. And I think she's right.
The new King's Cross station separates departures from arrivals, just like an airport. You arrive in one part, which happens to be the new western concourse, and you depart through another, which is the existing southern concourse. Network Rail's intended aim is to minimise contact between the two streams of passenger traffic as much as possible, and thus to keep throughflow separated. It'll take some getting used to, which is why several grinning youths were standing around yesterday with giant slip-on hands pointing the correct way into the station. They'll be out again today, at all the former entrances that are now exit only, until everybody's got the hang of things and adapted their behaviour appropriately. Stop thinking of King's Cross as a station and start thinking airport and it'll make a lot more sense.
Departures: Here they come, the people with luggage. Lumbering along the passageways from the tube platforms, following the signs like sheep until eventually they reach the northern ticket hall. One singleescalator rises up in the far corner, which'll be switched to run downwards only when rush hour flow requires it. The main escalators are to the left, and these emerge in the centre of the ground floor shops because that's what commercial sensibility demands these days. Unless you plan your route carefully you're going to have to walk past the newsagent, the greetings card shop, the sandwich dispensary and the coffee merchant, rather than walking directly and swiftly to board your train. Just as passengers are forced to endure lengthy wandering at airports, sorry, King's Cross is much the same both below and above ground.
The way that rail pricing is going, increasing numbers of long-haul travellers are forced to buy timed tickets to keep costs down. This means arriving at the station well in advance of the scheduled departure time, because it's never worth the expense of being unintentionally late. King's Cross is therefore full of people hanging around for half an hour, an hour, maybe more, until their designated scheduled service is ready to board. The new western concourse is well equipped to keep these premature arrivals occupied in a way that the old concourse wasn't. As well as all those shops at the top of the escalators, there's also a pub squeezed into the gap between platforms 8 and 9. Close by is the wall with an embedded trolley where Harry Potter fans can pretend they're at Platform 9¾, next to an independent bookshop where JK Rowling's novels can be purchased. If you're quick you might grab one of the less-than-50 seats near the entrance to the ticket office. If not, and you need a sit down, you'll have to go upstairs.
The mezzanine level is accessed by escalators at either end of the concourse. Up here are the toilets (30p, since you ask) as well as a curve of restaurants ready to fill your waiting time. Lovers of Japanese, Mexican, Italian or world cuisine will find plenty of choice and a selection of tables to munch at. If it's British cuisine you want then there are pasties and M&S sandwiches downstairs, but only those spending more upstairs get the seats. A cunning design feature is the upperpassageway which funnels mezzanine diners directly into the station once their train is ready. They don't need to head down through the main ticket barriers at the end of the platforms, they can emerge halfway along the platforms via a dedicated one-way footbridge and a series of descending escalators. Whether short-haul commuters will be tempted this way I doubt, but the gateline downstairs should cope well enough with rush hour traffic.
Arrivals: As at most airports, it's quicker to arrive than depart. Passengers on local trains arriving at platforms 9 to 11 have it easiest, which is a turnaround from how things used to be, as they can reach the escalators down to the tube fairly quickly. But all inter-city arrivals pull into the main train shed at platforms 0-8, and they've got a very set path to follow. There's no access to the footbridge, remember, so it's the usual long walk down the platform and then through the broad line of automatic ticket gates across the far end. Welcome to the arrivals concourse, which is what used to be the entire station, and which is destined to be completely demolished next year. It's reallyquiet here when no trains have arrived, and then suddenly the rush begins and everyone pours in and suddenly the cashier at WH Smith has something to do.
There are, for now, three ways out. Straight ahead takes you out onto the Euston Road where there are buses and an entrance to the tube. Gullible first-timers, however, are likely to be lured in by the roundel above the entrance to the right. This is the 2010 portal designed by sadists, with signs urging you to deviate several minutes out of your way via the northern ticket hall. No change there, alas. And thirdly there's a single exit out onto York Way, which from today becomes one-way only, which is bad news for locals living on the Islington side of King's Cross who now face a longer walk to get anywhere, their direct passage blocked. There will be, as of next year, just one way out, into the open air, onto the new public piazza. No shops, no protection from the rain, just ejected into Greater London and left to get on with it.
No doubt you'll be catching a flight from King's Cross Airport soon. Admire the new terminal building, it's rather special. But do be aware of all the ins and outs, and try not to spend too much time and money in duty-free on the way through.
For nine and a half years I've been dull old diamondgeezer.blogspot.com, and now suddenly I've gone all United Kingdom specific. Excited, anyone?
And I haven't stopped there. I've also rolled out more than a hundred national variations, allowing my international audience to read the website that's best for them. Here are just a few of the new diamond geezer websites now available...
Did you notice the change? It's been this way since 11pm on Friday night. Surf here before that time and you'd probably have landed on diamondgeezer.blogspot.com. And then someone flicked a big switch somewhere, and suddenly everyone from a UK address was directed to diamondgeezer.blogspot.co.uk instead. No choice in the matter, no sneaking back to diamondgeezer.blogspot.com, because that would be too sensible. Instead now only readers in the United States are permitted to visit diamondgeezer.blogspot.com, and everyone else around the world has been lumbered with their own national-specific URL suffix variant. Identical websites, different names.
Yes, this is Blogger's engineers playing silly buggers again. They're rolling out a global system which allows them to censor blogs country by country, and they're very proud of what they're doing. Where national legislation requires it, material deemed offensive can now be blocked without having to place a blanket ban across an entire site. According to Blogger, "when we’re notified about content that either violates our guidelines or breaks the law... we will remove it, or restrict it in the country where it’s illegal." Country-specific blogspot domains, that's how any such lockdowns will be managed.
For the vast majority of blogs worldwide, this is a sledgehammer to crack a nut. I'm highly unlikely to run a series of posts detailing the abuse of human rights in Tibet, or to expose the Iranian minister who's been having an affair with his intern's sister's daughter. But Blogger has still deemed it essential to saddle me suddenly with numerous variants of my blog, all entirely the same apart from the URL.
Today's post, for example, now has more than a hundred different global variants. Should you want to tweet or link to today's post, readers in Britain will see diamondgeezer.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/sigh.html. Meanwhile readers in Canada will tweet diamondgeezer.blogspot.ca/2012/03/sigh.html, readers in New Zealand will link to diamondgeezer.blogspot.co.nz/2012/03/sigh.html, and readers in Papua New Guinea will see only diamondgeezer.blogspot.pg/2012/03/sigh.html. That's going to clog up search engines, isn't it, when duplicated content appears at dozens and dozens of different addresses? Thankfully Blogger is run by the same folk who run Google, so Google will still be able to assimilate all the variants and present a united front under diamondgeezer.blogspot.com. But, honestly, what a mess for the rest of us.
It's not exactly commonplace to rename a website after the location it's being read rather the location it's being published. Some businesses do it to force would-be shoppers to see local prices. But surely it makes no sense to rebrand a blog after the reader's country, because that's just perverse. This is a blog mostly about London, so anyone surfing in from abroad and landing on diamondgeezer.blogspot.fr or diamondgeezer.blogspot.co.nz is going to be mighty perplexed.
Some bloggers have discovered that their comments system no longer works, because it assumes a single blogspot.com address, and non-American readers no longer see that. Other bloggers have lost plugins, again because they're tied to a particular URL which is no longer particular enough. And I'd estimate that 75% of my readers are now seeing diamondgeezer.blogspot.co.uk, even though that's not the web address I've embedded in nine and a half years of past posts. As usual Blogger have launched a change that optimises things for them, and them alone, and the customer be damned.
Thankfully there is a work-around, if you're interested, and that's to bookmark http://diamondgeezer.blogspot.com/ncr which will always redirect to diamondgeezer.blogspot.com no matter what. This “no country redirect” (ncr) will temporarily prevent Blogger from redirecting readers to the local version of the blog, apparently, and so far it seems to work for me. But it's a lot of unnecessary hassle for the average reader, and I doubt that the additional hassle of linking to http://diamondgeezer.blogspot.com/ncr/2012/03/sigh.html will ever be worth the effort.
In the meantime rest assured that the generic address diamondgeezer.blogspot.com will always work, even if it gets redirected mid-flow, so there's no need for you to update any links you might already have bookmarked. Not until Blogger do something else that's bloody stupid, that is, for which it can only be a matter of time.
Sometimes, when somewhere's ugly, the best thing to do is to hide it.
Stratford's ugly. Not the bright shiny Westfield shopping centre, apparently, because blocky towers and illuminated billboards are 21st century chic. But the old brown Stratford Shopping Centre, the building that resembles a multi-storey car park, because that's essentially what it is. Pig-ugly, all of a sudden, now that the eyes of the world are coming to town. Imagine the shame if international tourists heading to the Games went walkabout in E15 rather than E20. Best hide it.
Hey presto, a wall of artistic spikes has arisen. Or rather a forest of twisted steel, bending upwards from the pavement opposite the bus station. They've been climbing along the edge of Stratford's central concrete island for some time now, unexpectedly densely. Eighteen metres high, the tallest, so you really can't miss them. Anyone not in the know might have mistaken them for lampposts, very thick lampposts, and been waiting for the council to come along and slap some lights on top. Not so. Instead they brought leaves.
This is The Shoal, a major new artwork designed to raise Stratford's Meridian Square above the ordinary. Each leaf is rhomboid in shape, maybe two metres in height and clad in titanium. Each seems to have a subtly different metallic shade, some more blue, some more green, others definitely more silver. None of them overlap, merely almost tessellate, to create a scale-like vision when viewed from afar. Currently a couple of dozen are in place, mostly at the western tip, but soon there'll be more than a hundred along half a kilometre of road. And every leaf moves, apparently, because The Shoal has been designed as a kinetic sculpture. I can't say I've noticed anything flap or wiggle yet, not even a slight twitch, but maybe when the wind gets up we'll see these panels shake.
The architects are very proud. You can tell architects are proud when they use flowery language to describe some bits of metal in an over-enthusiastic way. The Shoal, we're told, consists of "dynamic foliage". Its purpose is "illuminating and delighting the arrival into Stratford from the main station". The leaves provide "an impression of colour, light, movement and structural joy." And then there's this description to help explain how the whole thing hangs together:
The Shoal therefore exists not to shield but to distract. It's still perfectly possible to see the concrete service ramp leading into the multi-storey, but your gaze is elsewhere. The bleak offices of Morgan House still rise behind with all the charm of a housebrick, but you're looking at the shiny things in front. And the upstairs seating area at Burger King simply vanishes into the background when there are hinged wiggly metal leaves to enjoy. There you go, job done.
But there is a gap in this artificial forest, a single point where the curtainraises to reveal Real Stratford behind. That's the entrance to the shopping centre, which The Shoal is designed to frame in an attempt to attract visitors and shoppers within. Heaven knows what international tourists will make of Poundland, Sports Direct and the Half Price Jewellers, and one doubts they'll ever make it through far enough to find the lone aspirational Starbucks on the Broadway.
Rest assured that Stratford Shopping Centre remains popular with the real residents who live hereabouts, those whose budgets prefer the 99p Store to Westfield's string of boutiques. Only a couple of shops have boarded up in the six months since Stratford City bared its retail teeth, which in the face of a major recession is something to celebrate. So let's hope that the Shoal helps to raise the profile of the businesses on Stratford Island, as an investment in their future rather than a curtain to screen them out.
Sometimes, when somewhere's ugly, the best thing to do is to make it beautiful.
At TfL's Board Meeting yesterday, item 5 on the agenda was discussion of the organisation's draft budget for 2012/13. This is a detailed document outlining plans for the financial year ahead, including key performance targets and intended operational outlay. There's plenty about meeting the challenge of the Olympics, of course, but also hidden nuggets revealing that Kensington (Olympia) station is to be gated, that RV1 will become the UK's first bus route operated entirely with ‘zero emission’ buses, and that no new Barclays Cycle Superhighways will open in the next twelve months.
I've scoured Appendix 4 which is a lengthy list of Key deliverables and milestones, and picked out the following deadlines as being of potential interest. If you're transport-inclined, you might like to be aware of what TfL are planning between now and March 2013:
April 2012: Electric vehicles - 600 charge points installed May 2012:Bond Street station upgrade project - demolition to ground level complete May 2012: Go live of contactless payment cards (credit or debit cards) on London Buses June 2012:Victoria station upgrade - completion and bring into use of Network Rail to LU ticket hall stairs (Sussex stairs) June 2012:New Bus for London - delivery of vehicle No 8
July 2012: S-Stock preview service on Hammersmith & City line July 2012: British Transport Police – CCTV (Phase 1-3) 110 stations viewable July 2012: Platform cooling at Green Park station July 2012: Station wi-fi service brought into beneficial use "Summer 2012":Emirates Air Line - commencement of trial operations, revenue operation commences August 2012:Northern line upgrade - start system testing (High Barnet to West Finchley) September 2012:Central line train refresh complete (windows and seats)
October 2012: Final S8 stock available for delivery to London October 2012: First S7 train available for delivery to London November 2012:Tottenham Hale Gyratory - construction started November 2012:New South London line (East London line phase 2) - commencement of trial operations December 2012:New South London line - commence passenger service December 2012: S-Stock in timetabled Hammersmith & City service December 2012:Northern line upgrade - 106 trains ready for revenue automatic train operation service
January 2013: Completion of Central line blockade (11 points and crossing and 500m ballasted track replacement achieved) February 2013:Tottenham Court Road - commence ticket hall fit out, start New Oxford Street entrance fit out February 2013:Barclays Cycle Superhighways - Phase 2 (routes 5 and 12) detailed design completed March 2013:Victoria line capacity increase - introduction of working time table 35 (33 trains per hour) March 2013: Roll-out of new air conditioned trains on Metropolitan line complete; all A-Stock removed from service (latest possible date) March 2013: 55 Pedestrian Countdown at Traffic Signal Sites on Street March 2013: Stepney Green to Bromley-by-Bow infrastructure complete March 2013: Station wi-fi project complete
WALK LONDON The London Loop[section 20] Chigwell to Havering-atte-Bower (6½ miles)
Now this is obscure. From one of the tube's most infrequently served stations to a village with one of London's most infrequent bus services. Pick your moment carefully before you walk London Loop section 20. But you may not believe how rural the northeastern edge of London can be. Bring mudproof boots.
Chigwell's very Essex. Not proper Essex, but stereotypically TOWIE Essex. You'll spot this at the shopping parade near the station, where the dry cleaners is the Chigwell Valet Service and the local caff is The Village Deli. Check out the estate agent's window and you'll see million pound houses aren't uncommon. Expect to see several on the walk up the High Road, and many fenced-off sets of personalised numberplates too. The village has a proper historic heart around the nucleus of the old church, including the multi-gabled Ye Olde Kings Head. It's one of innumerable inns around the country with a claimed connection to Dick Turpin, and home to probably the only bar/restaurant in Britain called Sheesh. Only in Chigwell. [photo]
Enough of civilisation. The Loop heads off via a minor field and then an impressively majorfield, with views across undulating countryside rising to a line of cottages on the ridge. First-time walkers stick to the hedgerows along a zigzag of farm tracks, whereas locals stride confidently and diagonally through what will soon be crops, but it's too early in the season as yet [photo]. That buzzing noise might be a lone bumble bee floating across a bank of dandelions, but it's more likely to be a skyful of light aircraft from the local airfield. At the top of the hill is a well-concealed waterworks, courtesy of Essex and Suffolk Water, where a sign on the edge of a large circular tank demands "no swimming", not that the ducks seem to care.
An orchard, a Shetland pony and a line of leylandii welcome you to Chigwell Row. The footpath past the hedge is narrow, but that'll only cause problems if you arrive during the hedge's annual trim, forcing the lady up a giant stepladder to stop, descend and shift the thing out of the way. There are further expensive homesandcottages here, strung out along a sort-of village green, plus probably a red double decker bus parked jarringly outside the church. A flash of charming woodland leads down to a busy dual carriageway where London begins, as is immediately obvious by the relentless housing estates that hug the capital's northeastern edge. Don't worry, we're not going there.
The Loop now crosses into Hainault Country Park, which is a 300 acre remnant of the ancient Forest of Essex. Parts of the park are very quiet, where you'll meet nothing but a rat scampering through a pile of logs, or the occasional group of mates larking about on an aerial walkway. But approach the lake, and the huge open space beyond the trees, and suddenly you're in Busysville, London Borough of Redbridge. The lake is a magnet for family groups, because one circuit is just far enough for toddlers and grandparents to walk. There's also a cafe (with queues at weekends) and a much-loved rare breeds farm (with donkey rides and meerkats). The car park lures suburban Londoners in their droves, most especially because the park's ideal for the exercising of squat growly dogs. Lazy visitors walk two minutes from their cars and let their hounds run amok on the grassy slopes. Fitter souls walk up the hill, past the Millenniumbeacon, and unleash their demons in the extensive woodland beyond.
At the top of Cabin Hill the Loop leaves these daytrippers behind by doglegging back across a golf course. The golfers are a friendly bunch, pleased to pause while you nip across the fairway, slightly embarrassed for holding up their game. There follows an unlikely descent through the treeline down the centre of the course, all the while attempting to follow the trunks painted with yellow-painted hoops - a tussle I can guarantee you'll never manage in a wheelchair. And then out into open farmland once more, for a stride across another field that'll be waist high within months. This liminal London landscape is the head of the Rom valley - surprisingly glorious stuff, whose rural remoteness is marred only by a single Havering tower block on the hill in the distance.
Lower Park Farm is more than a bit horsey, which explains why the bridleway leading east is often a muddy quagmire. If you've worn anything less than walking boots or wellies, this is the point where your footwear pays the price. Oddly the slope beyond is named Mud Hill, but is considerable more stable. Take a last look down across green fields, before stepping beneath the canopy of Havering Country Park, Yes, yet another country park starting with H, but this one's more thickly wooded, as befits the former estate of royal-friendly Havering Palace. Most impressive, genuinely, is the Wellingtonia Avenue lined by more than 100 Giant Redwoods. It's one of the two largest such plantations in the country, looming 140-years tall on either side of the path, and bestseen before the surrounding deciduous trees gain their leaves. [photo]
And that's it. The avenue emerges at the summit village of Havering-atte-Bower, which is as chocolate-boxy as East London gets [photo]. You might send your daughter horse-riding here, or hole yourself up in a quaintpub, or simply hang around on the green by the stocks waiting for the (very) occasional bus out. Loop section 21 might be your best way out, although I'm assured it's not as fine a hike as the six miles past.
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London's easternmost cycle hire station: East India DLR London's easternmost cycle hire station is so far east that it falls off the map. Get hold of a paper copy, or check the pdf online, and the ultimate red blob is outside Blackwall station. But there's one more docking cluster beyond the black margin, where nobody who takes the scheme literally will ever find it, and that's at East India station. It's spread out in a single line across the concrete piazza at the foot of the DLR staircase, very close to the line marking the Greenwich Meridian (but still very definitely western hemisphere, not east). If you believe the map imprinted on the side of the terminal, the O2 across the Thames in North Greenwich is only five minutes cycle ride away, but that'll be because these maps are automatically generated by computer and proofread by idiots. A more sensible location for this docking station would have been on the northern side of the thundering dual carriageway, where the Cycle Superhighway is, because getting there at present requires lugging your bike up and over lots of steps. But the estate on the other side is private, and management only admitted CS3 under sufferance. There's no blue stripe here, only a scattering of pathetic handkerchief-sized blue squares ironed onto the tiles. A docking station would never have been permitted on this private land, no matter convenient it might have been for office workers and Tower Hamlets Council employees. On Saturday, during the quarter hour I observed, only one bike departed the East India docking station. It should have been two, but the second bloke tried and tried and failed to get the system to work. He read the instructions, he walked up and down, he pressed buttons, he inserted his card, he pressed more buttons, he inserted his card again, and then he walked away and caught the train instead. I couldn't tell what the problem was, it could have been the system or his bank details, or maybe he was only pretending to look like he wanted a bike. Whatever, chalk that one down to "customer lost".
London's southernmost cycle hire station: Kennington Oval I had thought the southernmost cycle hire station might be at the tip of the Isle of Dogs, but no, the Cycle Hire zone has also extended down Lambeth way. It's only been extended by one single solitary station, but if you're a cricket fan you'll be pleased because it's directly outside Surrey's County cricket ground. That's the Kia Oval, or at least it is this year until some other sports-irrelevant company comes along and appends its brand name in the motor manufacturer's place. Nip out of Hobbs Gate and there's the docking station, curved along the roadside opposite a row of turnstiles. It's very pretty at the moment, blessed by spring blossom poking over the fence from neighbouring Lockwood House, plus a rogue traffic cone upended over the adjacent parking regulations sign. This parking sign is a sudden anachronism, because "pay at machine, maximum stay 4 hours" is no longer possible along this strip of road now that the docking station has arrived, and nobody's thought to remove it. On Saturday afternoon the bike stands were almost all full bar a single gap at one end and sprinkling alongside the terminal. Meanwhile at the docking station up the road, by the Post Office, every single stand was filled. Unfortunately, this being one of the original terminals, the map on the side doesn't show the new cycle hire station by the Oval. It's only a minute's ride away, but it might as well not exist until someone gets round to replacing the old map, which I'm guessing would cost too much and won't happen. Plus, interestingly, the online statistics for this docking station claimed that there were several spaces here at the time of my visit, whereas my eyes told me a completely different "this is chock full" story. Lesson learned, if you're using some website or mobile app to help guide you towards an empty station, it might not be empty when you get there.
London's westernmost cycle hire station: Ariel Way, White City Here's a good one. London's westernmost cycle hire station doesn't exist. I mean there is a westernmost cycle hire station, obviously, but it's not the one shown on TfL's printed map. According to that there's a cycle hire station on Wood Lane alongside the bus station, but if you go and stand in the designated spot it doesn't exist. It did seem slightly odd that there'd be two docking stations on adjacent sides of the same street corner, but that's what the map said, and it turns out not to be true. So the westernmost cycle hire station is instead on Ariel Way, which is fractionally further west than the fresh cluster outside the new library. That had volunteers giving out leaflets on Saturday afternoon, so it was throbbing, whereas Ariel Way was unattended, unloved and unused. This surprised me, because you'd think the much-trumpeted Westfield extension would be busy as anything. Not so. The graphs for two of Westfield's four docking stations pretty much flatlined over the weekend. You could have fitted everyone who used them into a single single decker bus, so irrelevant was their presence. But pedestrian footfall at Ariel Way was very high, perhaps not surprisingly because the docking station's been built directly across the path to the traffic lights. I watched hundreds of punters walking directly between the bikes on their way to/from the tube station - some through a specially designed gap, but others slightly awkwardly between adjacent pedals. Only a couple of adults stopped to inspect the terminal, and the only other positive interaction was one young child who hopped up onto a stationary saddle hoping this was a new playground. The lack of interest appeared to be shopping-related. When you're lugging a carrier bag or three, these basket-less hire bikes are absolutely no use whatsoever for getting any medium-to-large purchase home. Local residents might find the western extension zone useful, but Westfield shoppers seem far less likely to go for a ride.
London's northernmost cycle hire station: Castlehaven Road, Camden Town To complete the quartet, here's yet another brand new docking station. It's part of the Camden Town extension, which brings the cycle hire scheme right into the heart of this youth-friendly tourist magnet. Castlehaven Road is very close to Camden Lock and its associated markets, opposite the Hawley Arms, and near an open space where foreign teenagers gather to scoop noodles out of trays. Not surprisingly, then, this was the busiest cycle hire station I saw by some considerable margin. It was also almost devoid of bikes when I turned up. I arrived just in time to watch a group of friends faff around by the terminal and slowly, oh so slowly, work out how to ride four of the last bikes away. They cycled haltingly towards the railway bridge, straight into a torrent of incoming traffic (it's a one-way street, who knew?) so had to divert swiftly onto the pavement to avoid crushing embarrassment. Two goths nabbed another pair of bikes, with one's purchased artwork slung precariously in front of the handlebars. And this left one lonely bike, plus 26 empty spaces waiting in vain for anybody to cycle in and replenish the stocks. A few groups wandered along and stared at the situation, but one bike wasn't going to be sufficient for their needs so they walked on. If they'd checked their printed map they'd have noticed another docking station very nearby in Hawley Crescent, except if they'd visited they'd have discovered that it doesn't exist. There's a lot of building work going on here beneath MTV's giant satellite dishes and in front of the Open University building, but as yet there's no sign of a municipal bike rack. It does sound very much as if the new printed cycle hire map went to print too early, or wasn't properly proofed, or both. Some of the new docking stations it's clear are already hits, while others look like distinct misses. But it's early days for cycle hire in the new extension zone, and whether this is a major infrastructure improvement or an costly white elephant, that's yet to be proven.
Three days ago, London's <Greedy bank>Cycle Hire zone extended eastwards. I would have mentioned this earlier, except it didn't extend as far as Norfolk which made on-the-spot reviewing difficult. It also didn't extend across the whole of Tower Hamlets, as TfL's official Cycle Hire webpage claims (bad luck, Fish Island, there's nothing for you). But it did extend as far as Bow, which means I suddenly have a Cycle Hire terminal or two very close to my front door. Have I been for a ride? Hell no. Sorry, cycling evangelists, because I know you think two-wheeled is the way to go. But I'm a liability on a bike, utterly hopelessly uncoordinated, so I keep my life expectancy higher by staying out of the saddle.
What follows, then, is a pedestrian's view of the Cycle Hire scheme extension. I'm not a cyclist, so feel free to disregard my blatherings. What would I know about whether the keys work properly, how smooth the ride is, or what happens when you try to dock your bike? But I've been for a walk down the eastern edge of the extension zone anyway, and here's what I found.
Bow Church's docking station isn't actually outside the station, it's a minute or two up the road. It's been laid out along what used to be the widest strip of pavement in the local area, but has since been sliced once for a Cycle Superhighway and now again for a row of 39 bikes. There's still plenty of room to walk past, thankfully, but suddenly it's much more difficult to nip through and cross the road here. More than half of the bikes here were used yesterday, right down to a period mid-afternoon when only a couple were available. Walking from the tube I passed three smiling riders (of an appropriately mixed demographic) biking away from the docking station, which was more than I thought I'd see. A mild overnight success, I'd judge, although I'm very glad no TfL planner chose to site one right outside my front window.
A slight problem involves the three different kinds of black enamel totems along Bow Road. Various Cycle Superhighway miniliths depict the blue strip from Bow to Whitechapel, but not the docking stations along the way, because they were installed last summer and there was no Cycle Hire back then. A brand new Legible London minilith was erected on the pavement outside Barclays last month, but it doesn't feature any docking stations either. Only the maps on the docking station terminals themselves show the location of any other docking stations, and then only those within a five minute walk, which is barely any distance at all. Unless you've checked a paper or online map before setting off, you have absolutely no idea where all the other docking stations are. Stick to the main roads and you'll be fine, but veer off the beaten track and you could be cycling round for ages looking for somewhere to park your steed before the 30 minute free period expires.
At the end of Bromley High Street is Cycle Hire's northeasternmost docking station. If you're hoping to ride to the Olympic Park, sorry, this is as far as you're going to get, because that's a Lloyds TSB domain so Barclays aren't welcome. It's an almost ideal location amid a broad sweep of pavement well away from anyone's front door, but equally a very bad location alongside a dual carriageway where cycling would best be deemed unwise. A curve of 23 black docking points leads round towards the bus stop, should passengers arriving from North Greenwich fancy a ride through the streets of E3. I was only here for a minute or two, but in that time four bikes were undocked (a bunch of recreational weekend travellers who tottered off somewhat uncertainly) and one bike arrived (a young lad who pulled in and sauntered off in seconds, with all the expertise of a Cycle Hire regular).
It's instructive to see where the docking stations aren't. There's no docking station outside, or even nearly outside, Bromley-by-Bow station. Get off the tube here and, sorry, you're going to have to reach your destination on foot. Ditto at Devons Road DLR, where the nearest Cycle Hire location is at least five minutes walk away, as if whoever assembled the map of chosen locations didn't give a damn about enabling cross-modal journey interchanges. Fancy a bike ride along the Limehouse Cut towpath? Nobody's really attempted to make that easy, either at the Bromley end or the Limehouse end. But Langdon Park DLR does have a bike rack almost alongside, as does All Saints, even though somebody's forgotten to show the latter on the published map.
Then on Teviot Street I discovered possibly the least used docking station anywhere on the Cycle Hire network. According to TfL's datafeed absolutely nobody used it on Saturday, not a single withdrawal or deposit, at least before eight o'clock in the evening. Other stations nearby saw bikes dripfeed in or flood out, but nothing shifted here on the Teviot Estate. The docking station's sited in front of a morose parade of shops that'll never see any kind of chain store, let alone a Barclays. Half were shuttered down yesterday, and even the other half were part-shuttered in case the proprietors ever need to shut up shop suddenly. The parade's convenience store is branded "Local Shopper", the unisex hairdresser looks more utility than salon, and the T.F.C takeaway won't be troubling Time Out's restaurant reviews any time soon. I'd suggest that the community around here aren't the sort to waste their hard-won cash on luxuries like bike hire, hence they're not especially interested in Boris's gift of a docking station.
And finally to Aberfeldy Street. According to TfL's printed map there's no Cycle Hire docking station here, whereas according to real life there is. Again it sits outside a parade of wholly underwhelming shops and community drop-ins, providing a service to those within walking distance and absolutely no further. If you ever need reminding that London's no wealthy land of milk and honey, I can strongly recommend a walk through the Teviot and Aberfeldy Estates to make the point. You could even come by bike, although you might look a bit out of place, because so far only a tiny handful of people have.
Route 47: Shoreditch - Bellingham Location: inner London southeast Length of journey: 9 miles, 70 minutes
Another birthday, another numerically significant bus journey. Five years ago I took the 42 to Dulwich, four years ago the 43 to Barnet, three years ago the 44 to Tooting, two years ago the 45 to Clapham and last year the 46 to Farringdon. So this year, obviously, I took the 47 to Bellingham. Who said middle-age wasn't exciting?
I think I did this journey the wrong way round. Ending up in Shoreditch would have been hip and trendy, whereas instead I ended up just south of Catford, in a suburb most Londoners haven't even heard of. Admittedly even Shoreditch isn't that cool when your journey starts opposite a lifesize poster of Olly Murs beside a Texaco garage, at a bus stop frequented by two unkempt men wielding a bow and arrow. I was therefore really quite keen to get away. When my 47 arrived I took up position top deck front left, which is the best place to sit on an end-to-end journey, and was joined on the neighbouring seat by a beardy trendsetter in out-of-the-box black trainers. He didn't stay long.
It was only a couple of stops to the City, which appears to be creeping inexorably outwards as the fringes of Hackney are sequentially boarded up and turned into bland offices. Further down Bishopsgate was an unobstructed view of the Gherkin, courtesy of a levelled building site, followed by the concrete lift stump of the Pinnacle, which might one day be as iconic a skyscraper but only when someone gets the money together. The City will always rebuild, as evidenced by the number of cranes, cones and workmen in hard hats in evidence when you ride this way at the weekend.
I never tire of the view from LondonBridge, which is just as well because my number 43 bus came this way four years ago and my number 48 will cross the span next year. But the view ahead's already changed, and continues to change, as the top levels of the Shard rise to their inevitable sharp-pointed summit. Down below, in Tooley Street, queues of tourists waited to be scared witless by fibreglass and gore in the London Dungeon, while the Britain At War Experience summarily failed to draw similar crowds. And how delightful to see Tower Bridge up close beyond City Hall, at least until Berkeley Homes build a wallof flats beside Potters Fields so that only those with river-facing windows can boast the same.
Enough of money. Central London's wealth slipped rapidly away as the 47 hit Jamaica Road. The street was lined with boxy flats old and new, from the council blocks of the Dickens Estate to the freshly branded Bermondsey Spa. Outside the Jubilee line station traffic was being funnelled into the bus lane, slowing our progress, while workmen set about removing the guardrail down the central reservation. They were hacking it down and lifting it into the back of a truck, hundreds of yards of the stuff, opening up access to pedestrians who can now cross the road directly in front of passing vehicles. A bloke emerging from the tube caught his gym bag on one of the black metal bobbles - a couple of minutes later and the obstruction would have vanished.
Past the daffs in Southwark Park to the silver drum at Canada Water. We passed the new library twice as we encircled the bus station, then proceeded past umpteen glass balconies stickered "Sold" at Maple Quays. The ideal place to live if you're a Daily Mail printworker working at the fortress nextdoor, or want a choice of drive-in restaurants on your doorstep. It was only when the bus headed beyond Surrey Quays that passenger numbers started to pick up, collecting local-bound Oyster-flashers at every stop. Thick-set blokes in trackies, gossipping mothers, cuddling sweethearts, old ladies tugging trollies - they all joined the party aboard.
At Canal Approach I was surprised to see one of London's rarest (and oldest) street signs - a red triangle with a black circle inside labelled "Accident Black Spot". I think the intended hazard is a hump in the road, but it might as well be local youth. The last time I rode the 47 this way, at the Abinger Grove bus stop, a mischievous lad on roller skates suddenly nipped out into the road and grabbed hold of the rear bumper of the bus in front. He had to scarper when our driver noticed him and then gave chase across the shopping precinct... but nothing so thrilling happens on my journey today.
Just after Deptford High Street we turned right, bypassing Greenwich in favour of a run down the Creek towards Lewisham. We passed a number 30 bus going nowhere - now the seating area for a pizzeria/diner at one of SE London's more unusual bars. There's a right social mixture down here, from the charming terraces off Albyn Road to the metal warehouses below the railway viaduct housing wildly-named pentecostal churches. Here we hit Lewisham proper for a ring road ride around the shopping centre. A mileage sign by the Ravensbourne promised "Channel Tunnel 61", not that many folk hereabouts ever intend to drive that far. Instead passengers queued to board our bus at every stop, lugging carrier bags of quilted toilet tissue or whatever other bargain they'd picked up in the pound shops and adjacent market.
It was slow progress south, with queueing traffic belching exhaust fumes in clear contravention of "Low Carbon Lewisham Central". Our driver showed all the classic signs of time-wasting, like pulling over into bus stops where nobody was waiting, then pulling off just in time to get caught by the next red light. He paused for rather too long in Ladywell outside a shop advertising "diabetic tea bags sold here", stuck on a sign in the window in front of the biggest pile of Tate & Lyle sugar bags you ever did see. Most of the other shops down here appeared to be either fried chicken outlets or beauty salons (or, in one extra-special case, both).
The appearance of Catford Shopping Centre's giant fibreglass black cat was the signal for our driver to dawdle some more. He no doubt wished he were travelling around the gyratory in the opposite direction, where a logjam of cars and buses was going absolutely nowhere fast. The Bromley Road was lined by the first desirable detached houses I'd seen all journey, as if some unseen border into the proper suburbs had just been crossed. But we were going no further than the Bellingham bus garage, where the last few passenger remnants were ejected and the driver escaped into Stagecoach's brick shed.
I explored locally for a while, wandering the avenues of the Bellingham estate tucked neatly between the railway lines. This is classic interwar London County Council overspill, with housing that nods subtly at a Tithe barn aesthetic. Across the valley were Catford's last remaining prefabs, still packed with proud residents holding out against redevelopment. Most homes are lovingly tended, but every time someone moves out Lewisham Council board up the windows and slap a "Danger Asbestos" notice on the front door, insidiously killing off the community from within. There are more exciting parts of town, let's be frank, but Shoreditch is only a single bus ride away.
But then I used to think 10 was old. Double figures! Some of the tallest children in the playground were 10, and they seemed so much older than me. I was looking forward to being 10 because I might finally be allowed to stay up late, maybe even after nine o'clock in the evening. But for a long time 10 seemed impossibly far off, bringing the threat of greater responsibilities, and scarily close to big school. Then it turned out when I got there that 10 wasn't especially old after all, and 10 seems ridiculously young now.
I used to think 17 was old. So old that the law would allow me to sit behind the wheel of a car and propel it forward, perish the thought. On the verge of adulthood, amongst that upper elite called the sixth form, some of who even had attempts at facial hair flourishing on their upper lip. That would never be me, surely. Then suddenly I had a provisional driving licence, and my name on the electoral roll, and all sorts of big decisions to make about university, and it turned out that 17 wasn't old, merely important.
I used to think 22 was hideously old. It says so in my diary from twenty-five years ago, so I really did think that, or else I was being deliberately ironic. 22 was the first birthday I spent working rather than studying, with proper adult responsibility. 22 was also the first time the number of birthday cards I received was less than my age, which was a bit depressing, as was the complete lack of anything party-like in the evening. But that same diary page ends by describing 23 next year as "really old", so clearly 22 wasn't as bad as all that.
I used to think 30 was old. 30 was the point at which middle-age began, when everyone started behaving responsibly, maturely, boringly. Nobody had fun in their 30s, surely, they were all too busy buying sensible shoes and wearing slacks and starting families. That film Logan's Run was onto something, don't you think, killing off its entire society at the age of 30? And then I hit 30, and beyond, and discovered that the thirties were my most exciting decade yet. So much livelier, and so much more sociable than I'd ever expected. 30 wasn't a deadline, merely a cusp.
I used to think 40 was old. Everybody said it was, and who was I to disbelieve them? A chronological cliff-edge, beyond which the only way was straight down. Nobody would ever fancy me after I was 40, so if I hadn't found a life partner by 39 then I was doomed. My body would start falling apart, my eyesight would collapse, my hair would turn grey and my waistline would explode... or so I'd been told. But then I reached 40 and it was just another birthday. Other people might have judged me differently because my age began with a 4 instead of a 3, but 40 didn't bother me as much as it did them.
I never really thought much about being 47. 47 was just an anonymous birthday in the doldrums of the upper forties, an age of little consequence, merely another stepping stone on the slow trek to death. And now here I am at 47 and having to come to terms with my newly-designated age label. You might discriminate me as old because of it, depending on how far below 47 you are, but I still feel like the same person who was 40, 30, 22, 17 and 10.
But coming up soon is 50. An entire half century, imagine that. I'll be well past the halfway point of my life, on a slippery slope to obsolescence and decrepitude. At 50 I'll have nothing to look forward to other than ill health, decreasing vigour and a collapsing libido. I'll be wrinkled, unfit, unattractive, and beyond hope. 50's not just middle-age, it's late middle-age, and the point where the younger generation surely disowns and ignores me...
...except I know 50 won't feel like that when I get there. What 47 years on earth have taught me is that "old" always starts next year, never this. All I am today is older, and the same goes for every birthday to come.
Tuesday lunchtime: The Labworth I needed the hard sell to lure Best Mate onto Canvey Island. It's not the most obvious place for a day trip, let alone a wintry walk round the sea wall past the gas tanks. But I had an ulterior motive in mind, which was lunch inside a Grade II listed building I've admired since the first timeI saw it. Unexpectedly, and overwhelmingly, The Labworth was a delight. It's the only building that architect Ove Arup ever designed all by himself, back in the 1930s when Canvey was a burgeoning seaside resort. His creation was meant to resemble the bridge of the Queen Mary liner, and comprises a central drum with two white outstretched arms facing the Thames. The floods of 1953 forced the embedding of the building into a strengthened sea defence, but The Labworth is still an unreservedly Modernist design. The upper floor of the drum houses therestaurant, with toilets and kitchen immediately below, and a Beach Bistro cafe strung out across the waterfront. Come at lunchtime and the cafe's your only option, but that's no bad thing (as we discovered). The interior's smart and airy, mostly white but with bright pink walls at either end. We sat by thewindow in the central curve with the Thames lapping silvery-grey a few feet away. The view was entirely estuarine, with the low hills of the Hoo Peninsula rising in the far distance, and only a very occasional ship passing by, riding the high tide out of Tilbury. The specials board tempted us away from the usual menu, with our food choices vindicated when each was rubbed from the board soon after ordering. My escalope with mushroom sauce was gorgeous, well beyond expectations, accompanied by asparagus and a more than generous serving of crisp, fluffy roast potatoes. This was followed by a "tasting plate" for dessert, comprising decent-sized portions of pavlova, tiramisu and waffle (with ice cream), which were delicious. Service was charmingly cheery throughout, and the entire meal for two came in for under £30. Who'd have guessed that the Canvey waterfront hid such an architectural and culinary gem? I left with: a very happy stomach, and the urge to visit again A photo for you:The Labworth, taken from as far down the sea wall as high tide would allow Another photo for you:Compare and contrast, Calor Gas's nearby "Canvey Terminal"
Monday lunchtime: Port Meadow Most tourists who visit Oxford only ever explore the centre of town. To be honest there's more than enough to see there, be that the colleges, the museums or the general loveliness of historic limestone. But turn right on leaving the station and you soon come to the River Thames, or Isis as they call it round here, which can swiftly whisk you to a completely different rural landscape. The path first follows shady Fiddlers Island, then opens out onto the broad expanse of PortMeadow. This is ancient grazing land, never ploughed, and stretches for 440 acres along the flood plain of the river. It's very green, and very flat, and at this time of year very squelchy. I stuck to the west bank of the river on the way up, past barely budding trees, the occasional hound-walker and Godstow's ruinednunnery. There are two famous pubs up here - The Perch and The Trout - frequented by weekend walkers and fictional ITV detectives. The Perch, alas, doesn't open on a Monday, while the Trout's mostly-elderly diners were huddled inside leaving the waterside terrace empty. At Wolvercote I turned to head back across the meadowproper towards Oxford's distant spires. I appeared to have the entire northern half to myself, bar a herd of grazing horses and some unnervingly large pools of accumulated rainwater. I thought I could walk around those, until I reached a single footbridge flooded on the far side which entirely blocked my progress and I had to retreat. Instead I followed the Oxford Canal back into town - less mud, more joggers, nobody boating - past umpteen coupled ducks in the full flush of spring courtship. All lovely enough but, twenty-five years on, I've still not learned to time my returns to Oxford for decent weather. I left with: a lot of mud on my boots A photo for you:Oxford High Street, bursting with premature blossom
Sunday lunchtime: Columbia Road Spring's a good time to visit the East End's favourite flower market. The street's packed with blooms for planting, as well as plentymore for that vase on your sidetable. You could even even walk away with a shrub if the price is right, and it's not too far to lug the beast home. A wet spring Sunday's even better, because the flowers are just as good but the crowd slowly dissipates, allowing better access to the stalls while the wimps hide out to drink coffee under shelter. Normally you have to push your way through the hundreds of potential purchasers down this narrow roadway, and it can take ages to walk only a hundred yards or so. When it rains, the queueing suddenly stops, and the traders address you direct. "I'm not selling, I'm giving these lilies away." "Look at my orchids ladies, only seven pounds." "Everythin' a fiver." "You don't want those primroses, buy mine." They're a macho bunch, these florists, you'd think more at home with crockery, dishcloths or meat, but they give their all to sell these flowers. Proper Cockney banter it is, or maybe deepest Essex, from geezery blokes quite unlike most of those who come to buy. Most punters are from the East End's new middle class inrush, usually with 'him' trailing behind 'her' while she peruses her choices. They'll likely stop off in the trinket shops alongside, or poke around the sidestreets and adjacent courtyards before burdening themselves with blooms and baskets. But other visitors are more traditional souls - pensionable ladies, pre-retired couples, even pearly Kings and Queens - here for the bargains and for the choice. At this time of year every colour of tulip is available, fresh from the Dutch bulbfields, wrapped conveniently in multiples of ten. Stocks might look low, but peer behind the front stall and you'll likely see hundreds more ready to fill fresh gaps. Or you will if it's raining, otherwise all you'll likely catch is the back of someone's head and a forest of colourful flowers behind. I left with: Fifty tulips. They didn't look so many when tightly bound and unfurled, but once I'd dripped home and unwrapped I realised my single vase was never going to cope with the entire bunch. Urgent exploration of my kitchen cupboards revealed sufficient alternative receptacles, thankfully, and now my living room' is blessed with (I'll be honest, rather too many) red and yellow beauties. A photo for you:Two Pearly Kings sheltering under a brolly
Thanks for voting yesterday in my readership survey - more than 800 of you were kind enough to take part! Now I know how my readership has changed over thelasteightyears, but also how very similar it is. One thing that hasn't changed, according to the 2012 survey results, is that the typical diamond geezer reader is still a 30-something male from the London area. Hello if that's you. And here are those results in a little more detail.
Male or female?
male (638)
82%
female (144)
18%
I'm losing the ladies. In every previous survey I've had about three male readers to every female, but now it's more than four. I guess the content of my writing must have subtly shifted, and I'm now unintentionally frightening (or boring) many of my former female readers away. Sorry ladies, I'll try not to lose any more of you.
Age
<20 (7)
1%
20s (139)
17%
30s (244)
30%
40s (179)
22%
50s (125)
16%
60+ (109)
14%
And I'm slowly haemorrhaging the younger audience too. My highest readership has always been amongst 30-somethings, and still is. But the 40-somethings have leapfrogged the 20-somethings, and the 50-somethings are catching up fast. We're all getting older, I know, and maybe this upward shift merely reflects the passing of time. Or maybe blogging's a bit old school for the younger generation, who prefer regular status updates to daily thousand word essays.
Where do you live? (pick one)
London (428)
53%
England (212)
26%
UK (23)
3%
Europe (51)
6%
World (88)
11%
These proportions are incredibly similar to those seen two years and four years ago. Just over half of my readership comes from London - the city I write about approximately half of the time. Another quarter are from England, probably with a disproportionate amount from the Home Counties. But one in six are still from outside the UK, so it can't only be my reports from Mile End and Edmonton which keep them coming back. It's lucky I write about other stuff and other places too. Half London, half not - that's a good balance, and I shall aim to maintain it.
How often do you read diamond geezer?
daily (538)
67%
often (235)
29%
occasionally (24)
3%
first visit (5)
1%
You're getting more regular. Back in 2004 only half of you came back once a day, and now it's more than two thirds. That's comforting, because I do try very hard to post something every day for you to read. Meanwhile the proportion of readers visiting only occasionally has plummeted - it's all or nothing these days. And hardly anybody lands on diamond geezer for the first time any more, at least not on the home page where the poll was, but a special hello to the five of you who did.
When was your first visit to diamond geezer?
2002/03/04 (103)
13%
2005/06 (135)
17%
2007/8 (194)
24%
2009/10 (230)
29%
2011/12 (140)
17%
This graph celebrates the longevity of diamond geezer's readers. About 30% of you claim to have been reading for more than five years, with more and more of you joining in as successive years have passed. But nearly half of you arrived as recently as 2009 or later, which suggests that people are stumbling in here all the time. Thanks to you all for sticking around, however long it's been.
How do you read diamond geezer?
web browser (519)
65%
RSS reader (239)
30%
mobile browser (44)
5%
This is my attempt to determine how many people are reading my posts somewhere that isn't my blog. The results are slightly flawed because yesterday's vote wasn't clickable in certain feed readers so the figures may be an underestimate. But it sounds like RSS is still adding at least 50% to my readership, just as it was two years ago. And mobile readership may still be low but it's on a steep upward climb - last time less than ten such readers, this time more than forty.
Do you have your own blog?
yes (170)
21%
no (636)
79%
The proportion of readers with their own blog drops noticeably every time I carry out this survey. Back in 2004 more than half of you claimed to be blogging, but that proportion's now nearer one fifth. It sounds like a substantial number of you have given up on producing original content and now merely react to what others have written (via Twitter, Facebook etc). But it's reassuring to know that blogging isn't quite dead yet, and I still have competition from at least 170 of you. I wonder how different things will look by the first week of 2014...
What's on this weekend? St Patrick's Day Parade Sunday 18 March (noon-6)
Irish-themed parade, live music & drunkards in green hats, in Trafalgar Square.
You'll see this redevelopment soon enough, the next time you board a train to Edinburgh, Leeds or Potters Bar. But the comment that most struck home when I wandered around yesterday came from an angry mother as she struggled to work out where on earth to go to catch her train. "It's like a bloody airport," she said. And I think she's right.
Departures: Here they come, the people with luggage. Lumbering along the passageways from the tube platforms, following the signs like sheep until eventually they reach the northern ticket hall. One single escalator rises up in the far corner, which'll be switched to run downwards only when rush hour flow requires it. The main escalators are to the left, and these emerge in the centre of the ground floor shops because that's what commercial sensibility demands these days. Unless you plan your route carefully you're going to have to walk past the newsagent, the greetings card shop, the sandwich dispensary and the coffee merchant, rather than walking directly and swiftly to board your train. Just as passengers are forced to endure lengthy wandering at airports, sorry, King's Cross is much the same both below and above ground.
Arrivals: As at most airports, it's quicker to arrive than depart. Passengers on local trains arriving at platforms 9 to 11 have it easiest, which is a turnaround from how things used to be, as they can reach the escalators down to the tube fairly quickly. But all inter-city arrivals pull into the main train shed at platforms 0-8, and they've got a very set path to follow. There's no access to the footbridge, remember, so it's the usual long walk down the platform and then through the broad line of automatic ticket gates across the far end. Welcome to the arrivals concourse, which is what used to be the entire station, and which is destined to be completely demolished next year. It's really quiet here when no trains have arrived, and then suddenly the rush begins and everyone pours in and suddenly the cashier at WH Smith has something to do.
This is The Shoal, a major new artwork designed to raise Stratford's Meridian Square above the ordinary. Each leaf is rhomboid in shape, maybe two metres in height and clad in titanium. Each seems to have a subtly different metallic shade, some more blue, some more green, others definitely more silver. None of them overlap, merely almost tessellate, to create a scale-like vision when viewed from afar. Currently a couple of dozen are in place, mostly at the western tip, but soon there'll be more than a hundred along half a kilometre of road. And every leaf moves, apparently, because The Shoal has been designed as a kinetic sculpture. I can't say I've noticed anything flap or wiggle yet, not even a slight twitch, but maybe when the wind gets up we'll see these panels shake.
The Shoal therefore exists not to shield but to distract. It's still perfectly possible to see the concrete service ramp leading into the multi-storey, but your gaze is elsewhere. The bleak offices of Morgan House still rise behind with all the charm of a housebrick, but you're looking at the shiny things in front. And the upstairs seating area at Burger King simply vanishes into the background when there are hinged wiggly metal leaves to enjoy. There you go, job done.
Chigwell's very Essex. Not proper Essex, but stereotypically TOWIE Essex. You'll spot this at the shopping parade near the station, where the dry cleaners is the Chigwell Valet Service and the local caff is The Village Deli. Check out the estate agent's window and you'll see million pound houses aren't uncommon. Expect to see several on the walk up the High Road, and many fenced-off sets of personalised numberplates too. The village has a proper historic heart around the nucleus of the old church, including the multi-gabled Ye Olde Kings Head. It's one of innumerable inns around the country with a claimed connection to Dick Turpin, and home to probably the only bar/restaurant in Britain called Sheesh. Only in Chigwell. [photo]
The Loop now crosses into Hainault Country Park, which is a 300 acre remnant of the ancient Forest of Essex. Parts of the park are very quiet, where you'll meet nothing but a rat scampering through a pile of logs, or the occasional group of mates larking about on an aerial walkway. But approach the lake, and the huge open space beyond the trees, and suddenly you're in Busysville, London Borough of Redbridge. The lake is a magnet for family groups, because one circuit is just far enough for toddlers and grandparents to walk. There's also a cafe (with queues at weekends) and a much-loved rare breeds farm (with donkey rides and meerkats). The car park lures suburban Londoners in their droves, most especially because the park's ideal for the exercising of squat growly dogs. Lazy visitors walk two minutes from their cars and let their hounds run amok on the grassy slopes. Fitter souls walk up the hill, past the Millennium beacon, and unleash their demons in the extensive woodland beyond.
Lower Park Farm is more than a bit horsey, which explains why the bridleway leading east is often a muddy quagmire. If you've worn anything less than walking boots or wellies, this is the point where your footwear pays the price. Oddly the slope beyond is named Mud Hill, but is considerable more stable. Take a last look down across green fields, before stepping beneath the canopy of Havering Country Park, Yes, yet another country park starting with H, but this one's more thickly wooded, as befits the former estate of royal-friendly Havering Palace. Most impressive, genuinely, is the Wellingtonia Avenue lined by more than 100 Giant Redwoods. It's one of the two largest such plantations in the country, looming 140-years tall on either side of the path, and best seen before the surrounding deciduous trees gain their leaves. [photo]
London 2012
London's easternmost cycle hire station is so far east that it falls off the map. Get hold of a paper copy, or check the pdf online, and the ultimate red blob is outside Blackwall station. But there's one more docking cluster beyond the black margin, where nobody who takes the scheme literally will ever find it, and that's at East India station. It's spread out in a single line across the concrete piazza at the foot of the DLR staircase, very close to the line marking the Greenwich Meridian (but still very definitely western hemisphere, not east). If you believe the map imprinted on the side of the terminal, the O2 across the Thames in North Greenwich is only five minutes cycle ride away, but that'll be because these maps are automatically generated by computer and proofread by idiots. A more sensible location for this docking station would have been on the northern side of the thundering dual carriageway, where the Cycle Superhighway is, because getting there at present requires lugging your bike up and over lots of steps. But the estate on the other side is private, and management only admitted CS3 under sufferance. There's no blue stripe here, only a scattering of pathetic handkerchief-sized blue squares ironed onto the tiles. A docking station would never have been permitted on this private land, no matter convenient it might have been for office workers and Tower Hamlets Council employees. On Saturday, during the quarter hour I observed, only one bike departed the East India docking station. It should have been two, but the second bloke tried and tried and failed to get the system to work. He read the instructions, he walked up and down, he pressed buttons, he inserted his card, he pressed more buttons, he inserted his card again, and then he walked away and caught the train instead. I couldn't tell what the problem was, it could have been the system or his bank details, or maybe he was only pretending to look like he wanted a bike. Whatever, chalk that one down to "customer lost".
I had thought the southernmost cycle hire station might be at the tip of the Isle of Dogs, but no, the Cycle Hire zone has also extended down Lambeth way. It's only been extended by one single solitary station, but if you're a cricket fan you'll be pleased because it's directly outside Surrey's County cricket ground. That's the Kia Oval, or at least it is this year until some other sports-irrelevant company comes along and appends its brand name in the motor manufacturer's place. Nip out of Hobbs Gate and there's the docking station, curved along the roadside opposite a row of turnstiles. It's very pretty at the moment, blessed by spring blossom poking over the fence from neighbouring Lockwood House, plus a rogue traffic cone upended over the adjacent parking regulations sign. This parking sign is a sudden anachronism, because "pay at machine, maximum stay 4 hours" is no longer possible along this strip of road now that the docking station has arrived, and nobody's thought to remove it. On Saturday afternoon the bike stands were almost all full bar a single gap at one end and sprinkling alongside the terminal. Meanwhile at the docking station up the road, by the Post Office, every single stand was filled. Unfortunately, this being one of the original terminals, the map on the side doesn't show the new cycle hire station by the Oval. It's only a minute's ride away, but it might as well not exist until someone gets round to replacing the old map, which I'm guessing would cost too much and won't happen. Plus, interestingly, the online statistics for this docking station claimed that there were several spaces here at the time of my visit, whereas my eyes told me a completely different "this is chock full" story. Lesson learned, if you're using some website or mobile app to help guide you towards an empty station, it might not be empty when you get there.
Here's a good one. London's westernmost cycle hire station doesn't exist. I mean there is a westernmost cycle hire station, obviously, but it's not the one shown on TfL's printed map. According to that there's a cycle hire station on Wood Lane alongside the bus station, but if you go and stand in the designated spot it doesn't exist. It did seem slightly odd that there'd be two docking stations on adjacent sides of the same street corner, but that's what the map said, and it turns out not to be true. So the westernmost cycle hire station is instead on Ariel Way, which is fractionally further west than the fresh cluster outside the new library. That had volunteers giving out leaflets on Saturday afternoon, so it was throbbing, whereas Ariel Way was unattended, unloved and unused. This surprised me, because you'd think the much-trumpeted Westfield extension would be busy as anything. Not so. The graphs for two of Westfield's four docking stations pretty much flatlined over the weekend. You could have fitted everyone who used them into a single single decker bus, so irrelevant was their presence. But pedestrian footfall at Ariel Way was very high, perhaps not surprisingly because the docking station's been built directly across the path to the traffic lights. I watched hundreds of punters walking directly between the bikes on their way to/from the tube station - some through a specially designed gap, but others slightly awkwardly between adjacent pedals. Only a couple of adults stopped to inspect the terminal, and the only other positive interaction was one young child who hopped up onto a stationary saddle hoping this was a new playground. The lack of interest appeared to be shopping-related. When you're lugging a carrier bag or three, these basket-less hire bikes are absolutely no use whatsoever for getting any medium-to-large purchase home. Local residents might find the western extension zone useful, but Westfield shoppers seem far less likely to go for a ride.
To complete the quartet, here's yet another brand new docking station. It's part of the Camden Town extension, which brings the cycle hire scheme right into the heart of this youth-friendly tourist magnet. Castlehaven Road is very close to Camden Lock and its associated markets, opposite the Hawley Arms, and near an open space where foreign teenagers gather to scoop noodles out of trays. Not surprisingly, then, this was the busiest cycle hire station I saw by some considerable margin. It was also almost devoid of bikes when I turned up. I arrived just in time to watch a group of friends faff around by the terminal and slowly, oh so slowly, work out how to ride four of the last bikes away. They cycled haltingly towards the railway bridge, straight into a torrent of incoming traffic (it's a one-way street, who knew?) so had to divert swiftly onto the pavement to avoid crushing embarrassment. Two goths nabbed another pair of bikes, with one's purchased artwork slung precariously in front of the handlebars. And this left one lonely bike, plus 26 empty spaces waiting in vain for anybody to cycle in and replenish the stocks. A few groups wandered along and stared at the situation, but one bike wasn't going to be sufficient for their needs so they walked on. If they'd checked their printed map they'd have noticed another docking station very nearby in Hawley Crescent, except if they'd visited they'd have discovered that it doesn't exist. There's a lot of building work going on here beneath MTV's giant satellite dishes and in front of the Open University building, but as yet there's no sign of a municipal bike rack. It does sound very much as if the new printed cycle hire map went to print too early, or wasn't properly proofed, or both. Some of the new docking stations it's clear are already hits, while others look like distinct misses. But it's early days for cycle hire in the new extension zone, and whether this is a major infrastructure improvement or an costly white elephant, that's yet to be proven.
Bow Church's docking station isn't actually outside the station, it's a minute or two up the road. It's been laid out along what used to be the widest strip of pavement in the local area, but has since been sliced once for a Cycle Superhighway and now again for a row of 39 bikes. There's still plenty of room to walk past, thankfully, but suddenly it's much more difficult to nip through and cross the road here. More than half of the bikes here were used yesterday, right down to a period mid-afternoon when only a couple were available. Walking from the tube I passed three smiling riders (of an appropriately mixed demographic) biking away from the docking station, which was more than I thought I'd see. A mild overnight success, I'd judge, although I'm very glad no TfL planner chose to site one right outside my front window.
At the end of Bromley High Street is Cycle Hire's northeasternmost docking station. If you're hoping to ride to the Olympic Park, sorry, this is as far as you're going to get, because that's a Lloyds TSB domain so Barclays aren't welcome. It's an almost ideal location amid a broad sweep of pavement well away from anyone's front door, but equally a very bad location alongside a dual carriageway where cycling would best be deemed unwise. A curve of 23 black docking points leads round towards the bus stop, should passengers arriving from North Greenwich fancy a ride through the streets of E3. I was only here for a minute or two, but in that time four bikes were undocked (a bunch of recreational weekend travellers who tottered off somewhat uncertainly) and one bike arrived (a young lad who pulled in and sauntered off in seconds, with all the expertise of a Cycle Hire regular).
Then on Teviot Street I discovered possibly the least used docking station anywhere on the Cycle Hire network. According to TfL's datafeed absolutely nobody used it on Saturday, not a single withdrawal or deposit, at least before eight o'clock in the evening. Other stations nearby saw bikes dripfeed in or flood out, but nothing shifted here on the Teviot Estate. The docking station's sited in front of a morose parade of shops that'll never see any kind of chain store, let alone a Barclays. Half were shuttered down yesterday, and even the other half were part-shuttered in case the proprietors ever need to shut up shop suddenly. The parade's convenience store is branded "Local Shopper", the unisex hairdresser looks more utility than salon, and the T.F.C takeaway won't be troubling Time Out's restaurant reviews any time soon. I'd suggest that the community around here aren't the sort to waste their hard-won cash on luxuries like bike hire, hence they're not especially interested in Boris's gift of a docking station.
Route 47: Shoreditch - Bellingham
I think I did this journey the wrong way round. Ending up in Shoreditch would have been hip and trendy, whereas instead I ended up just south of Catford, in a suburb most Londoners haven't even heard of. Admittedly even Shoreditch isn't that cool when your journey starts opposite a lifesize poster of Olly Murs beside a Texaco garage, at a bus stop frequented by two unkempt men wielding a bow and arrow. I was therefore really quite keen to get away. When my 47 arrived I took up position top deck front left, which is the best place to sit on an end-to-end journey, and was joined on the neighbouring seat by a beardy trendsetter in out-of-the-box black trainers. He didn't stay long.
Past the daffs in Southwark Park to the silver drum at Canada Water. We passed the new library twice as we encircled the bus station, then proceeded past umpteen glass balconies stickered "Sold" at Maple Quays. The ideal place to live if you're a Daily Mail printworker working at the fortress nextdoor, or want a choice of drive-in restaurants on your doorstep. It was only when the bus headed beyond Surrey Quays that passenger numbers started to pick up, collecting local-bound Oyster-flashers at every stop. Thick-set blokes in trackies, gossipping mothers, cuddling sweethearts, old ladies tugging trollies - they all joined the party aboard.
The appearance of Catford Shopping Centre's giant fibreglass black cat was the signal for our driver to dawdle some more. He no doubt wished he were travelling around the gyratory in the opposite direction, where a logjam of cars and buses was going absolutely nowhere fast. The Bromley Road was lined by the first desirable detached houses I'd seen all journey, as if some unseen border into the proper suburbs had just been crossed. But we were going no further than the Bellingham bus garage, where the last few passenger remnants were ejected and the driver escaped into Stagecoach's brick shed.
I used to think 47 was ancient.
I needed the hard sell to lure Best Mate onto Canvey Island. It's not the most obvious place for a day trip, let alone a wintry walk round the sea wall past the gas tanks. But I had an ulterior motive in mind, which was lunch inside a Grade II listed building I've admired since the first time I saw it. Unexpectedly, and overwhelmingly, The Labworth was a delight. It's the only building that architect Ove Arup ever designed all by himself, back in the 1930s when Canvey was a burgeoning seaside resort. His creation was meant to resemble the bridge of the Queen Mary liner, and comprises a central drum with two white outstretched arms facing the Thames. The floods of 1953 forced the embedding of the building into a strengthened sea defence, but The Labworth is still an unreservedly Modernist design. The upper floor of the drum houses the restaurant, with toilets and kitchen immediately below, and a Beach Bistro cafe strung out across the waterfront. Come at lunchtime and the cafe's your only option, but that's no bad thing (as we discovered). The interior's smart and airy, mostly white but with bright pink walls at either end. We sat by the window in the central curve with the Thames lapping silvery-grey a few feet away. The view was entirely estuarine, with the low hills of the Hoo Peninsula rising in the far distance, and only a very occasional ship passing by, riding the high tide out of Tilbury. The specials board tempted us away from the usual menu, with our food choices vindicated when each was rubbed from the board soon after ordering. My escalope with mushroom sauce was gorgeous, well beyond expectations, accompanied by asparagus and a more than generous serving of crisp, fluffy roast potatoes. This was followed by a "tasting plate" for dessert, comprising decent-sized portions of pavlova, tiramisu and waffle (with ice cream), which were delicious. Service was charmingly cheery throughout, and the entire meal for two came in for under £30. Who'd have guessed that the Canvey waterfront hid such an architectural and culinary gem?
Most tourists who visit Oxford only ever explore the centre of town. To be honest there's more than enough to see there, be that the colleges, the museums or the general loveliness of historic limestone. But turn right on leaving the station and you soon come to the River Thames, or Isis as they call it round here, which can swiftly whisk you to a completely different rural landscape. The path first follows shady Fiddlers Island, then opens out onto the broad expanse of Port Meadow. This is ancient grazing land, never ploughed, and stretches for 440 acres along the flood plain of the river. It's very green, and very flat, and at this time of year very squelchy. I stuck to the west bank of the river on the way up, past barely budding trees, the occasional hound-walker and Godstow's ruined nunnery. There are two famous pubs up here - The Perch and The Trout - frequented by weekend walkers and fictional ITV detectives. The Perch, alas, doesn't open on a Monday, while the Trout's mostly-elderly diners were huddled inside leaving the waterside terrace empty. At Wolvercote I turned to head back across the meadow proper towards Oxford's distant spires. I appeared to have the entire northern half to myself, bar a herd of grazing horses and some unnervingly large pools of accumulated rainwater. I thought I could walk around those, until I reached a single footbridge flooded on the far side which entirely blocked my progress and I had to retreat. Instead I followed the Oxford Canal back into town - less mud, more joggers, nobody boating - past umpteen coupled ducks in the full flush of spring courtship. All lovely enough but, twenty-five years on, I've still not learned to time my returns to Oxford for decent weather.
Spring's a good time to visit the East End's favourite flower market. The street's packed with blooms for planting, as well as plenty more for that vase on your sidetable. You could even even walk away with a shrub if the price is right, and it's not too far to lug the beast home. A wet spring Sunday's even better, because the flowers are just as good but the crowd slowly dissipates, allowing better access to the stalls while the wimps hide out to drink coffee under shelter. Normally you have to push your way through the hundreds of potential purchasers down this narrow roadway, and it can take ages to walk only a hundred yards or so. When it rains, the queueing suddenly stops, and the traders address you direct. "I'm not selling, I'm giving these lilies away." "Look at my orchids ladies, only seven pounds." "Everythin' a fiver." "You don't want those primroses, buy mine." They're a macho bunch, these florists, you'd think more at home with crockery, dishcloths or meat, but they give their all to sell these flowers. Proper Cockney banter it is, or maybe deepest Essex, from geezery blokes quite unlike most of those who come to buy. Most punters are from the East End's new middle class inrush, usually with 'him' trailing behind 'her' while she peruses her choices. They'll likely stop off in the trinket shops alongside, or poke around the sidestreets and adjacent courtyards before burdening themselves with blooms and baskets. But other visitors are more traditional souls - pensionable ladies, pre-retired couples, even pearly Kings and Queens - here for the bargains and for the choice. At this time of year every colour of tulip is available, fresh from the Dutch bulbfields, wrapped conveniently in multiples of ten. Stocks might look low, but peer behind the front stall and you'll likely see hundreds more ready to fill fresh gaps. Or you will if it's raining, otherwise all you'll likely catch is the back of someone's head and a forest of colourful flowers behind.
