diamond geezer

Friday, March 21, 2025

(this is the follow-up post to tomorrow's ride on my birthday bus route)

If you climb aboard a number 60 bus in Streatham and then step off at the far end in Old Coulsdon, it's like entering another world. A quiet well-to-do suburb on a hill, all broad avenues, backlanes and green tendrils reaching out into rolling chalkland on the edge of the North Downs. It's barely London at all, indeed Old Coulsdon's the southernmost suburb in the capital and could/should easily be in Surrey. And if you climbed aboard that number 60 with your age in mind it's quite evocative, not least because even the place name begins with Old.

Coulsdon emerged in the 12th century meaning ‘hill of a man called Cūthrǣd’ and part of its parish church is even older. In the 19th century the centre of gravity starting shifting to the valley where the turnpike ran, later the railway, and eventually lowly Smitham Bottom took on the mantle of Coulsdon proper leaving the village on the hill to become Old Coulsdon. One looks down on the other.

When you alight the 60 you find yourself outside the Tudor Rose, a country pub with barleysugar chimneys. But it's only pretending to be old for effect, indeed it's really a Mock Tudor Rose, and has during its lifetime been a pubby hotel and a Harvester. After a recent refresh it's now more restaurant than cheery local, somewhere you'd head for rotisserie pork belly and a nice white wine, so I really wasn't tempted.

The parade of shops opposite includes the Next Level Barbers, Wyatts Cafe and Stella's Emporium, which it turns out is an unlikely mix of Greek deli and Gift Shop. The cafe knows to tend to traditional palates, but more old lady than white van man, as hinted by the cooked breakfast pictured outside having a side order of orange juice. The smell of bacon wafting out was properly evocative, in my case like inhaling the 1970s.

And the parade gets even Old Coulsdoner as it curves round. A wine bar that'll also try to upsell you houseplants. Fish and chips from Danny's, a proper friendly fryer that started out when I was half my age. The most unIndian looking of Indian restaurants. A salon for perms, rinses and other hairdos. A pharmacy with an oldschool 'CHEMIST' sign above the doorway. A funeral director, perfectly poised to deal with an above average level of departures hereabouts. And the glorious Tudor Bakery.

A proper bakery makes all its own wares on the premises, not on a distant trading estate. A proper bakery lays them out with love, not as prim squares on sparse trays. A proper bakery makes loaves without gimmicks and spreads them across long higgledy shelves. A proper bakery makes squishy buns and iced cakes from traditional recipes, even OMG gipsy tarts. A proper bakery has regulars who queue and gossip while they wait for today's plump bagfuls. A proper bakery has ladies who look like they've served here for decades and will gladly enter into conversation about the rock cakes they just made. And a proper bakery will sell you the largest sugariest flakiest bath bun for a mere £1.15, then twist it politely into a white paper bag. There are no improper bakeries in Old Coulsdon, only the Tudor Bakery, and if I lived within walking distance I fear I'd be back every day.

And yet Old Coulsdon is all about teenagers because they're everywhere. A large sixth form college exists just down the road, barely two minutes distant, thus a steady stream of learners nips out mid-timetable to stock up on urgent snacks. Lanyards dangling they all head into the Morrisons Daily, which must do a roaring weekday trade, emerging with drinks and packets to sustain them through English Lit, Sociology or Digital Media. And from what I saw not one of them ventures into the Tudor Bakery because that's the old people's shop and ne'er the twain shall meet. I want to shout "do you not realise what you're missing?" but instead I realise that's my childhood talking and each generation has its own carbohydrate heaven. For now the Tudor Bakery has sufficient local clientele of sufficient age but one day it'll falter and be replaced by something that no longer gladdens my heart, and that makes me feel even older.

The park across the street used to be Bradmore Green, and in the corner by the cricket pavilion is the building that truly ages me. It's the Old Coulsdon Centre for the Retired and it has pride of place in the centre of the village, even a priority parking space for its minibus immediately outside. On previous visits to Old Coulsdon I've ignored it as irrelevant but this time it screamed to me "this is you now, they wouldn't blink if you went inside".

Pop In At Any Time You Are Very Welcome says the sign outside. And people have, I can see them at the tables inside probably having tea, perhaps taking advantage of a light snack or lunch. Want To Get Out More? says the sign outside. I already do thanks, but for many this must be a social lifeline, a rare chance to meet others. Fed Up With Staying Indoors? says the sign outside. I never do thanks, and I proved this by striding off towards Happy Valley and climbing the chalky flank of Farthing Downs. But the sign reminds me that one day I might be less mobile and a well organised centre run by lovely volunteers with a minibus might be as adventurous as it gets.

I caught the 60 amid the modern hubbub of Streatham, then passed through the once-futuristic town of Croydon before ending up in the old-school heart of Old Coulsdon. I admired its cohesion and community, its vibrancy and tradition and its evocative selection of tip-top cakes. But mainly it reminded me of being younger and thus made me feel older, and this is why I ride my birthday bus every year because somehow it always delivers.

posted 07:00 :