À Paris: la tour Eiffel
When in Paris, the EiffelTower is a must-climb. Or it should be, assuming that a) the weather's decent and b) the queues aren't too long. I had luck on my side with the weather. Saturday was a fine spring day in Paris, the sky mostly cloudless and the temperature well into double figures (the UK not so, I understand, which means I picked to spend my birthday in precisely the right place). But the queues took a bit more planning. Last time I was here in 2005 I thought I'd turn up at 6pm because it might be quieter then, but the tower stays open until 11pm so I met lengthy resistance. This time I went for the early approach, heading straight from the Eurostar to the Trocadero, then walking down through the gardens and across the Seine. The €14 queue to take the lift up the tower was already rather long, but the €5 queue to take the stairs was only half an hour. Result, game on.
What they don't tell you, at the foot of the Pilier Sud, is that climbing to the deuxième étage is the equivalent of climbing a 43 storey building. That slowly dawns because the steps are numbered, every tenth with digits stencilled to one side, and these climb inexorably upwards. The first flight is curved, then repeatedly back and forth in staggered ascent, a narrow metal staircase threading between the pillar's ironwork. I don't always have the best head for heights but this was OK, so long as I remembered the metalwork's not spontaneously collapsed now for 125 years. Eventually the climb darkens as you reach the underside of the premier étage, and then you're out... into a bit of a dump. The central platform is being revamped to create a better visitor space, even a "hospitality destination", with reconstruction due to be completed later this year. In the meantime visitors are restricted to unfenced-off parts of the exterior, or the posh restaurant, or of course the obligatory gift shop within. And that's fine because it's the view you're up here for, and it's marvellous.
When you're ready, there are lots more steps to the deuxième étage. This was a slightly more unnerving climb, though it shouldn't have been, and I tried not to show my trepidation to the liftfuls rushing past. Past 500 steps, past 600, until the final riser read 669 (and no, I wasn't out of breath). Balconies run around the entire perimeter, on two storeys thanks to the need for double-decker lifts. You're open to the weather, which can be grim but was delightfully springlike on Saturday. Even better the safety grille has a grating wide enough to be entirely camera-friendly, and from the upper deck there's nothing in the way at all. Indeed the Eiffel Tower easily beats the Orbit in East London on lack of obstruction (and on price, height and view). To the west, on a nearby bridge, tiny Metro trains rumble across the Seine. To the southeast, in a formal green stripe, lie the gardens of the Parc du Champ de Mars. To the northeast, set high above therooftops of the inner city, sit the gleaming domes of Sacré-Cœur. And to the northwest are the Chaillot gardens, marked by the tower's noonday shadow, with the financial towers of La Defense rising on the horizon.
I was expecting it to be packed up here, but not so. Wherever you wanted to stand there was room, often plenty, this despite the presence of a large group from an English primary school (wearing red baseball caps for easy identification). Another reason for the space was that a significant number of the people up here were queueing. The lifts to the troisième étage are only small, so it takes a while to get on board, and then a while to escape back down again when you're ready. I was tempted to head up to the very top - there's a cash desk here where you pay the €5.50 extra (which is my top tip if you ever pay a visit). But I looked at the queues, and thought how much of my brief trip to Paris this would consume, and decided against. I've done the upper deck once before, back in 1980 on a French Exchange, and that memory'll have to do for now. This just left me 669 steps down, the descent not scary at all, this time stuck behind a party of lively deaf teenagers waving their hands. The queues looked much worse at this point, even for those who'd pre-booked their tickets. But I'd beaten the multitudes this time, and enjoyed a stunning Parisian panorama as a result. A birthday highlight, long to be remembered.
À Paris: le grand départ
It's a fairly bonkers thing to do, I'll admit. A day out in Paris, that's there and back again, cramming as much as possible into the hours inbetween. But when it's your birthday, hell why not? And Eurostar makes it possible, even convenient, to make a day trip, so long as you don't mind keeping unsociable hours. The first train out of St Pancras on a Saturday leaves just after 6am, and the last train back arrives just before 10pm. That leaves ten hours to explore the French capital, which is more than long enough to do a heck of a lot, so long as you don't restrict yourself too much. I last tried this stunt back in 2005, and crammed in tons, which I'd urge you to go back and read if you're interested. This time I didn't whizz around quite so très vite as then, and picked a trio of places to explore in a little more depth, as well as nipping about widely on the Metro inbetween.
Getting to St Pancras for 0545 requires dedication, or an overnight hotel room, or one of the very first tube trains of the day. Alas Bow Road's doors were still firmly bolted when I needed to depart, so I took the nightbus instead and shared the early part of my birthday with inebriated folk stuffing kebabs down their gullet. Whilst most were heading home, a select group of travellers descended on the check-in beneath St Pancras's platforms. I had a proper ticket, but most were attempting to gain entry by waving a home-printed sheet or a mobile phone QR code at the barriers. Then the metal detector shuffle, then smile for French passport control, and into the lounge where hundreds of pairs of bleary eyes were waiting. I wanted a newspaper but it was too early - WH Smith had only empty shelves. And I wanted a Metro pass for later but held off - it's apparently cheaper if you buy it aboard the Eurostar.
I settled into my window seat with a smile, then had to withdraw when a couple arrived waving tickets saying it was theirs. Damn, they were right, I'd misread one badly printed digit under inadequate illumination - either that or my eyesight's failing, and had chosen my 48th birthday to announce the fact. The train was packed with couples off to spend a day, or more likely the weekend, in la belle Paris. They had overnight bags and pink wheelie suitcases, and that look in their eyes which said "this is going to be très spécial." Meanwhile I had an empty seat next to me all the way, which was a result, and suggests the early train always has room for a last-minute booking.
After 20 minutes beneath the Channel we hurtled out into France, which was temporarily invisible thanks to something the deep recesses of my schoolboy brain reminded me was brouillard. Eventually the fog thinned and lifted, revealing arurallandscape that was somehow definitely not Kent. The hedgerows looked different, and the farmhouses, but it was the electricity pylons which were the true giveaway. Occasionally a town appeared, with unfamiliar takeaway drive-thrus and warehouses on its outskirts, but mostly the view was of ploughed fields, distant villages and the occasional water tower. That is until we pierced the edge of Paris, first les banlieues with their highrise flats, and finally the commercial mix of the metropolitan arrondisements. From St Pancras to Gare du Nord in two and a half hours flat, plus an extra hour for entering the Central European timezone, and it still wasn't 10am. I had the entire day ahead - best make the most of it.
Route 48: London Bridge - Walthamstow Location: London northeast Length of journey: 8 miles, 60 minutes
Another birthday, another numerically significant bus journey. Six years ago I took the 42 to Dulwich, five years ago the 43 to Barnet, four years ago the 44 to Tooting, three years ago the 45 to Clapham, two years ago the 46 to Farringdon and last year the 47 to Bellingham. So this year, obviously, I rode the 48 to Walthamstow. Who said middle-age wasn't exciting?
There is a certain sense of deja vu about the mid forties. My journey on the 43 also kicked off at London Bridge, and the 47 passed this way last year. So, to ensure a bit of variety, a sewer has collapsed and all buses are being diverted. The 48 (and a number of other routes) currently kick off from a makeshift bus stand on a long derelict site on Southwark Street. The first stop is outside the Hop Exchange, a massive building formerly used to trade brewery inputs, now a less exciting mishmash of brewery outputs. My bus pulls up in the shadow of the Shard, or it would have done had the sun been in the right place, and if thick cloud hadn't been in the way. I'm the only boarder, as befits an out-of-the-way location, so I grab the prime observation seat at the front of the top deck and hunker down until Walthamstow.
Beneath the railway viaduct, Borough Market's redevelopment looks unfamiliarly modern. Some of its clientèle join us on London Bridge, along with mainline passengers making their escape from south London. I'm joined up front by a loud businessman, rail ticket in hand, who blares into his phone as we cross the Thames. Every twentieth word is frigging, every tenth word alludes to excrement, as he explains to whoever that he's "working from home now" and is "gagging for it". I take the opportunity to stare at Tower Bridge and the Tower - the last decent view the 48 will afford - and we rumble into EC4.
Because it's a weekday afternoon the City is buzzing, and not the usual ghost town I see at weekends. Traders fill Leadenhall Market, bankers fill late-serving restaurants, and nobody fills the Pinnacle because its backers have run out of money. Outside Liverpool Street station the last of this morning's papers are being sold, and nobody in a suit seems keen to hop aboard our bus when we pull up. Since I passed this way on last year's bus I see, with some sadness, that what's left of Norton Folgate has been boarded up. Even the narrow caff at Savoy Quality Sandwiches has closed, as have its neighbouring ex-businesses alongside, ready for their joint transformation into open plan offices.
Things have looked pretty damned prosperous through the City, but the buildings get noticeably less shiny as we cross its northern boundary - the line where highrise becomes lowrise. We've entered pre-buzz Shoreditch, too early for the High Street to have come alive. The drapes outside a Lebanese pop-up flap forlornly in the wind, awaiting custom, and Boxpark looks quite dead, for now. At the big church we turn right into Hackney Road. The street is unexpectedly dotted with boutiques selling blingy handbags and glittery clutch purses, considerably more than the local population could possibly require. I looked at a flat down here when I first moved to London, a dingy garret round the back of a parade of non-bag-related shops, whereas now the street boasts boutique apartments amongst the mews and terraces. But hipsterdom only spreads so far. Meals at the Mecca Bingo are two for £5.99, and no pints have been pulled at the British Lion any time recently.
A long hike up Mare Street beckons. This broad highway is at the heart of Hackney, from where it crosses the canal to the civic square by the Empire. The bus lane is busy with red double deckers, leapfrogging one another from one stop to the next. I'm surprised to see a number 675 bus ahead, and even more surprised later when I discover that this school service is several miles off course. My new companions on the front seats are a red-haired mum wielding a bottle of Evian and her lively-looking daughter. My dream on these blogged bus journeys is to be joined by anecdote-worthy companions, but these two never live up to their initial promise and sit in relative silence all the way to E17.
Travelling north we avoid Hackney's main shopping street, passing instead the retail classic that is The Pet Shop (Doreen's). Banners hung from every lamppost remind Hackney's citizens that "Green sacks are coming", that's from 1st March, so it's old news by now. It takes an age to turn right at the Pembury Tavern, at a roundabout slowed by five-way traffic lights. Here old flats are becoming new flats in an attempt to attract gentrified incomers, but the local economic outlook is still dominated by pawnbrokers and Paddy Power. On Lower Clapton Road a discarded skirt and a pair of shoes lie rotting on top of a bus shelter. Clapton Pond, by contrast, is the prettiest thing we've passed in ages, its fountain bursting forth encircled by pigeons.
It's time to veer off at the Lea Bridge Roundabout and head for the river. The road ahead has a noticeable downward slope, which is what passes for topographically exciting in much of East London. Schools are starting to turn out, but the kids hereabouts stay resolutely on the pavement rather than overtaking our top deck. Likewise there's no interest from passengers at the Lea Valley Ice Centre nor the Lea Valley Riding Centre next up, two neighbouring stops on the marshes that beckon us into Waltham Forest. Lettering on the front of an old electricity substation reminds us that this used to be the Borough of Leyton, chiselled into a classical façade concealing a more ordinary brick building behind. And there on the right is the Hare and Hounds pub, from whose comfy benches millions heard me talking about the Olympics last summer (but if you weren't listening to the World Service at the time, bad luck).
On and on and on ploughs the Lea Bridge Road. Retail highlights include The Millionaire's Hair Salon, which I suspect is inaccurately named, and Dial-Halal, "the home of dial-a-chicken", which I hope is a butchery service. Our 48 keeps catching up with a 55 ahead, and I realise that I'm going to have to come back to this underwhelming street on my birthday bus journey in seven years time. And eight, because the 56 travels this way too, which doesn't feel like much to look forward to. But beyond the railway line I'm wowed by the Bakers Almshouses, a set of beautiful yellow brick residences arranged round three sides of a quadrangle, built 150 years ago for those in the bread trade fallen into poverty. They gave their name to the pub on the corner, which later gave its name to the crossroads and surrounding area - Bakers Arms. Alas that regenerated into a bookmakers in 2010, although with Percy Ingle nextdoor at least some vague connection to the past is maintained.
Nearly there now, there's just Hoe Street to negotiate. There's a lovely beehive dated 1915 carved above the Co-op, although they don't do groceries here any more, only something the marketing department call funeralcare. Most of the other businesses along here have a foreign flavour, indicative of an even greater change over the last century, indeed over a considerably shorter time than that. The Goose is a sign that we've finally reached Walthamstow proper, and at the bus stop outside the station the majority of passengers pour out. They might be here to admire the new canopy leading down into the ticket hall, but more likely they've worked out it's quicker to walk to the shops from here than wait interminably at the traffic lights ahead. We wait interminably at the traffic lights ahead, before pulling up into TfL's E17 pride and joy, Walthamstow bus station. You can catch a bus to almost anywhere from here, but only one bus direct to Central London, and that's back the way we came. I'll pass, thanks, and catch the tube.
One of the scariest things about being 48 is realising it's thirty years since your 18th birthday. I kicked off my 18th birthday with a celebratory bowl of Coco Pops, then opened some presents which included a Thompson Twins cassette and a Venus fly trap. At school we did periglacial features in double geography, and in the afternoon they let me win three games of table tennis because it was my birthday and not because of any residual talent. My Dad allowed me to drive home from school, because it was my driving test the following day (third time lucky). Then in the evening my extended family came round for a roast turkey dinner and a huge lemon meringue pie, which is dessert perfection in my opinion, before giving me the bumps on the front lawn. They don't make birthdays like that any more.
One of the other scariest things about being 48 is realising that in thirty years time you'll quite likely be dead. So I'm not thinking about that. I'm seizing the day, and I'm going abroad. I'm giving myself a treat by heading somewhere foreign and wandering around for several hours, and then coming home with a smile. I wanted to nip in before next year when my passport photo has to look like me again. And apparently it might even be sunny where I'm going, so that's a win. Although it does mean being awake at stupid o'clock this morning, which sounded like a good idea when I booked the tickets, but I'm not so sure now. Still, you only get to be 48 once. Carpe birthdiem.
One unusual feature of the Central line is the number of stations named after places elsewhere. Here's why and how.
Holland Park: This station is named after HollandPark, a green expanse that was formerly the grounds of Holland House, which used to be a grand Jacobean mansion until most of it was firebombed during the Blitz, and which had started out in 1604 as Cope Castle, but which was renamed Holland House in 1625 when it was inherited by the Earl of Holland’s wife, that's not Holland across the North Sea, that's Holland one of the three medieval subdivisions of Lincolnshire, the southeastern Part whose main towns are Boston and Spalding. Lancaster Gate: This station is named after an entrance to Kensington Gardens, an entrance which lies adjacent to the Italian Gardens, which were given as a gift by Prince Albert to his beloved Queen Victoria, one of whose titles was Duke of Lancaster, a dukedom first bestowed in 1351, and which survives as Duchy of Lancaster (a portfolio of land and assets held in trust for the sovereign), hence the gate alongside the gardens was named Lancaster Gate in the Queen's honour. Oxford Circus: This station is named after the junction between Oxford Street and Regent Street, the latter street created by John Nash for the Prince Regent in the 1820s, with Oxford Circus created as a roundabout on Oxford Street, which used to be called Tyburn Road because it led to the gallows at Tyburn, and was renamed in the late 18th century, not because the road goes to Oxford but because the surrounding fields were bought up by the Earl of Oxford, not one of the original earls dating back to 1142, but a dormant peerage revived for the statesman Robert Harley. Tottenham Court Road: This station is named after the road leading north to Tottenham Court, which was the manor-house of the Manor of Tottenham, first owned by William de Tottenhall during the reign of Henry III, later an Elizabethan mansion of three storeys with two wings which stood in 1½ acres within a moat, patched up several times over the succeeding centuries until it was eventually demolished in 1808, located not in Tottenham as you might expect, but on what is nowthe corner of Hampstead Road and Euston Road, opposite University College Hospital, roughly where the northern entrance to Euston Square tube station is, which might instead have been named Tottenham Court. Liverpool Street: This station is named after a minor street alongside the mainline station, a street named after Lord Liverpool, the UK's third longest-serving Prime Minister (1812-1827), whose father appears to have been awarded the title for no geographical reason whatsoever. Newbury Park: The station is named after an extensive interwar housingestate, itself named after Newbury, one of the 24 demesnes of Barking, a manorial division of land originally owned by Barking Abbey, back in the days when BarkingAbbey was really important, the name 'Newbury' being first recorded in 1321 and nothing at all to do with the town in Berkshire.
Yesterday City Hall published The Mayor's Vision For Cycling In London. This long-awaited 33-page document outlines a transformative programme aimed at making the capital more bike-friendly. It's had a verypositivereception, with a few reservations as to whether the plans are possible for the money. It's also very detailed, in aims if not in geography, and contains numerous phrases that could be used to hold Boris to account in the future if outcomes fall short. For full effect you should read it properly, rather than skimming brief summaries in the media, and you might then be impressed. Here are ten things I've spotted.
1) We will offer two clear kinds of branded route: high capacity Superhighways, mostly on main roads, for fast commuters, and slightly slower but still direct Quietways on pleasant, low-traffic side streets for those wanting a more relaxed journey. That sounds like what we've already got, but with side street routes rebranded as Quietways. I wonder whether Barclays will sponsor those too. 2) Many will run in parallel with key Underground, rail and bus routes, radial and orbital, signed and branded accordingly: the ‘Bakerloo Superhighway’; the ‘Circle Quietway’, and so on. The emphasis seems to be on cycle provision to provide an alternative to other services, not to create new links. There are also plans to rebrand CS2 as ‘Cycle Superhighway 25’, because it runs along the 25 bus route. I can't decide whether that's brilliant or bananas. 3) A ‘bike Crossrail’ will run, substantially segregated, from west London to Barking. The much vaunted Crossrail-for-bikes may run west/east, but it doesn't shadow Crossrail. It'll run along a segregated lane of the A40 from Hillingdon to Paddington (not easy to join, or leave), then down through Hyde, Green and St James's Parks (an easy win), then wholly segregated along the Victoria Embankment (yay), then along Cycle Superhighway 3 from Tower Hill to Barking (because CS3 is the only truly successful substantially segregated superhighway). 4) We will substantially improve the existing Barclays Cycle Superhighways. Thank heavens for that. Here's a photo of what CS2 on Bow Road looks like less than two years after opening - it could do with a new lick of paint. And a segregated lane that's not half a lane of traffic, to be frank. 5) Quietways will be direct. They will be better-surfaced. They will be clearly signed, mostly on the road itself, making it impossible to lose your way. Each route will be delivered as a whole, not piecemeal. And they will not give up at the difficult places. That means a lot more funny-coloured roads across the capital. But yes, well-connected funny-coloured roads would really make a difference. 6) We will trial allowing bikes off-peak on the DLR. Hurrah, and about time too. Although this would, at a stroke, remove one of the key reasons for the cablecar existing. 7) Timid, half-hearted improvements are out – we will do things at least adequately, or not at all. That's a great philosophy. Or it's a brave promise. Or it's a phrase that'll come back to haunt someone. 8) We will start a City Hall cycling blog, which the mayoral and TfL cycling teams will write. Get your commenting fingers ready - there's going to be some vigorous debate on those posts. 9) London’s streets and spaces will become places where cyclists feel they belong and are safe. I look forward to it, because I won't be getting on a bike in London until this happens, and we're nowhere near yet. Even under current plans a lot of the new developments are only "substantially segregated", but that's a medieval capital city for you. 10) I do not control the vast majority of London’s roads, so many of the improvements I seek will take time. They will depend on the coooperation of others, such as the boroughs, Royal Parks, Network Rail and central government. Oh. So most of this is aspirational rather than definite, and hopeful rather than fully funded. But still hugely better than the slow knuckle-dragging of the last five years, yes?
That's twelve books, one per Underground line, published yesterday for your delight and perusal. Look, they're here. Each costs £4.99, but Penguin are really hoping that people like you will buy the full boxset for £60 instead. You might want to pick carefully, because the books are all very very different. A Northern Line Minute is a set of personal stories, A Good Parcel of English Soil is a sort-of history of the Metropolitan line, and Mind The Child is an illuminating collection of tales from urban youth. Waterloo-City, City-Waterloo, on the other hand, is a collection of two-stop weirdness, which you'd probably only ever skimread once, while Drift looks like mostly cartoon scribble. Personal reminiscences take centre stage in Heads and Straights, focusing on the Chelsea corner of the Circle, while Earthbound is Paul Morley's brief meandering discourse about the Bakerloo. You get the feeling that some of these authors have written the book they wanted and slapped a tube line on the front cover, whereas others have focused more precisely on aspects of their allocated railway. Thankfully Peter York hits the target with The Blue Riband, discussing style along the Piccadilly, while Buttoned-Up does the same for East London - an illustrated essay focusing on a history of men's shirts. I picked up A History of Capitalism According to the Jubilee Line with high expectations, but put it back down again when I noticed the last line was "And then I woke up and it had all been a dream." I had greater hopes for What We Talk About When We Talk About The Tube, until I saw it was only 87 pages long, padded out at the end by 15 entirely blank pages. I then realised I'd already read more than a quarter of the book in the Guardian last Saturday (here's what 24 pages of it looks like) and felt a little cheated. You won't be buying any of these books for their length - they're more an impulse purchase, or for those who like a beautiful collection of spines along their bookshelf. If you only buy two, I'd start by picking either the Piccadilly or the East London. Then if you only buy one, I'm pleased to say you should go Central. Geographer Danny Dorling has written The 32 Stops about a journey east along the Central line from West Ruislip, which is obviously an excellent idea. He meets a representative local character or family at each station along the way, and throws in social commentary about how conditions change station by station. The map on the front cover is spatially awry, and he does stop short at Woodford, and 20% of the book is footnotes, but I read this one on the Central line last night and I'd vote it a winner. Just think twice before you buy the lot.
Five tube stations have the word Ruislip in their name, but only one marks the end of a line. That's West Ruislip, way out in zone 6, where Central line trains from Epping terminate. In case you've never been, I have, and here's what I can tell you about the place.
1) The station
There are nicer stations than WestRuislip, but there are far worse. Central line trains run either side of an island platform with a central canopy, and departing passengers need to check the signs carefully before boarding. The peculiarity here, shared with South Ruislip down the line, is that Chiltern trains have separate platforms alongside. They don't stop that regularly, not outside peak times, but it's nice to have the opportunity to travel further. We'll come back to this. The front of the station has a broad façade with a gently bending porch beneath a lantern roof. It could easily be something TfL had designed, except this place was built by British Rail in the 1960s. Immediately to the right of the entrance are your usual food stores and takeaway, but to the left is a minor police station, which suggests this area is a hotbed of crime. It doesn't look it. Immediately opposite the station is a golf course, and a Harvester-style restaurant which runs comedy nights and slimming classes to pack 'em in. We're right on the border between Ruislip and Ickenham, which is why this station used to be called Ruislip & Ickenham, then West Ruislip (for Ickenham) before losing the Icky bit. A lot of fresh flats are being built just down the road at Ickenham Park, on the site of what until fairly recently was RAFWest Ruislip. But mostly what's down the road is Metroland, and a very pleasant corner of Metroland too.
2) The extension West Ruislip wasn't scheduled to be the end of the Central line. When the western extension was mapped out in the 1930s the line was due to go further, all the way to Denham in Buckinghamshire. But the war came along and interrupted things (which is one of the most overused phrases on this blog) and the original plans had to be curtailed. The problem was the golf course across the road from West Ruislip station, and all the undeveloped land beyond it. After World War 2 this became part of the Green Belt, which meant no houses could be built beyond, and without houses there was no point in continuing the railway. If you look over the side of the bridge opposite the station you can see where thedream ended. Two dead end sidings terminate at a pair of unconvincing looking buffers, while a single track links up to the Chiltern line beyond. The Central line could have been the only tube line to exit Greater London twice, but it wasn't to be.
3) The missing station Denham station already existed when the Central line extension was killed off, but one intermediate station never materialised. That would have been Harefield Road, a halt approximately halfway along the unbuilt section, shortly before the Chiltern railway crosses the Colne Valley. What a fantastically remote and unlikely spot for a station this is. A lonely bend in a minor road, surrounded by fields and woodland, and not a house in sight. The only folk living within half a mile are farmers. There is one other business here, that's Uxbridge Skip Hire, who run their operations down a bleak track which goes by the name of Skip Lane. Public access is along a pavement from nowhere, or the U9 bus runs through - Hail and Ride only. As for the town of Harefield itself, that's two miles away, and an absolutely 'no' to walk to after dark. There is no conceivable economic justification for a station in this location, indeed there's an air of Blake Hall about the place, for those who remember the pointless platform at the Ongar end of the line. But that's the point. Harefield Road station was meant to generate development, not to serve it. Had the Central line extended, these fields off Harvil Road would have been swallowed up by acres of semis and bungalows, and a parade of shops, and a school, and who knows what else besides. Instead the Green Belt has done its job and this place remains mostly unspoilt, at least until HS2 appears and carves a whopping cutting out of the adjacent woodland.
4) The missing link A few hundred yards south of West Ruislip station the Central line passes over the Metropolitan and Piccadilly lines. It doesn't stop, indeed there's no convenient way to change from one to the other. When Tube Challengers come this way they have to run, unless the hourly U10 is passing by, that elusive bus of legend. It would be foolish to add a new interchange station here - West Ruislip is much too close - so the trek to Ickenham or Ruislip remains. But there have been mutterings, even semi-coherent plans, to link the lines together. Hillingdon council would love nothing better than to divert Central line trains away from West Ruislip and off towards Uxbridge. That would bring three different lines into the heart of the town, and offer commuters a greater choice of routes into the city. I'm not convinced that Uxbridge station could cope with the additional trains, and I don't think residents of West Ruislip would be very happy either. But a link wouldn't be as difficult to achieve as many other pie in the sky interchange schemes. The two lines are already joined via a track round the back of Ruislip depot, where large numbers of Central line trains are stabled overnight. It'd take some major reorganisation to create two-way passage, and the carriages full of ballast currently stored up the sidings would need to be shunted elsewhere. London Reconnections discuss the issues here, in some detail. This potential junction is quite hard to see, except from a train, although if you stand on the road bridge at Austin's Lane you can see the dead end buffer where the Central line might one day merge. I wouldn't hold my breath waiting, to be honest. Until which time West Ruislip station will continue to be the end of the line that shouldn't have been the end of the line, imperfect but immovable.
For reasons never adequately explained, I have been sent to a different outpost of Outpatients. My original appointment was in December, but then I received a letter sending me somewhere else, under someone else, three months later. Reception is brighter than where I was last sent, and the ladies behind the counter are rather chirpier. But the remainder of the facilities look like as little money as possible has been spent on them over the past few decades, bar some fresh vandalproof chairs by the entrance. Somebody's misplaced my notes, which I put down to the folder being much thinner than everyone else's, so I have to go and wait elsewhere for a bit.
A nurse eventually calls me in for weighing, which apparently one does without taking off one's shoes. She's quick, but I work out I could lose half a stone next time purely by coming in trainers. I'm sure I'm the youngest patient here, by at least a decade, probably two. Most are sitting staring forward, or chatting to a carer or spouse - I'm the only one who appears to have brought some reading material. The staff at the clinic know this, and have covered the walls with simple messages about healthy eating and approved rates of drinking. The man sat next to me is holding a packet of mince in a Tesco carrier bag. It's lean mince, which is encouraging, but I'm uncomfortable spending so long in the presence of raw sliced meat in a place like this.
One especially grizzled gentleman is here in a wheelchair, and natters to anyone who'll listen. The nurse says she'll help him into the consulting room when the time comes, but when the time comes she's otherwise detained and he has to hobble without her. Consultants and junior doctors pop their heads out of the suite of rooms occasionally, sometimes to grab a drink, sometimes to call in a patient. But the afternoon's appointments are, apparently, running half an hour late. Those sitting around me are unhappy at the delay, especially as "it's never normally this busy". They tut quietly, and stare at the noticeboard on the wall some more. Before long I start my second flick-through of Time Out, which is brief, and I'm left wishing the content was a bit more interesting these days.
The main consultant arrives late because he's been doing proper medicine in the main hospital, and swishes into his room. I have a one thirty with him, which is a little unnerving because everyone else seems to have been allocated to a junior. Another one thirty appointment goes in half an hour late, but I'm left waiting much longer than everyone else, perhaps because the professor is sneaking down some lunch. On the wall nearby is a donations box, because this corner of the NHS relies on the kindness of its patients for certain equipment. An elderly lady approaches, slowly, and attempts to post a thickly stuffed envelope inside a slot she's too short to see. She folds, and pushes, and moves the envelope around a bit in case she's missed something, but has no success because the box has been designed for coins and single notes only. Defeated she heads to reception, a little reticently, but needs must.
At last, a full fifty-two minutes late, I'm summoned inside. Intriguingly it's not by the senior consultant but by one of his juniors, the one who's already seen his one thirty appointment. My one thirty with the professor has been cast aside to speed up the queue, or at least I assume it has, it's never stated. The junior hasn't read my notes so flicks through them from the front, gathering a handful of salient points then asking me for the rest. I tell him a fairly garbled account of my backstory, missing out many of the things I've been practising saying during the weeks leading up to the appointment. He asks if I drink moderately and I say I do, although I bet he's been trained to assume I'm lying. He asks if I exercise and I mention walking, yes, for more than a mile. Then he pops me up on the couch, and pops me down again, and looks vaguely earnest.
He enquires whether anyone has spoken to me about a particular procedure. They have actually, several times, as he'd know if he'd read past page three of my notes. He tells me I could have this procedure done or I could not have it done, which is what I knew when I arrived, and he presents no convincing arguments either way. Previously I've been advised both ways, so his vague urgings are no help whatsoever. Not to worry, I'm more than happy to stick with inaction on this front for as long as possible. I doubt I'd have got away with indecision if I'd met the main man instead, but he demoted me to the junior so he can't be too worried about my condition. And yes of course I'll book another appointment in a year's time, and then maybe we can play the consultant raffle again.
Fancy a day out with old planes? You could go to the RAF Museum in Hendon, for nothing, or you could travel north to the Imperial War Museum's Cambridgeshire outpost. Set on a former WW1/WW2 airfield, Duxford is home to more than 200 historic aircraft, many of which are still airworthy. Even better not all of these aircraft are military, many are civil, including a prototype Concorde you can climb aboard. It's not a cheap day out (currently £17.50 for adults, free for children), but it is a lot easier to get to from London than I imagined.
Visit on an airshow day, or a weekend in high summer, and you can expect Duxford to be packed. I picked midweek at the back end of February, and the place was anything but. A few families with littl'uns, a group of military types here to reminisce, a handful of retired couples, plus some enthusiasts (male, in pairs). Not forgetting the school trips, each younger rather than older, with one group dressed up in wartime gear as part of their history topic. But all easily avoided across several empty acres.
Duxford has eight exhibition spaces, of various enormousness, plus a variable number of planes laid out on the apron beside the main runway. It's a big place to wander around, as you'd expect from an airfield, but it's nothing too strenuous, and there's a mobility bus if all that sounds too much.
1) Air Space: This is the big one, a huge building opened in 2007 to house an exhibition and three dozen historic aircraft. The exhibition tells the history of flight, in particular any aspect of flight with a British twist, so well done Britain. There are also plenty of buttons to press and gizmos to tweak, so this area is a magnet for any teacher with a class full of youngsters who need to let off steam in a vaguely educational manner. Watch out for a bit of the Wright Brothers' first plane in a case near the entrance. But you'll more likely be drawn in by the planes, arranged inside the hangar like a three-dimensional jigsaw. The smooth lines of a BOAC Comet, a capacious Lancaster, an arrow-blade Vulcan - stare and admire. And at the far end is the star of the show, an actual Concorde, that you can actually go inside. Volunteers were giving her a two-yearly clean while I was there, which meant a man with a sponge gently nudging a mechanical platform into place to give the nose a rub down. Don't expect first class luxury within - this was a prototype packed with recording equipment and never ferried paying passengers. But there are several rows of seats at the back, and an entirely unglamorous Concorde drinks trolley, all of which now have a whiff of the Easyjet about them. The slightly amateurish lettering on the tailfinand passenger door hint heavily that this plane never saw public service. But Concorde 101 still holds the record for a transatlantic crossing, that's 2hr 54m from Bristol to Newfoundland, and you can stroke her if you like on the way through.
2) Flying Aircraft: That's not tautological, the vintage aircraft in this double-hangar really do still fly. An army of volunteers keeps them ticking over, and you might see one or two blokes in overalls busy soldering, or greasing, or whatever they do to keep a plane in the air, as you wander round. All these are privately owned too - the IWM owns only the key military stock outright.
3) Air and Sea: This is full of planes and boats, obviously, although it's a bit strange seeing boats and submarines miles from the sea in the middle of East Anglia. There are also helicopters, and jets with foldable wings that used to zoom off aircraft carriers, and several (functional) Spitfires. If you ever see one of those at a flypast, it quite likely came from here.
4) Battle of Britain: You can get quite blasé about Spitfires after a few hours at Duxford. Here they're joined by a wide selection of other wartime fliers, and the story of their plucky triumph is well told. It's also very cold in here - this is one of the unheated hangars - for that extra austerity touch if you visit in winter.
5) Conservation in Action: Another double hangar this, but with limited access, because it's essentially a workshop. This lot don't fly, indeed many have wheels rather than wings, but that doesn't stop devotees tinkering, bolting and polishing. That's even if the object of their attention is a V2 rocket - blimey they were big.
6) 1940 Operations Room: However Duxford try to dress it up, this is just an annexe with a table for pushing squadrons about with sticks. A worthy wartime warhorse, but (as the re-enactment broadcast over the speakers suggests) nothing Hollywood-worthy ever happened here.
7) American Air Museum: The US stumped up the money to build this one, a curved silver hangar set into a grassy mound. It's also huge - essentially the smallest building that could accommodate a B52, then with umpteen other American aircraft laid out inbetween. Yes, that's a Blackbird spy plane, and that's an F1-11, and that's a semi-critical audiovisual installation about the Gulf War. George Bush has visited - there's a plaque - and his country's contribution to the special relationship is duly commemorated.
8) Land Warfare: I didn't get this far. Well, nothing in this big shed flies, does it? And it's a long way down the airfield, and it'll be good to have something fresh to explore if I return.
The "how to get here" page on Duxford's website has clearly been written by a car driver. With the museum located directly alongside Junction 10 on the M11, perhaps this road-friendliness isn't surprising. But if arriving by train the instructions suggest travelling to Cambridge, Royston or Whittlesford and then getting a taxi, making sure you've booked your return journey in advance. Don't. What the page fails to mention is that Whittlesford Parkway station is only a mile and a half from the museum, and that there's a perfectly decent footpath from one to the other. It's not entirely wheelchair friendly, but if you're relatively fit you can easily walk it in about half an hour. Head west out of the village, keep going as far as the motorway, cross at the roundabout and you're all but there. Or there is a bus from Cambridge, but it only runs on Sundays, and then only infrequently, so that's not recommended. I managed Liverpool Street to Duxford's main entrance in just under two hours for only the price of a return rail ticket, for the win.
The greatest loss of life on the Underground occurred exactly 70 years ago, at a station that wasn't a station, on the Central line. 173 civilians were crushed to death on a staircase leading down into Bethnal Green station, in a wartime accident caused by a tragic misunderstanding in the blackout.
Just after quarter past eight on the evening of Wednesday 3rd March 1943 the air raid sirens sounded across the East End. Thousands headed to the shelter on the corner of Cambridge Heath Road and Roman Road, which would one day become Bethnal Green station but wasn't yet operational. The tunnels had been dug, but wartime had intervened and no trains would run this way for another three years. Bethnal Green was the only deep level station in the heart of the East End, so its platforms had become a very popular place for the local population to shelter. Ten minutes later an unfamiliar explosion was heard. It's said this was an experimental anti-aircraft gun in Victoria Park, but none of those heading underground realised this and redoubled their attempts to get underground. Somebody tripped at the foot of the stairs - a short flight of 19 steps leading to a small landing above the ticket hall. The only illumination was a 25 watt bulb, so those descending ploughed on into the darkness making the situation ever worse. Within minutes 300 bodies had been crammed into a space measuring ten feet by twelve feet, and those at the bottom of the heap had no chance. Ian has the full story over here, including the reputed wartime cover up and the fight for compensation.
It's been a source of mystery to many why, until recently, the Bethnal Greentragedy has been so poorly commemorated. A single plaque above the foot of the staircase took decades to appear, finally installed by Tower Hamlets council, although very easily overlooked. The families of the dead have sought something larger, something more permanent, something truly worthy of the scale of this awful disaster. And so came about the idea of the Stairway To Heaven memorial, a most unusual and eyecatching structure to be built in the corner of Bethnal Green Gardens. The plan is to cast a replica of the staircase, then invert it and hang it from a plinth immediately adjacent to the site of the disaster. The plinth is ready, as is a Portland stone block laid out in a zigzag across the site with a bench at the far end for quiet contemplation. Embedded in the vertical are the names of the 173 victims and their ages, from Betty Aarons (14) to John Yewman (13 months). Meanwhile across the main body of the memorial are several plaques recounting first hand accounts of the survivors, such as this from Alf Morris.
The memorial's not yet complete because the suspended staircase isn't yet in place. But enough of the memorial was ready in time for a service of dedication timed to coincide with yesterday's 70th anniversary. The service is an annual event for survivors of the tragedy and all those whose families were impacted, held at StJohn'sChurch across the road. In the past they've followed up with a short outdoor ceremony by the railings at the top of the staircase, but this year's commemoration was on a wholly different scale.
At the end of the service the congregation filed out into the churchyard and crossed over Roman Road, aided by a considerable police presence. At the front of the procession was a retired soldier holding a flag, followed closely by a priest wearing a biretta. Behind them came royalty - this being the East End that meant Pearly Kings and Queens - at least a dozen of them, resplendent in buttoned jackets and feathered hats. They laid bouquets along the top of the memorial, as did a local councillor in his finest robes, and various representatives from TfL, the police force and the military. Also present were two of the patrons of the Stairway to Heaven fund, that's Tommy Walsh (from Ground Force) and Cheryl Baker (from Bucks Fizz). Both have carried out a significant amount of work for the charity, turning out to thank supporters and attending the annual service.
As 3pm struck, or thereabouts, the official dedication ceremony got underway. No artificial amplification was employed, so only those standing at the far end of the monument would have heard anything. Tommy and Cheryl listened intently, as did Pearly royalty lined up alongside, but the majority of the congregation confined to the paved area alongside the memorial strained mostly in vain. Another vicar spoke, then the local councillor - that's the Speaker of Tower Hamlets who earned applause for his contribution. Proceedings got easier to follow from afar as rice was cast and the memorial blessed, and the dead remembered with the playing of a trumpet solo. A BBC cameraman immediately wandered across for an extreme close-up on the trumpeter's face - by no means the only video operator or photographer who'd been hovering around the service pointing lenses at the crowd.
After the commemoration had finished it was time for a proper photo opportunity, with the remaining survivors invited to stand together in front of the flowers for a few official photos. The charity still needs £130,000 to complete the Stairway to Heaven memorial, and they hope that the burst of publicity afforded by the 70th anniversary will help them on their way. You can donate here, or by watching out for collectors at various East End stations over the next couple of weeks.
I departed Bethnal Green by tube, which involved entering the station via the fateful staircase. It seems ridiculously short for so high a casualty figure, and the landing at the foot of the stairs impossibly tiny. And yet this is essentially the same structure that existed in 1943, though no longer with doors at the top, and now with a much needed handrail down the centre. Beside the original plaque is a modern electronic sign which could flash up "Emergency Do Not Enter" were anything similar ever to threaten today. And in the corner of the landing was a yellow sign left by a cleaner saying "Caution Wet Floor", even though it wasn't, because that's modern risk management for you. And we may scoff, but health and safety is there for a reason, as 173 poor souls and their families discovered on that never-to-be-forgotten evening 70 years ago.
Every month this year (with the exception of January), I'm focusing on one of London Underground's underground lines. Last month I kicked off with the Bakerloo line, and this month I've decided to move on to the Central. I know it looks like I'm working through in alphabetical order, but that's just a coincidence, honest. Expect a March filled with various Central-related posts, here and there, every now and then, on diverse topics. As before I'm introducing things with a ride along the line, this the Underground's record-breaking longest possible journey. I've always wanted to do that...
It's 34 miles from West Ruislip to Epping, a journey scheduled for completion in an hour and twenty-five minutes. Normally only the driver goes from one end to the other, but I thought I'd join him, from the heart of Hillingdon to the edge of Essex. The journey kicks off in bright sunlight, although that doesn't stop some muppet in the West Ruislip control room pressing the "In these adverse weather conditions please take extra care..." button for an unnecessary tannoy announcement. Trains head off to Epping every six minutes from either side of the island platform, so pick carefully, and let's start the stopwatch.
To start with I have the entire carriage to myself. It won't last, as our journey through the metropolis rises to a midtown crescendo then fades away into the suburbs. In less than a minute we've passed over the Metropolitan line (a lost linkage opportunity?) then alongside a large Central line depot (where the Vickers Aquamatic washes trains). Ruislip Gardens isn't as green as its name might suggest, more the name of the housing estate to one side. My first fellow passenger is a coffee-clutching smartphone user with a ponytail, though very definitely not the Shoreditch type. At South Ruislip a silver Chiltern train rushes by without stopping, because these outer interchanges aren't important to long distance travellers. One day HS2 will pass this way too, running to the north along parallel tracks, but not if the angry residents of Northolt etc get their way. The Central line runs intermittently in elevated section, offering a mixture of rooftops, treetops and warehouse roofs. The view has improved considerably by Greenford, from whose raised platforms spires and hilltops can be seen amid the entire expanse of west London.
By Perivale there are five of us in the carriage, two jabbering away "yeah yeah yeah" about the cost of pay as you go. It may be mid-afternoon but, out here in Zone 4, passengers are having to make do with reading a Metro because the Evening Standard is for inner Londoners only. Housing slowly makes way for business and industry as we descend into the secluded heart of the Hanger Lane roundabout. We cross the Piccadilly line for the second time, skirting the Park Royal trading estate, before joining up with the Ealing Broadway branch of the Central at North Acton. A pig-ugly Holiday Inn peers down from the embankment above, adjacent to several other brown buildings designed by the same school of sadistic architects. By contrast the housing estate at East Acton has the finest chimneypots along the entire route, and even Wormwood Scrubs scrubs up well, its variegated gables seasonally visible through a screen of leafless branches.
The tracks swap sides (via an underpass) so that trains roll into White City on the right, then swap back again shortly after departure. We've dipped below ground now, where we'll stay until Stratford. Somewhere in the darkness is the site of the old WoodLane station, built on an inconvenient loop, and ahead is the sharpest curve on the entire underground network, but only for those travelling in the opposite direction. Westfield shoppers board in number at Shepherd's Bush, joining BBC types from the previous station, and it's starting to feel busy on board. One particularly wide bloke is taking up 1½ seats, while a narrow chap takes up two by resting his trainers on the moquette opposite. Holland Park and Notting Hill Gate are a little gloomy, the latter station frequented by unexpectedly stereotypical blondes who flounce aboard and natter.
A late arrival on the platform at Queensway manages to dash aboard between the closing doors without quite looking foolish. Then at Lancaster Gate two passengers deliberately allow our train to depart, intent on waiting for a Hainault service, not our Epping. We get our first "standers" at Marble Arch, the first boarders to ignore spare seats in favour of hanging around by the doors. And that's just an omen of what's to come at Bond Street, where central London hits big time. In they pour, one shovelling a Quarter Pounder inelegantly into his mouth, another lady finally taking the plunge and squeezing into the half seat beside the Three Hundred Pounder.
We've been running for nearly forty minutes and are now about halfway through our journey - currently rumbling beneath the retail turmoil of Oxford Street. Oxford Circus is the first station at which more people get out of our carriage than get on, but that's only because the horde of waiting shoppers have refused to spread out down the platform. At Tottenham Court Road a lady drags her small red suitcase over my feet "sorry" and plonks awkwardly "sorry" into the seat beside me "sorry". I'm voting Holborn the most crowded station en route, the first place where someone has to wander down and stand between the two rows of seats. Things could be much worse though - a couple of hours later people will be standing in vain on the platforms at Chancery Lane and St Paul's unable to squeeze aboard.
I'm expecting the brakes to screech as we round the sharp curve at Bank, but they don't. Instead a few financiers hop across the gap and ride one stop to Liverpool Street for their mainline train home. This is where the overcrowding situation in the carriage finally eases, with everyone now allocated a seat or at least their own place to lean. Those who remain on board are the true East Londoners - the skateboarder holder, the phone clicker and the headphone nodder - on the long run through to Bethnal Green. We stop. The doors open. "Ladies and gentlemen, please stand behind the yellow line as the train approaches" announces a disembodied voice, synchronised by some unseen idiot.
The cross-platform interchange at Mile End works like a dream for those who need the District line, on this occasion more by accident than operational design. Red Suitcase Lady stands as soon as we depart the station because she wants to alight at Stratford, but doesn't realise that's three minutes away and soon regrets her premature decision. At last we emerge into the sunlight, after ten miles underground from one Westfield megamall to another. And at last there are seats again, two of which are nabbed by a Rizla roller and a probable alcoholic. Leyton marks a full hour since we started out, and the first occasion we've been travelling fast enough for the train to rattle.
We shadow the A12 arterial to Leytonstone, where the line splits, and we're taking the overground route. Suddenly trackside looks properly suburban again, as do the stations. Snaresbrook has cute ironwork, and a cafe on the southbound that dispenses caffeine to early morning commuters, while South Woodford used to boast "The Railway Coffee Tavern" but no longer. It's school chucking-out time by the time we reach Woodford. A gaggle of girls hide away in the waiting room to gossip, while a lone boy boards the train, flips open a lime green iPad and downs a can of generic energy drink.
There are just ten passengers in the carriage as we cross into Essex, following a line of commuter settlements up the Roding Valley. Thin tongues of garden back down to the railway from neat rows of semis, interrupted at Buckhurst Hill by a very British Rail style station. By contrast Loughton has a splash of architecturalbrilliance that looks much more London Underground, its platforms dominated by "kidney-shaped flat-slab canopies" and "pairs of freestanding lamp-standards". After Debden it becomes clear we've finally left the metropolis behind, as schools and houses make way for fields and flowering gorse. Now only single cottages dot the countryside, and Theydon Bois feels more like a rural halt.
Ahead can be seen traffic on the M25, with streams of lorries rumbling ever closer until we pass underneath. And that's almost it, nearly an hour and a half after our journey began, because the town ahead is Epping where this train terminates. We pull into the left-hand platform by the ticket hall, and most of the remaining passengers head off to the adjacent oversized car park. The line to Ongar stretches deceptively ahead, unused now for almost twenty years because Transport for London has no desire to serve a minor Essex backwater. The driver emerges from his cab and wanders back down the train, which in six minutes time will become another record-breakingly long return journey to West Ruislip. Whilst this line may be called the Central, its outer extremities are truly anything but.
Light Show Hayward Gallery
(30 January - 28 April 2013) The Hayward has a habit of curating exhibitions on atypical themes, and here's another. This time it's artworks based on light, so there are a lot of bulbs, a lot of tubes, and a fair bit of shimmering. Indeed it's the diversity of the works that makes the exhibition, and just when you think you've seen everything an artist could do with light another original idea pops up. A few of the 25 works are abitmeh - stuff you could easily have knocked up yourself if you'd had access to the appropriate electrics - but most are cleverer, tricksier and potentially more meaningful. A huge white cylinder drops waves of LED lights in an unrepeating pattern. Classical columns made from fluorescent tubes alight and delight. An arc light inside a metal cage throws geometric shadows around a cubic room. Seven red lamps appear to merge together to form a three dimensional rose. That sort of thing. Two of the exhibits require you don plastic overshoes before you enter because it's important that the floor remains white. One of these features three monochromatic rooms, where the shade of blue, red or green perceptibly changes as your eyes get used to the scene. Several visitors took this as a cue to take photos of their boy/girlfriend turned different colours, despite a strict "NO PHOTOGRAPHY" rule explained at the outset, while the attendants stood outside scrutinising footwear. Light needs space, so a lot of the exhibits took up the entirety of a room. When that's a video projector throwing geometric shapes through a mist you may smile - when that's a single "moonlight bulb" dangling from a cable you may not stay long. Even with a limited number of tickets on sale, queues still developed at a couple of the installations. I wasn't convinced the downstairs line was worth the wait, the red wedge of light did nothing for me. But the upstairs box with one-way glass and infinite floor was rather more fun, even if I couldn't see what faces the others in the queue were pulling at me. They saved the best until last, in my view at least. Olafur Eliasson, who you may remember from the Tate's Weather Project, has placed 27 water fountains in a darkened room and then lit them with strobe light. This freezes the droplets like dancing ice, creating the illusion of crystal droplets and frozen waterfalls, pulsating and tumbling to the ground. Close up, the action is mesmeric - from further away the view resembles a garden of vibrant icy cacti. If that sounds like your thing, Light Show shouldn't disappoint. But book early, because this show is regularly selling out.
• When it opened in July 1900, the line was known as the Central London Railway. The line was soon nicknamed the "Twopenny Tube" because it charged a flat fare. Only on 23 August 1937 did the current Central Line name come into use.
• The Central is London's longest underground line, with 46 miles of track. It also boasts the longest possible journey on the network - 34 miles from West Ruislip to Epping.
• The line was opened by The Prince of Wales (soon to be Edward VII) who made an eighteen minute non-stop journey from Bank to Shepherds Bush.
• The lifts at all the original stations have been replaced by escalators, except at Holland Park, Queensway and Lancaster Gate.
• Central line trains are now 20 years old. Each is 132.3m long, and its eight carriages contain a total of 272 seats.
• The western end of the Central line originally terminated at Shepherd's Bush. Tracks were extended to Wood Lane in 1908, Ealing Broadway in 1920, Greenford in 1947 and West Ruislip in 1948.
• The eastern end of the Central line originally terminated at Bank. Services were extended to Liverpool Street in 1912, Stratford in 1946, Woodford and Hainault in 1947, round the Hainault loop in 1948, Epping in 1949 and Ongar in 1957. The EppingtoOngar shuttle closed in 1994.
• During World War Two, before the eastbound extension of the line opened, an aircraft-componentfactory operated in the twin tunnels between Leytonstone and Gants Hill. It was 2½ miles long.
• The Central line's official colour is Pantone 485
• The Central line has a split of services that you may not have noticed. West Ruislip trains go up the Epping branch, and Ealing Broadway trains go round the Hainault loop. Generally speaking. [full line history here]
À Paris: la tour Eiffel
When you're ready, there are lots more steps to the deuxième étage. This was a slightly more unnerving climb, though it shouldn't have been, and I tried not to show my trepidation to the liftfuls rushing past. Past 500 steps, past 600, until the final riser read 669 (and no, I wasn't out of breath). Balconies run around the entire perimeter, on two storeys thanks to the need for double-decker lifts. You're open to the weather, which can be grim but was delightfully springlike on Saturday. Even better the safety grille has a grating wide enough to be entirely camera-friendly, and from the upper deck there's nothing in the way at all. Indeed the Eiffel Tower easily beats the Orbit in East London on lack of obstruction (and on price, height and view). To the west, on a nearby bridge, tiny Metro trains rumble across the Seine. To the southeast, in a formal green stripe, lie the gardens of the Parc du Champ de Mars. To the northeast, set high above the rooftops of the inner city, sit the gleaming domes of Sacré-Cœur. And to the northwest are the Chaillot gardens, marked by the tower's noonday shadow, with the financial towers of La Defense rising on the horizon.
Getting to St Pancras for 0545 requires dedication, or an overnight hotel room, or one of the very first tube trains of the day. Alas Bow Road's doors were still firmly bolted when I needed to depart, so I took the nightbus instead and shared the early part of my birthday with inebriated folk stuffing kebabs down their gullet. Whilst most were heading home, a select group of travellers descended on the check-in beneath St Pancras's platforms. I had a proper ticket, but most were attempting to gain entry by waving a home-printed sheet or a mobile phone QR code at the barriers. Then the metal detector shuffle, then smile for French passport control, and into the lounge where hundreds of pairs of bleary eyes were waiting. I wanted a newspaper but it was too early - WH Smith had only empty shelves. And I wanted a Metro pass for later but held off - it's apparently cheaper if you buy it aboard the Eurostar.
Route 48: London Bridge - Walthamstow
There is a certain sense of deja vu about the mid forties. My journey on the 43 also kicked off at London Bridge, and the 47 passed this way last year. So, to ensure a bit of variety, a sewer has collapsed and all buses are being diverted. The 48 (and a number of other routes) currently kick off from a makeshift bus stand on a long derelict site on Southwark Street. The first stop is outside the Hop Exchange, a massive building formerly used to trade brewery inputs, now a less exciting mishmash of brewery outputs. My bus pulls up in the shadow of the Shard, or it would have done had the sun been in the right place, and if thick cloud hadn't been in the way. I'm the only boarder, as befits an out-of-the-way location, so I grab the prime observation seat at the front of the top deck and hunker down until Walthamstow.
A long hike up Mare Street beckons. This broad highway is at the heart of Hackney, from where it crosses the canal to the civic square by the Empire. The bus lane is busy with red double deckers, leapfrogging one another from one stop to the next. I'm surprised to see a number 675 bus ahead, and even more surprised later when I discover that this school service is several miles off course. My new companions on the front seats are a red-haired mum wielding a bottle of Evian and her lively-looking daughter. My dream on these blogged bus journeys is to be joined by anecdote-worthy companions, but these two never live up to their initial promise and sit in relative silence all the way to E17.
On and on and on ploughs the Lea Bridge Road. Retail highlights include The Millionaire's Hair Salon, which I suspect is inaccurately named, and Dial-Halal, "the home of dial-a-chicken", which I hope is a butchery service. Our 48 keeps catching up with a 55 ahead, and I realise that I'm going to have to come back to this underwhelming street on my birthday bus journey in seven years time. And eight, because the 56 travels this way too, which doesn't feel like much to look forward to. But beyond the railway line I'm wowed by the Bakers Almshouses, a set of beautiful yellow brick residences arranged round three sides of a quadrangle, built 150 years ago for those in the bread trade fallen into poverty. They gave their name to the pub on the corner, which later gave its name to the crossroads and surrounding area - Bakers Arms. Alas that regenerated into a bookmakers in 2010, although with Percy Ingle nextdoor at least some vague connection to the past is maintained.
One of the scariest things about being 48 is realising it's thirty years since your 18th birthday. I kicked off my 18th birthday with a celebratory bowl of Coco Pops, then opened some presents which included a Thompson Twins cassette and a Venus fly trap. At school we did periglacial features in double geography, and in the afternoon they let me win three games of table tennis because it was my birthday and not because of any residual talent. My Dad allowed me to drive home from school, because it was my driving test the following day (third time lucky). Then in the evening my extended family came round for a roast turkey dinner and a huge lemon meringue pie, which is dessert perfection in my opinion, before giving me the bumps on the front lawn. They don't make birthdays like that any more.
4) We will substantially improve the existing Barclays Cycle Superhighways.
1) The station
West Ruislip wasn't scheduled to be the end of the Central line. When the western extension was mapped out in the 1930s the line was due to go further, all the way to Denham in Buckinghamshire. But the war came along and interrupted things (which is one of the most overused phrases on this blog) and the original plans had to be curtailed. The problem was the golf course across the road from West Ruislip station, and all the undeveloped land beyond it. After World War 2 this became part of the Green Belt, which meant no houses could be built beyond, and without houses there was no point in continuing the railway. If you look over the side of the bridge opposite the station you can see where the dream ended. Two dead end sidings terminate at a pair of unconvincing looking buffers, while a single track links up to the Chiltern line beyond. The Central line could have been the only tube line to exit Greater London twice, but it wasn't to be.
3) The missing station
A few hundred yards south of West Ruislip station the Central line passes over the Metropolitan and Piccadilly lines. It doesn't stop, indeed there's no convenient way to change from one to the other. When Tube Challengers come this way they have to run, unless the hourly U10 is passing by, that elusive bus of legend. It would be foolish to add a new interchange station here - West Ruislip is much too close - so the trek to Ickenham or Ruislip remains. But there have been mutterings, even semi-coherent plans, to link the lines together. Hillingdon council would love nothing better than to divert Central line trains away from West Ruislip and off towards Uxbridge. That would bring three different lines into the heart of the town, and offer commuters a greater choice of routes into the city. I'm not convinced that Uxbridge station could cope with the additional trains, and I don't think residents of West Ruislip would be very happy either. But a link wouldn't be as difficult to achieve as many other pie in the sky interchange schemes. The two lines are already joined via a track round the back of Ruislip depot, where large numbers of Central line trains are stabled overnight. It'd take some major reorganisation to create two-way passage, and the carriages full of ballast currently stored up the sidings would need to be shunted elsewhere. London Reconnections discuss the issues here, in some detail. This potential junction is quite hard to see, except from a train, although if you stand on the road bridge at Austin's Lane you can see the dead end buffer where the Central line might one day merge. I wouldn't hold my breath waiting, to be honest. Until which time West Ruislip station will continue to be the end of the line that shouldn't have been the end of the line, imperfect but immovable.
Day out: IWM Duxford
1) Air Space: This is the big one, a huge building opened in 2007 to house an exhibition and three dozen historic aircraft. The exhibition tells the history of flight, in particular any aspect of flight with a British twist, so well done Britain. There are also plenty of buttons to press and gizmos to tweak, so this area is a magnet for any teacher with a class full of youngsters who need to let off steam in a vaguely educational manner. Watch out for a bit of the Wright Brothers' first plane in a case near the entrance. But you'll more likely be drawn in by the planes, arranged inside the hangar like a three-dimensional jigsaw. The smooth lines of a BOAC Comet, a capacious Lancaster, an arrow-blade Vulcan - stare and admire. And at the far end is the star of the show, an actual Concorde, that you can actually go inside. Volunteers were giving her a two-yearly clean while I was there, which meant a man with a sponge gently nudging a mechanical platform into place to give the nose a rub down. Don't expect first class luxury within - this was a prototype packed with recording equipment and never ferried paying passengers. But there are several rows of seats at the back, and an entirely unglamorous Concorde drinks trolley, all of which now have a whiff of the Easyjet about them. The slightly amateurish lettering on the tailfin and passenger door hint heavily that this plane never saw public service. But Concorde 101 still holds the record for a transatlantic crossing, that's 2hr 54m from Bristol to Newfoundland, and you can stroke her if you like on the way through.
2) Flying Aircraft: That's not tautological, the vintage aircraft in this double-hangar really do still fly. An army of volunteers keeps them ticking over, and you might see one or two blokes in overalls busy soldering, or greasing, or whatever they do to keep a plane in the air, as you wander round. All these are privately owned too - the IWM owns only the key military stock outright.
7) American Air Museum: The US stumped up the money to build this one, a curved silver hangar set into a grassy mound. It's also huge - essentially the smallest building that could accommodate a B52, then with umpteen other American aircraft laid out inbetween. Yes, that's a Blackbird spy plane, and that's an F1-11, and that's a semi-critical audiovisual installation about the Gulf War. George Bush has visited - there's a plaque - and his country's contribution to the special relationship is duly commemorated.
The greatest loss of life on the Underground occurred exactly 70 years ago, at a station that wasn't a station, on the Central line. 173 civilians were crushed to death on a staircase leading down into Bethnal Green station, in a wartime accident caused by a tragic misunderstanding in the blackout.
It's 34 miles from West Ruislip to Epping, a journey scheduled for completion in an hour and twenty-five minutes. Normally only the driver goes from one end to the other, but I thought I'd join him, from the heart of Hillingdon to the edge of Essex. The journey kicks off in bright sunlight, although that doesn't stop some muppet in the West Ruislip control room pressing the "In these adverse weather conditions please take extra care..." button for an unnecessary tannoy announcement. Trains head off to Epping every six minutes from either side of the island platform, so pick carefully, and let's start the stopwatch.
A late arrival on the platform at Queensway manages to dash aboard between the closing doors without quite looking foolish. Then at Lancaster Gate two passengers deliberately allow our train to depart, intent on waiting for a Hainault service, not our Epping. We get our first "standers" at Marble Arch, the first boarders to ignore spare seats in favour of hanging around by the doors. And that's just an omen of what's to come at Bond Street, where central London hits big time. In they pour, one shovelling a Quarter Pounder inelegantly into his mouth, another lady finally taking the plunge and squeezing into the half seat beside the Three Hundred Pounder.
There are just ten passengers in the carriage as we cross into Essex, following a line of commuter settlements up the Roding Valley. Thin tongues of garden back down to the railway from neat rows of semis, interrupted at Buckhurst Hill by a very British Rail style station. By contrast Loughton has a splash of architectural brilliance that looks much more London Underground, its platforms dominated by "kidney-shaped flat-slab canopies" and "pairs of freestanding lamp-standards". After Debden it becomes clear we've finally left the metropolis behind, as schools and houses make way for fields and flowering gorse. Now only single cottages dot the countryside, and Theydon Bois feels more like a rural halt.
The Hayward has a habit of curating exhibitions on atypical themes, and here's another. This time it's artworks based on light, so there are a lot of bulbs, a lot of tubes, and a fair bit of shimmering. Indeed it's the diversity of the works that makes the exhibition, and just when you think you've seen everything an artist could do with light another original idea pops up. A few of the 25 works are a bit meh - stuff you could easily have knocked up yourself if you'd had access to the appropriate electrics - but most are cleverer, tricksier and potentially more meaningful. A huge white cylinder drops waves of LED lights in an unrepeating pattern. Classical columns made from fluorescent tubes alight and delight. An arc light inside a metal cage throws geometric shadows around a cubic room. Seven red lamps appear to merge together to form a three dimensional rose. That sort of thing. Two of the exhibits require you don plastic overshoes before you enter because it's important that the floor remains white. One of these features three monochromatic rooms, where the shade of blue, red or green perceptibly changes as your eyes get used to the scene. Several visitors took this as a cue to take photos of their boy/girlfriend turned different colours, despite a strict "NO PHOTOGRAPHY" rule explained at the outset, while the attendants stood outside scrutinising footwear. Light needs space, so a lot of the exhibits took up the entirety of a room. When that's a video projector throwing geometric shapes through a mist you may smile - when that's a single "moonlight bulb" dangling from a cable you may not stay long. Even with a limited number of tickets on sale, queues still developed at a couple of the installations. I wasn't convinced the downstairs line was worth the wait, the red wedge of light did nothing for me. But the upstairs box with one-way glass and infinite floor was rather more fun, even if I couldn't see what faces the others in the queue were pulling at me. They saved the best until last, in my view at least. Olafur Eliasson, who you may remember from the Tate's Weather Project, has placed 27 water fountains in a darkened room and then lit them with strobe light. This freezes the droplets like dancing ice, creating the illusion of crystal droplets and frozen waterfalls, pulsating and tumbling to the ground. Close up, the action is mesmeric - from further away the view resembles a garden of vibrant icy cacti. If that sounds like your thing, Light Show shouldn't disappoint. But book early, because this show is regularly selling out.
CENTRAL: Ten line facts
