In 1984, thanks to Michael Heseltine, the International Garden Festival transformed a large derelict industrial site on the banks of the River Mersey into horticultural heaven. More than 3 million people turned up, including Harry and Edna from Brookside, to enjoy the flowers, the pavilions, a Yellow Submarine and several zoned gardens. But if legacy was ever the intention, things turned out badly. The site was sold into private hands and half of it used for housing, but the remainder was closed off to the public and grew increasingly unkempt. In 2006 a Merseyside property developer signed up to create a residential scheme surrounding a new waterfront park retaining the heart of the original gardens, but the recession pulled those plans apart. As yet none of the new housing has been built, but thankfully the developers were asked to complete their relandscaping task first, and Festival Gardens reopened to the public in 2012.
The main entrance is off Riverside Drive, close to St Michael's station, past a decorative gabion wall. They do like their gabion walls in the Gardens, these I assume a later addition bringing a little resilience and security to an isolated site. The Festival's rescued fragment focuses around two Eighties favourites, the Chinese and Japanese gardens, the centrepiece of which is a repainted pagoda beside a shallow lake and switched-off cascade. The derelict Moon Wall has been restored, and a series of new bridges added across an attractive area of wildflowers and pools. The park's Grand Axis has been retained, rising up terraced steps to a swirl of forested paths, now considerably more mature than the saplings 1984's punters enjoyed. And from the top of the mound there's a half-decent view across the river to the Wirral, and could those be the mountains of Snowdonia glowering beneath the cloud?
The Gardens are no longer huge, but large enough for a half hour stroll amongst well-maintained scenic surroundings. Again they weren't busy, in part because they're not especially near anywhere, but mainly because it was still raining. A couple of dogs led their owners round the back of the lagoon, while one very patient mother humoured her young son as he searched for Pokemon by the pagoda. And I ended up down on the promenade beside the ragingly grey Mersey, a waterfront link built with future residents in mind, and just far enough from the city centre that few would ever head this way unbidden. Overlooking the murk was a large sign for the long-stalled housing redevelopment, with an optimistically bubbly graphic, and featuring the address of a website that hasn't been updated since 2011. One day the area will bloomagain, but thus far only Festival Gardens provides a welcome renaissance.
Normally when you ride a heritage tramway it's proper heritage. But this brief run along the Birkenhead seafront is only 20 years old, and even though some of the trams look ancient they're of similar vintage. The project was part of a council-sponsored attempt to redevelop the old Docks, a particularly rundown part of town, with the help of expertise from the Merseyside Tramway Preservation Society. The line's been extended over the years and now covers three-quarters of a mile, but Wirral Council decided to get rid of its assets in 2010 and the entire enterprise is now run by volunteers (weekend afternoons and bank holidays only).
The tram waits at Woodside for the Ferry to come in, not that anybody was attempting to interchange on a damp Saturday. There were loads of empty seats to choose from upstairs, the front taken by a family with a small lively child for whom travelling on the tram might be the highlight of his day, ably aided and abetted by the jolly conductor. We trundled for five minutes or so along Shore Road, past a repurposed arts centre, the Mersey Tunnel's ventilation shaft and various still-industrial buildings, not that any of these were easy to see from behind steamed-up glass. At one point we paused so that one of the volunteers could take a photo of the tram with a duck in front of it - I believed it was shooed on afterwards - before turning inland to our destination.
The tramshed at the end of the ride doubles up as the WirralTransport Museum. Here you'll find trams in various states of repair, plus grease-covered blokes maintaining them, and a variety of other forms of wheeled transport including motorbikes and an Austin Seven. Up the back several old buses gleam, and are occasionally let out of the building to revisit New Brighton, Port Sunlight or Oxton Circle. The 'local' aspect is particularly strong here, with more information than you should probably ever need on the peninsula's individual former tram routes. But the most popular exhibit appeared to be the model railway layout, where several small lively children had gathered to banter with the line controller until finally dragged away by their parents.
I'd heard so much about thisplace over the years, it being the world's oldest publicly funded civic park, and the inspiration for Central Park in New York to boot. Arriving after an all-day downpour meant I didn't see it at its best, the sylvan landscape dulled and drizzled, and the only activity a pair of football teams changing after a sodden match. I met not a soul on my circuit of the ornamental eastern lake, sharing the Swiss Bridge in the centre with a mob of feral pigeons. At the oddly modern visitor centre a member of staff looked up briefly from her information desk, then ignored me, and the café's clientèle had fled long before closing time allowing the cleaner an early finish. Another visit another time.
Centrepiece of the Victorian arts quarter, the Walker is home to a world-class collection of paintings. This year I made sure to arrive during opening hours, and toured the upper galleries to discover, aha, the legendary And When Did You Last See Your Father? Here too was Peter Getting out of Nick's Pool, a Hockney which won the John Moores Prize in 1966, plus a gallery displaying the finalists in this year's competition. Downstairs there's more to drink and less to see, one very contemporary touch in the craft and design gallery being a collection ofmen's dresses contributed by a 90 year-old cross-dresser. And yes, kind reader, at your behest I did pop into the library nextdoor to view the striking circular reading room, and to go wow at the soaring glass-metal beehive roof of the adjacent modern upgrade.
I did try to look inside Gibberd's crownlike Catholic rotunda, but arrived just in time for the day's organ recital to begin, which meant no wandering around, and it was a long trudge back down those wet steps. Still, I think I saw enough elsewhere.
One danger of booking an awayday rail ticket months in advance is that the weather might be atrocious. It happened when I went to Durham last year, and it happened again on Saturday when I went to Liverpool. The first drops fell as my train crossed the Mersey, the rain then chucked it down for eight hours, and the sun only peeked out as I headed back to Lime Street for my return journey. Thanks for all your suggestions as to where I might visit. I should perhaps have targeted a few more indoor attractions, but where would have been the fun in that?
You'll know thisone, even if you've never been. About 20 years ago the artist Anthony Gormley commissioned 100 identical cast iron sculptures of his body so that they could be attached to a beach to be covered by the rise and fall of the tide. The beach in question is in Crosby, the first stretch of sand beyond the mouth of the Mersey, and just up the coast from Liverpool Docks. But it's not the first place this metal army has been exhibited - they were initially deployed in northern Germany in 1997, then transferred to Norway and on to Belgium. But something about Crosby just felt right, so they've been here permanently since 2005, embraced by the local council as an artwork with pulling power.
I wasn't expecting the sheer scale of the piece. I'd walked down to the coast through a fairly ordinary seafront suburb, all view of the sea blocked by a low strip of dunes, emerging through a narrow gap onto the promenade. I'd also timed my visit for low tide, or thereabouts, so ahead of me lay the entire broad expanse of Crosby Sands. A couple of miles of beach all told, too long to see in its entirety, sloping gently down towards a distant run of breaking waves. And dotted here and there, some close to shore and some much much further out, a sprinkling of solitary immobile figures staring out into the Irish Sea. I thought there'd be clusters, but there was too much space to fill for that. Instead no more than one sentinel was ever in close-up at any time, a handful of his brothers in the approximate vicinity, and the remainder merely tiny metal posts scattered into the sandscape.
It was raining hard, so I had my hood up, and only the hardiest dog walkers had ventured anywhere near the beach. But having the place pretty much to myself was excellent, because it meant all the people I could see were genuine sculptures rather than intrusive humans. It also meant the sky was a leaden grey, with the closest wind farm a mere blur in the distance, and only the occasional container ship creeping across a blank horizon. I imagine a fineday looks dazzlinglydifferent, and hightide totally dissimilar too, when only the figures closest to the shore are visible above the sea. Instead I got to see the majority of figures from the feet or knees up, with only a few so far out that only the head was showing.
They don't like you walking too far out. Signs on the promenade warn against wandering more than 50 metres from the land because of "very soft sand and mud" beyond, although I arrived on the beach inbetween them so only read the warning on my way back. I'd been out as far as the first watery channel, the sand here rippled and uneven, and was already regretting my decision to wear my quite-nice trainers. I can see how tempting it would be to walk further, but there's not really a lot of point given that every statue is the same as every other, rust excepted, and the other 99 still so far away.
The wet day meant even the innermost sculptures were glistening, and one particular appendage drew unfortunate attention to itself. A comfortably proportioned organ dangles from the groin of each facsimile, a low point on which water trickling down the sculpture inexorably coalesces. This forms a droplet of increasing dimensions, in this case over ten seconds or so, until eventually gravity does its thing and a big bead widdles down onto the sand. I can see why some have protested that the sculptures are too lifelike, but we're all human and we all leak, so why the fuss?
To visit Another Place I took Merseyrail to Blundellsands & Crosby station, which delivered me roughly halfway along the installation. Signs on the platform exhort you to alight at the station beforehand, which is Waterloo, although it is a little further to walk thanks to a large marine lake to be negotiated around. Even better ride all the way on to Hall Road at the far end of the beach and walk back to Waterloo, as I might have done had the weather been better - it's only a couple of miles in total, and there's a half-decent cafe or two to end up in. I'd recommend visiting at low tide, but even if you simply turn up and take pot luck with the level of submergence, I'll bet Another Place still weaves its magic. [7 photos]
Beyond odd, and above peculiar, this warren of tunnels below Mason Street is an amazing leftover from a 200 year-old job creation scheme gone rogue. The proponent was Joseph Williamson MP, a highly eccentric businessman who earned his fortune by marrying into the Tate sugar dynasty. Having financed a row of houses on the edge of Edgehill, and keen that they should all have back gardens, he employed a large number of men to build brick arches over the adjacent sandstone quarry and thereby level out the land. But he couldn't bear to discharge his workforce once the job was done, so kept them busy with pointless underground tasks, including building more arches underneath the existing arches, and the digging of a labyrinth of tunnels. Only when Joseph died in 1840 did his workfare scheme end, and only relatively recently has the full extent of his madcap scheme been uncovered.
A body of volunteers has been busy for the last 20 years digging out the rubbish that's accumulated in the tunnels and gradually opening up them to the public. This has been no mean feat, removing decades of detritus dropped through holes in the basements of the villas above, and trying not to dislodge the student accommodation blocks which have since been built in their place. The HeritageCentre on site is now open daily (except Mondays), and for less than a fiver they'll lend you a helmet and take you inside. Given how wet it was when I went the "every 20 minutes" tour frequency seemed somewhat optimistic, and I would have got the circuit to myself had not a volunteer tacked on to shadow my excellent guide (and record his fact-packed spiel, presumably to learn from later).
The helmet isn't because it's dangerous, merely because some of Williamson's arches are quite low and you might bang your head. There is seemingly no logic to what got built where, or in what form, from small poorly-constructed features in alcoves to more uniform brick spans above long double-floored caverns. The floor goes down so far in places that much of the walk is on scaffolding, while another section passes beneath the original homes past a concrete pile inadvertently drilled into the void by a more modern builder. Along the way there's graffiti to see, and some questionable handiwork, and displays of crockery, pet skeletons and old earthenware Hartley's jamjars retrieved from below. The tour didn't venture quite as far as I was expecting, but it did last the advertised 40 minutes, and a full sense of mystery was imbued.
Before long there'll be more to see. Volunteers are digging out one of the adjacent chambers, which goes down way further than I'd expect - one of the structural benefits of constructing your tunnels inside a former quarry. There's also a completely disjoint (and more extensive) section to the north, under the jurisdiction of a different set of volunteers, which you'll need membership to enter. And immediately between the two halves, by some vastly unlikely coincidence, is a completely different bore you've quite likely travelled through. The main railway line to Lime Street drives straight under Mason Street, just to the west of Edge Hill station, severing Williamson's central 'Triple Decker' in the process. That's one historic tunnel through an even older tunnel, and an adorably quirky tourist attraction to boot.
Cheers everyone! Yesterday I posted some inaccurate and incomplete paragraphs about Hyde Park and invited you to contribute. And contribute you did, thanks, with a volley of 40 submissions in the first hour alone. A second rush came over lunchtime, and by 1pm over 100 potential edits had been suggested. Activity floundered somewhat mid-afternoon, despite there being several errors left, because blogposts don't seem to have a particularly long shelf-life these days. But things picked up again in the evening, and by the end of the day there'd been over 200 comments, which just goes to show blogging's not dead yet.
More than 30 readers chipped in with at least one suggested improvement, which was nice, although that's barely 1% of those who read the post, which could instead be seen as a pitiful level of interaction. In my initial rules I restricted people to one comment per paragraph, but at noon I lifted the ban to try to clear the backlog. Only a handful of readers took advantage, but this included a small group of uber-pedants who leapt on the opportunity to identify as many mistakes as possible. One regular critic chipped in with a dozen, while my most tenacious daily reviewer offered nearly twenty. That's fine, I'd asked for it, and this was a particularly intractable challenge. But a handful of commenters delight in giving my posts this kind of close scrutiny on a regular basis, which you might deem an unusual level of interest, and their critique can take some getting used to.
Collectively you found more than eighty errors and inaccuracies in my first three paragraphs, the vast majority of which I had deliberately included. The grammatical errors were probably the easiest to spot because no understanding of the subject matter was required, with a particular emphasis on spelling, tense, ordering and the correct usage of words. When something doesn't quite read correctly we notice, and it's relatively easy to offer an improvement. Your comments definitely got much nit-pickier as the day went on, with some of you mulling over the appropriateness of every last word. But I'd like to offer a special commendation to those who spotted factual errors, because these required more specialist knowledge, or at least the determination to Google everything and check its provenance. Indeed it was generally these factual inaccuracies which remained unspotted until the end, which just goes to show how simple it is for me to write total rubbish without you noticing.
On normal blogging days my total rubbish can be entirely unintentional. It's nigh impossible to maintain a 100% accuracy rate in everything I write, especially when my posts are more objective than personal, and when there isn't a sub-editor to repeatedly ask "but are you sure?" If I have made a genuine factual error in a post then it's always good to know, because then I can go back and edit it and republish. It's never ideal for a wrong year, a misspelled name or a false assumption to linger on the internet where future readers may treat it as gospel, even rebroadcast it without knowing better. But don't expect me to react to every pedantic comment you contribute, particularly over issues of style or personal preference. This is my blog, so I retain the last word over what appears, despite how wrong you might think it is.
You were less interested in contributing to my fourth paragraph. I provided a skeleton structure and invited you to fill in the blanks, but few people were biting. It ought to be easy to fill in a blank in a sentence, indeed primary schoolchildren are asked to complete these kinds of grammatical exercises all the time. But when it's not your sentence in the first place, and a degree of factual knowledge or creativity is required, then taking part becomes less appealing. Collectively you got halfway towards completing the two opening sentences by the end of the day, but alas these were never completed. As for the end of the paragraph, for several hours nobody attempted to contribute any interesting facts or stories about Hyde Park, but some gems were eventually forthcoming. It's not exactly difficult to skim through Wikipedia, which to be honest is where I found out half this stuff in the first place, but it seems that group-sourcing an interesting paragraph doesn't really work.
As for the final paragraph, I left this entirely up to you. All I asked was that it was about Hyde Park and between 150 and 250 words in length. Eight of your suggestions fell short on word count, because writing as many as 150 words is hard. Two were deliberately gibberish, and two dragged in Bus Stop M to get a laugh. A couple of others were off-topic, such as this fine contribution from Dominic which alas focuses on attractions in Kensington Gardens rather than Hyde Park.
One of the more offbeat things to do in Hyde Park, almost at its very boundary with Kensington Gardens, is to head to the Serpentine Gallery, to absorb its tripartite array of contemporary art and architecture. Tripartite, as, first, approaching from the North, you encounter its smaller recent offshoot, the Serpentine Sacker Gallery, although frankly its exhibitions tend to be less interesting than those of its parent. Next, at the right time of year, like now, you'll encounter its temporary summer pavilion, specially commissioned each year. You could get an upmarket coffee here too. Then you'll encounter the gallery itself, which may or may not have an exhibition of interest on. Proceed for a swim in the Serpentine, then, when you're dried off, head for the Brompton Road to make a pilgrimage to one of the more beautiful (some might say eccentric) churches in London, the London Oratory, adjacent to the V&A. Light candles in the darkness, hear vespers sang in Latin with full counter-reformation ritual in effect, investigate the various chapels and their fixtures, imported to England from all across Europe (but especially Italy and the Netherlands) and, if you time it right (mid-evening one night a week, I forget which) see people venerate a relic of the founder of the oratorian order, St Philip Neri.
Below is a masterful parody from Steffen, which sounds potentially convincing but is almost entirely fictional.
Not many people know that Hyde Park was named after Gwendolyne Hyde, wife of county clerk Barnabas Hyde, and secret lover of Henry VIII. The king met Mrs. Hyde at the annual tapestry fair in Richmond, where she exhibited some examples of her favourite pastime's work. They began a tempestuous affair. The king, in an attempt to be discreet, created the park in 1538 as private grounds to frolic with Mrs. Hyde or, should she not be available, to hunt deer. Soon brazen courtiers jokingly referred to the park as "hyde park" – for the the king was hunting either "hides" or "Hyde". The name stuck even after Henry’s death, and by the time Charles I finally opened the park to the public in 1637 it was already known as Hyde Park everywhere. The story of the park’s name though has long since vanished into the mist of history.
The most professional-sounding paragraph came from Roger. This wouldn't look out of place in a magazine.
One of the perennial attractions of Hyde Park has been the chance of spotting a member of the Royal Family, going for one of their regular jogging runs or riding their bicycles. As long as people show suitable manners and deference (one must never point or stare!) they will often exchange a friendly greeting and maybe stop for a chat. A couple of years ago Princess Anne lost one of her Mum's corgis in the park and spent the next day putting 'Missing' posters on the trees. Other, lesser celebrities can also be regularly seen around the park, including Peter Andre, Kirsty Allsop and Colin Firth, and they are always happy when someone recognises them and asks them to pose for a selfie. Come to the park, soon, and see who you might see!
But the prize for the paragraph that sounds most like something I might have written goes to Joachim, for this winner.
One often overlooked feature of Hyde Park is a large underground parking facility accessible from Park Lane. It's only single-level, which is a bit of a waste, since the one thousand spaces could have easily been doubled without even slightly spoiling views across the park, but then again you shouldn't worry too much about residents of the Dorchester hotel. The car park has some historic significance for being one of the first ever to feature an automated ticket barrier when it opened in 1962. Unfortunately, I found none of the original ticket dispensers or barriers have been retained, a fact you might approve of more if you came here with the intent to park a car rather than out of keen interest in transportation history. Although I entered as a pedestrian, I was able to draw a ticket after dragging a couple of Santander bikes onto the contact loop. The remainder of my visit proved to be rather unexciting. Should I ever return, then at least the ticket will have gained in value considerably for the car park operator.
And I'll finish with this highly appropriate conclusion from ActonMan.
But as I neared the end of my journey round the Park, I suddenly became lost for words. Adjectives eluded me and adverbs and aphorisms escaped me. Metaphors misfired, facts failed and links became lost. A wave of assonance swept over me - or was it alliteration? It was then that I realised what the problem was - I'd been overwhelmed by pedantry, nit-picking, hair-splitting and sophistry and thereby rendered dysfunctional. I only hope this will be a temporary affliction.
Particular thanks to these five readers who attempted the job of entertaining you and tackled it with aplomb. And the rest of you, now you've read them, please be nice. It's tough to sit here and be picked apart.
Some days I read back over what I've written and think I could have written it better. Some days you think that too, and tell me so.
So today I've only written part of a post, and I'm inviting readers to do better. Pedants, please tell me how the first three paragraphs could be improved. In the fourth paragraph I've been lazy and missed some words and phrases out - please tell me what they ought to be. And I couldn't be bothered to write the fifth paragraph at all, so please write me a good one, comprising somewhere between 150 and 250 words.
Noon update: Thanks! I've now added amended text (in red) based on everything you've pointed out. However, a substantial number of errors remain, and you might also want to pick fault with some of the changes I've made. Please, no more than one piece of pedantry per comment.
Midnight update: That's time up! Didn't you do well? The handful of errors I think you missed now appear in green.
Hyde Park is Londons largest park, stretching all the way from Kensington palace to Park Lane. It's also a Royal Park, one of a dozen in the capital, first granted public access by the Crown in 1853. Across its unnumbered acres, scores of Londoners come to play, relax and recreate, and to enjoy the vigourous debate at Speaker's Corner. Perhaps its finest feature is The Serpentine, a huge lake dammed by Queen Caroline in 1730 from the waters of the lost river Tyburn. Now home to swans and several heron, it broke the mould by being curved at a time when most artficial lakes were more geometric. The water is provided by three chalk boreholes, one of which could of been naturally occuring, and a small waterfall ornamentally tumbles above the sluice at the far end. A special area by the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain is cordoned off for use by swimmers, and it's here every New Years' Day that members of the Serpentine Swimming Club go for a freezing dip and always end up on the TV news.
Hyde Park is one of London's largest parks, which along with Kensington Gardens stretches all the way from Kensington Palace to Park Lane. It's also a Royal Park, one of eight in the capital, with public access first granted by King Charles I in 1637. Across its 350 acres, thousands of Londoners come to play, relax and stroll, and to enjoy the vigorous oratory at Speakers' Corner. Perhaps its finest feature is the Serpentine, a huge lake created in 1730 at the behest of Queen Caroline by damming the waters of the lost river Westbourne. Now home to swans and several herons, it broke the mould by being curved at a time when most artificial lakes were more rectilinear. The water is provided by three boreholes in the chalk, none of which could have been naturally occurring, and a small waterfall tumbles ornamentally beyond the sluice at the far end. A special area by the Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Fountain is cordoned off for use by swimmers, and it's here every Christmas Day that members of the Serpentine Swimming Club go for a chilly dip and often end up on the TV news.
It's certainly a historic park. Hundreds of prisoners have been hung at Tyburn Gallows in the northwestern corner, where Marble Arch now stands. When King William IV lived at Kensington Palace he laid a drive towards Whitehall, now called Rotten Row, which is the world's first artificially lit highway. The Great Exhibition of Crystal Palace entertained the world here in 1857, before burning down and being transferred to Sydenham. Since 1867 policing in Hyde Park has been the responsibility of the Royal Parks Constabulary, who arrested Bill Sykes for pickpocketing at one particularly virulent protest and locked him up in the Old Police House. The Peter Pan statue by the Serpentine inspired JM Barrie to write his eponymous book, the royalties of which is sadly out of copyright so no longer benefit Great Ormund Street Hospital. As far as 2012 is concerned, the London Olympics Tri-athlon was of course held in the Park and was famously won by the Brownlow brothers.
It's certainly a(n) historic park. Tens of thousands of prisoners have been hanged at Tyburn Tree in the north-eastern corner, near where Marble Arch now stands. When King William III lived at Kensington Palace he required a new link towards St James's Palace, a thoroughfare now called Rotten Row, which was England's first artificially lit highway. The Great Exhibition entertained the world here in 1851, before the Crystal Palace was transferred to Sydenham and subsequently burned down. Since 1867 (but excluding a period between 1993 and 2004) policing in Hyde Park has been the responsibility of the Metropolitan Police, who cannot have arrested the fictional character Bill Sikes for pickpocketing at one particularly virulent protest and locked him up in the Old Police House. The Peter Pan statue by the Long Water was paid for by JM Barrie, inspired by his famous play, which remains in copyright in perpetuity so the royalties continue to benefit Great Ormond Street Hospital. As for 2012, London's Olympic triathlon was of course held in the Park and was famously won by one of the Brownlee brothers.
I always enjoy to walk across Hyde Park. I usually enter from the bandstand at Hyde Park Corner, dodging the Santanders Bikes across Rotten Row, to take a seat in the medieval Rose Garden. For most visitors an important criteria is where to eat, but I'm disinterested in expensive beverages, and find the cafe ménus unexceptionable. Thankfully there are lots of drinking fountains if you know when to look, and a sheep trough too but that's not reccommended. Literally hundreds of ducks line the waters' edge, although be warned they may be reticent to eat any bread you've bought with you. Perhaps take out a pedalo, or hire a cruise ticket from the the boathouse, or join the noisome crowds splashing in the pool round the Albert memorial. Just be sure to be out off the park by dusk, the proscribed time when the gates are locked, although there is a turnstile entrance by Lancaster's Gate if you get trapped.
I always enjoy walking across Hyde Park. I often enter at Hyde Park Corner, dodging the Boris Bikes across Rotten Row, pausing before the bandstand to take a seat in the late 20th century Rose Garden. For most visitors an important criterion is where to eat and drink, but I'm uninterested in expensive beverages, and find the café menus unexceptional. Thankfully there are lots of drinking fountains, easily sampled if you know where to look, and a cattle trough too but that's not recommended. Hundreds of ducks line the water's edge, although be warned they may be reluctant to eat any bread you've brought with you. Perhaps take out a pedalo, or buy a cruise ticket from the boathouse, or join the noisy crowds splashing around the Diana Memorial Fountain. Just be sure to be out of the park by midnight, the prescribed time when the gates are locked, although there is a turnstile exit by Lancaster Gate if you get trapped.
Standing [adverb 1] by the lake, the panorama looks [adjective 1] and [adjective 2], and the sound of [adjective 3] [noun 1] can be heard. On a warm day the [collective noun 1] of visitors to the park [verb 1] and [adverb 2][verb 2] like a [simile 1], or else [verb 3] in the shade to avoid [adjective 4][noun 2]. A favourite story is that [interesting fact 1], and it's also said [insert weblink 1] that [interesting fact 2]. But there are worries that in the future [relevant issue 1], and there's always the threat that [relevant issue 2]. [short pithy concluding sentence]
Standing contemplatively by the lake, the panorama looks pellucid and [adjective 2], and the sound of [adjective 3] [noun 1] can be heard. On a warm day the plethora of visitors to the park [verb 1] and [adverb 2][verb 2] like a junior school string quartet tuning up before launching into their version of the 1812 overture, or else [verb 3] in the shade to avoid swarming cyclists. A favourite story is that cycling is only permitted on roads and on specific paths, which are marked on maps at the entrances, and it's also said [insert weblink 1] that [interesting fact 2]. But there are worries that in the future there may be difficulties finding somewhere, unassociated with his ex-wife, to put a statue of heir apparent Prince Charles, and there's always the threat that the Royal Parks will follow the Green Belt in being nibbled away by 'strategically important infrastructure needs' which mysteriously morph into oh-so-urgently-required (but nevertheless empty) shoe-box investment flats. [short pithy concluding sentence]
LINE OF FIRE: 1666-2016 A walk around the edge of the Great Fire of London Part 3: London Wall to the Tower
To commemorate the 350th anniversary of the Great Fire of London, I'm taking a walk around the edge of the areathat burned. Here's the last of three parts, cutting across the City's financial district and back to the Thames.[map][simplified map]
Heads up, this is the least interesting of the threesections of the walk, mainly because there's been the most redevelopment along the way. We're starting off on London Wall, a major City road named after the ancient boundary it replaced. From here, between Barbican and Moorgate, the line of fire breaks away from the former fortifications leaving an outer segment of the inner City untouched. The Great Fire never reached Moorgate or Aldgate, although the Guildhall and the current empire of the Bank of England were swallowed whole. The top of Basinghall Street already looks fairly well consumed, in this case by the compartmentalised premises of various businesses, livery companies, enterprises and institutes. A highwalk to currently-nowhere threads through, linking upwards from a contemporary environment of raised paving, young trees and higgledy bollards.
At weekends all is quiet, but the streets come alive in the weekday rush, and bloom during the lunchtime peak. Over a couple of hours the occupiers of unnumbered desks flood out into the fresh air in search of a sandwich, or more likely a plastic tub filled with overseas cuisine, to munch on a bench or take back and eat. The alleyways where mastercraftsmen once plied their trade now brim with catering opportunities, their 21st century occupants more likely to be operatives of the Worshipful Company of Baristas and Baguette-stuffers. The fire's approximate boundary weaves eastward through a maze of courts, lanes and passageways whose irregularity still reflects the past rather than any Manhattan-style grid. We pass though Great Swan Alley, Copthall Avenue, Angel Court and Austin Friars... the latter an unexpectedly off-circuit Georgian cul-de-sac curled round a Dutch church.
The road junction where Austin Friars bursts out into Old Broad Street is a precise Great Fire boundary point - everything to the northeast of the Tesco Express survived. Next comes Adams Court, a zigzag cut-through that's easily missed, despite the grandeur of the gate and arch at either end. Poor Threadneedle Street, While the Bank of England and Royal Exchange remain as anchor tenants at the far end, this narrower eastern section was once home to the headquarters of the main High Street banks. Administrative technology has long since moved them on, a lone branch of Lloyds excepted, their magnificent banking halls taken over by a succession of hotels and restaurants. Once-familiar names remain chiselled into the stonework outside, but the services industries holed up inside now serve lobster, fine wines and (in one inexplicably jumped-up case) Jamie's Italian.
At the foot of Bishopsgate is another easy-to-find road junction on the Great Fire periphery - the Cornhill side burned and the Leadenhall Street side survived. Leadenhall Market was particularly fortunate in this respect, set apart on the second day of the conflagration thanks to a concerted effort by traders and aldermen, and also its stone construction. The glorious wrought iron and glass design we see today dates back to 1881, the roof not only wildly photogenic but also instrumental in keeping the elements out and allowing suited traders to dine al fresco throughout the year. Many will have poured out of neighbouring Lloyd's of London - voyeurs can watch staff rise and fall in the external glass lifts. Lloyd's themselves didn't start trading until a couple of decades after the Fire, but London's first fire insurance company - The Sun - was set up rather more swiftly in response to a suddenly-obvious need.
Skyscraper-watchers might be pleased to hear that if the destructive footprint of the Great Fire were to be repeated today the Gherkin would remain standing and the Walkie Talkie would fall. The dividing line runs about halfway between, across Lime Street, past several wine bars and down to Fenchurch Street. Specifically it runs to the enormous building site where the endless cycle of City replacement continues... a 1920s Portland-fronted block demolished and amalgamated to create a 15 storey tower for an investment management company. But there is a medieval remnant across the street, in sight of Fenchurch Street station - the church tower of All Hallows Staining. The odd part of the name is a medieval word for stone, to distinguish the church from every other All Hallows in the City made of wood. Construction materials and location helped this church to outlive 1666, but alas its foundations were undermined and everything bar the tower collapsed five years later.
Other than this one tower, my word Mark Lane is bland. I walked down it hoping for interest and character as my walk neared its end, but saw only lofty offices two generations of architects must have thought looked whizzy on their drawing boards, and now look tired. This was the first unburnt street east of Pudding Lane, much to the delight of Samuel Pepys, who lived in Seething Lane which runs parallel beyond. Had the wind turned we might never have read his masterful account of the conflagration, and the blaze might instead have wiped out the slums beyond Aldgate rather than the City's beating heart.
And finally, now only a couple of roads back from the Thames, a walk down Tower Street. The first part still takes vehicles, but beyond the gash of Byward Street (and the new E-W Cycle Superhighway) the road's been pedestrianised instead. All Hallows-by-the Tower was yet another church to remain just outside the flames, and Samuel Pepys used the tower as a viewpoint to scan "the saddest sight of desolation". All Hallows is also the oldest church in the City of London, first established in 675 and still boasting one Saxon arch within. Opposite is Tower Place, two 21st century office blocks linked by a monumental glazed atrium, thankfully half the height of the older development they replaced. And all leads down to the Tower of London, where the moat (and a hastily demolished firebreak) halted the Great Fire's eastbound progress, which is just as well otherwise our modern capital would be one hugely important tourist attraction down.
But everything between the Tower and Temple burned, that's the entire mile and a half of waterfront, plus up to a square mile of hinterland beyond. Only the Blitz comes close in terms of London's destruction, and that took rather more than four days across a less concentrated area. Intriguingly it's probably the waterfront that's most under threat in modern times, this time from short- or long-term inundation, considering the amount of damage to properties, basements and electrics a widespread flood could do. And it wouldn't just be the City, contours make the South Bank far more susceptible, plus the spread of the capital puts Newham, Hammersmith and Wandsworth at considerable risk. What this weekend's anniversary should remind us is that although we live in quiet times, a long-remembered destructive shock might lurk just around the corner. [today's 10 photos]
LINE OF FIRE: 1666-2016 A walk around the edge of the Great Fire of London Part 2: Holborn Bridge to London Wall
To commemorate the 350th anniversary of the Great Fire of London, I'm taking a walk around the edge of the areathat burned. Here's the second of three parts, approximately following the old Roman wall.[map]
During the Great Fire Holborn Bridge would have been a major traffic blackspot, packed with City dwellers and their belongings trying desperately to escape. It fared much better than Fleet Bridge to the south, which melted in the flames, but only narrowly escaped destruction as the fire pressed down to the eastern bank of the river. Today we cross the Fleet valley with considerably more ease, but if you look down from Holborn Viaduct you can still see the foot of Snow Hill, which used to be on the main route to Newgate and the City. Snow Hill is far less important today, a one-way filter down to Farringdon Road, sandwiched between Amazon's glass-fronted HQ and the crumbling Smithfieldfishmarket. By 2021 this characterful relic will/should/might have been reborn as part of the new site for the Museum of London, and in the meantime a squadron of Crossrail hardhats hang around outside when a fag break permits.
Branching off just before the police station is Cock Lane. Yes, do titter, because the name means exactly what you hope it does, this being the location of several legal medieval brothels. The Great Fire burned all the houses on the south side of the lane but spared the north, coming to a halt at the junction with Giltspur Street. At the time this was known as Pye Corner, hence the oft-made claim that the Great Fire started with Pudding and ended with Pye. Many in 1666 saw this as 'firm evidence' that the conflagration had been sent by God as punishment for the sin of gluttony, so a small wooden statue of a chubby boy was erected as a memorial. Since painted gold, it originally hung from the exterior of a lively pub called The Fortune of War, finally demolished in 1910. But The Golden Boy of Pye Corner remains embedded in the wall of the replacement office building, now the HQ for City and Guilds, with lengthy explanatory chiselling underneath.
We've reached the northwestern corner of the City walls, in 1666 still protecting those within from those without. Back then there were only seven gates, or public exits, another reason why fleeing the fire with one's possessions proved so problematic. But the walls also helped prevent the fire spreading further, so from Newgate to Moorgate my walk will (pretty much) follow the Roman city boundary. This means crossing into the grounds of St Bart's, the famous City hospital which dates back to 1123 (the same year as the neighbouring Priory Church, another Great Fire survivor). I'd not walked through the updated central area before, past emptying ambulances and milling elderly visitors, and was surprised by the extensive cluster of modern buildings behind the heritage façade.
The ambulance run ends opposite Postman's Park, a staple of Quirky London Lists thanks to its enchanting Memorial to Heroic Self Sacrifice, a wooden loggia beneath which the posthumous details of 54 great deeds are displayed in tiled form. I had hoped to inspect the latest addition, a paean to reprographic operator Leigh Pitt's Thamesmead canal rescue, but an office worker eating lunch underneath growled me off. The park was created out of the churchyard of St Botolph without Aldersgate, yet another religious building to squeak through the Great Fire only to fall into disrepair later and be replaced by something contemporary. Had it been "within Aldersgate", rather than without, it would have burnt for sure.
Also fractionally outside the city walls is the Museum of London, where a major exhibition called Fire! Fire! is currently underway. One lower gallery has been taken over with 'interactive exhibits', 'immersive displays' and a sample of burnt bits, which you can find reviewed here and here. But I failed to turn up 'off-peak', it being the school summer holidays, so was deterred by the £12 admission price and headed instead to the main gallery. Here the usual display of Great Fire memorabilia has been boarded over, so I went and sat in front of the Museum's original 1666 immersive display and watched that. The ancient City model still lights up, but the focus is now firmly on the audiovisual screening behind, which I'm pleased to report brings the tale of the Great Fire firmly to life.
You can see the old Roman wall through one of the museum's windows, although the best stretch borders Noble Street to the south. But what I'd never tried to do before was follow the remains of the wall north, where a patch of lawn is unexpectedly accessible through a gap beneath the Highwalk. I found the area was being well-used by those in the know, including sandwich-eaters, shorts-wearers and yoga-stretchers, taking up position between the ruins of Hadrian's fort and the Barber Surgeons' herb garden. A path continues to the bastion on the corner, where a reflective pool of water begins, complete with ducks and several thin concrete pillars rising to an equally concrete overbridge. This is the edge of the Barbican, an area beyond Cripplegate ironically untouched by the fire, but entirely devoured by the Blitz three centuries late.
Only residential keyholders are allowed further, to enjoy the subsequent wallside stretch and the benches inside the fourth and final tower. For the rest of us a long detour winds back round Monkwell Square, up to the Highwalk and into the 1960s development at first floor level, and a residential block called, appropriately, Wallside. Opposite is St Giles-without-Cripplegate which survived the blaze by being without rather than within, so is one of the City's few remaining medieval churches, at least regarding its shell. Alas it's currently impossible to follow the Highwalk to the east while a new office block called London Wall Place takes years to be built, although a new footbridge was installed across the main road over the bank holiday weekend, so long term there's hope. [today's 10 photos]
LINE OF FIRE: 1666-2016 A walk around the edge of the Great Fire of London Part 1: Temple to Holborn Bridge
To commemorate the 350th anniversary of the Great Fire of London, I've taken a walk around the edge of the area that burned. We know the fire's extent quite accurately thanks to a fantastic map named 'A Plan of the City and Liberties of London Shewingthe Extent of the Dreadful Conflagration in the Year 1666', completed by John Noorthouck in 1672. What's a bit trickier is translating his map onto modern day London, although in many places the street pattern has survived pretty much unchanged. I'll therefore be walking very close to but not necessarily along the dividing line, and I'm not going to walk the southern edge along the Thames foreshore (been there, done that). Instead I'm heading from the westernmost point near Temple to the easternmost at the Tower, and dividing the journey up into three parts.[map]
The Great Fire spread much further to the west than the east, thanks to a strong prevailing wind. By the final day it was threatening the Temple, and London's legal finest were out demolishing buildings to try to prevent the remainder of their site being destroyed. Then the wind finally dropped, ensuring that the remaining flames became easier to extinguish, and the threat to properties upstream along the Strand was also lifted. The riverside limit was around the Inner Temple Garden, approximately where Crown Pier and the Temple Avenue bus stop stand today. Of course the Victoria Embankment wasn't here at the time, that's a Victorian addition, and the river would have lapped some metres beyond the existing garden railings, to where a change in gradient can be clearly seen. And for one weekend only the fire's western limit has been marked by a particularly appropriate sight - a wooden city on a barge.
This is Watch It Burn, a floating sculpture by a Californian artist who more normally does this kind of thing at the annual Burning Man Festival. Under David Best's instruction a 120 metre-long re-creation of the 17th century city has been built, complete with gabled townhouses, church spires and a model of St Paul's. A chain of circular shields surrounds the densely-packed highly-flammable construction, which is already in position should you fancy taking a look in advance. And on Sunday evening it's going to be set alight, both for the amazement of a few people who manage to cram onto the Embankment, and for a much larger audience online. You can enjoy this wooden city's death throes live-streamed here at 8.30pm, or watch on BBC4 the following evening.
To start my walk I'm heading up Middle Temple Lane, the legalenclave's sole connection to the river, and one of the more peculiar streets in the City. A gatehouse watches over the Embankment end, closed out of hours, before the lane rises gently into the Inns of Court with legal quarters to either side. Behind each doorway the problems of the world are being untangled, at a price. Few tourists wander this far into the warren of courtyards and alleys, although many come to see (and enter) the TempleChurch, built by the Knights Templar in 1185 and made especially famous by The Da Vinci Code. It's one of a very small number of existing buildings in the City to predate the Great Fire, although it was heavily firebombed in the Blitz so theinterior's not what it was.
Take the alleyway past the circular nave and another Fire survivor can be found immediately above the exit into Fleet Street. This is Prince Henry's Room, known to Samuel Pepys as the Fountain Tavern, and originally dating back to 1610. The half-timbered frontage juts appealingly above the pavement, behind which is a Jacobean plaster ceiling with a Prince of Wales design, although you now have to be on the City of London's guestlist to see it as public access terminated several years ago. More specifically the Great Fire was halted three doors down from St Dunstan-in-the-West, thanks to serious waterbucket action from the Dean of Westminster, although the current church on this site is a Victorian replacement.
Fetter Lane marks the continuation of the boundary, the fire consuming all the buildings as far as about halfway up. The road may be medieval although the modern view is anything but, with various bland office blocks curving around the bend, one resembling a giant waffle, another an advent calendar in concrete. A statue of John Wilkes marks the point where New Fetter Lane breaks off, this now the more important thoroughfare (and the start/finish of the A4 to boot). Everything to the right was lost in 1666, and has been lost again much more recently with the creation of New Street Square. This major office development wiped away the previous street pattern and has replaced it with a work'n'retail buzz surrounding an anonymous part-private piazza, where office workers slip out to buy lunchtime burritos, security guards watch over the vandalproof benches and bonuses are cemented on the bistro terrace. I'm no fan, if you hadn't guessed.
And there's a lot more of this kind of stuff going up all around, which unless you're a builder or a shareholder makes for a somewhat unexciting stroll. Deloitte dug in a few years back with a consultancy fortress, further identikit stacks stand opposite, while on the far side of Shoe Lane a vast tract of demolished land has risen again, thus far only to liftshaft height. The edge of the Great Fire's destruction passes diagonally across Goldman Sachs' future office development, whereas what's now Holborn Circus and all points northwest survived the blaze. Here St Andrew'sChurch was only a couple of hours from burning down before the wind turned, but the medieval structure was so ancient that Christopher Wren rebuilt it anyway, and it's his Baroque replacement we see today.
We've reached the RiverFleet, which city elders in 1666 hoped would provide a natural firebreak, but on the third day of the blaze they were proved wrong. More precisely we've reached the site of Holborn Bridge, then the main crossing point hereabouts, an annoyingly narrow span with hills rising to either side which horse-drawn traffic found quite challenging. Two centuries later Holborn Viaduct would span the valley, incontrovertibly London's first flyover, its gradient-free passage much easier for motorless vehicles to cross. Christopher Wren's post-Fire plans had been to widen the river to the south of this point, taking advantage of the overnight disappearance of the slums to either side. Instead a more Venetian-style channel called the New Canal was created, although failed to find favour with Londoners and over the next 100 years a street market and then a major roadway were overlaid on top. [today's 8 photos]
350 years ago today, just after midnight, the oven at the King's bakehouse in Pudding Lane caught alight. Roused from sleep, Thomas Farriner's family promptly escaped through a neighbour's upstairs window, although their maid was too scared to leave and became the Great Fire's first victim. Over the four days that followed, only half a dozen other Londoners are known to have suffered the same fate. But almost 90% of the City's residents lost their homes, and a vast swathe of medieval buildings was swiftly wiped away.
Actually, sssh, it wasn't 350 years ago today. The date was indeed Sunday 2nd September 1666, but Britain was still using the JulianCalendar at the time, some 13 days behind the calendar we use today, so technically "350 years since the start of the Great Fire" means Thursday 15th September 2016. But let's not go there.
It could have been an insignificant blaze, as were dozens of other household fires in post-Restoration London, but two meteorological factors conspired to make this the conflagration every schoolchild knows. Firstly, 1666 had been a exceptionally dry year with little rain since the previous autumn, so London's wooden buildings were tinder-dry and the Thames uncharacteristically low. Secondly, an easterly gale blew up from the Channel at precisely the wrong time, toppling chimneys all over Kent and Sussex on the Saturday evening, and reaching the capital in the early hours of Sunday 2nd.
And then there was the Mayor, Sir Thomas Bloodworth. He was soon summoned to the scene by parish constables who feared the worst and wanted to demolish adjacent buildings as a firebreak. But he overruled them, indeed he thought the fire of little consequence, famously exclaiming "Pish! A woman might piss it out!" By now embers from the fledgling fire had crossed to Fish Street to reach the head of London Bridge, and were about to spread along the wharves of Thames Street setting their combustible contents alight. With an inexhaustible supply of fuel and the gale in full flow, London's catastrophic destiny was now sealed.
A gap in the buildings along London Bridge prevented the flames from jumping across the river to Southwark. But the north bank was nowhere near as fortunate, with narrow alleys aiding the fire's transfer and forcing residents to flee their houses. Escaping with one's possessions soon proved problematic, with carts and watermen's barges in very short supply, available only at extortionate cost. By Sunday afternoon the pre-conditions for a firestorm were achieved and the conflagration spread west and north, although only a relatively small portion of the City was affected thus far.
Monday 3rd was worse. The fire spread along the majority of the waterfront as far as Baynard's Castle, the Tower of London's western counterpart (at the mouth of the River Fleet), which was completely consumed. The main financial district was also destroyed, the moneymen of Lombard Street and the Royal Exchange fighting to move their treasures elsewhere. But Tuesday 4th was worst of all, with the affected area more than doubling as the fire reached out to the City walls, and to the west beyond them. St Paul's Cathedral was the highest profile casualty of the day, thanks to temporary wooden scaffolding conveying the flames to the roof timbers.
Only on Wednesday 5th, when the wind finally dropped, did official firefighting activities succeed as fresh firebreaks prevented the blaze from spreading further. By now tens of thousands were camped out on Moorfields as refugees in their own city, topping off an apocalyptic 18 months of plague and fire. As for Samuel Pepys, whose diary remains the best first-hand account of the Great Fire, his home lay a few streets outside the eastern boundary of destruction and had been saved solely by a quirk in the direction of the wind.
Grandplans to rebuild the city afresh came to nothing, existing property rights making it impossible to carve out a new network of grand boulevards. Instead the priority was business as usual as quickly as possible, but with wider streets to improve fire safety, and buildings constructed of brick or stone instead of wood. It would be three centuries before the Blitz would wreak similar random destruction upon the capital, wiping out several of Christopher Wren's 50 replacement churches. But these blank canvases might just be one reason modern London has become so commercially successful - the City has so few proper heritage buildings getting in the way of building new stuff.
St Paul's aside, London's prime memorial to those four fiery days is the Monument, a fluted Doric column erected in the 1670s and topped by a gilt bronze flaming urn. It was built on the site of the first church to be destroyed by the flames, St Margaret's, and is deliberately located as far from the source of the fire as it is tall. A plaque marks the site of Thomas Farriner's bakery in Pudding Lane, the latest occupant of the site being a drab concrete office block of little consequence. Pudding Lane itself hasn't fared much better, sloping down towards the Thames through a canyon of postwar development, and accessible by elevated Pedway at its southern end.
The Monument remains one of London's unsung tourist attractions, originally designed as a scientific laboratory but soon passed over to public access after problems with vibration. It still rises above the immediately surrounding buildings, presumably thanks to some long-term planning restriction in the neighbouring streets. But the all-round panorama's nowhere near as clear as when it was originally built, and the meshcage at the top makes the taking of photographs somewhat tricky.
I would show you what I mean, indeed I paid my £4.50 earlier this week and started up the 311 spiralsteps to the observation deck. But after barely a couple of revolutions an irrational voice kicked in, eyeing up the swirl of cantilever stairs with doubt, then fear, and I had to sit down in a recess to recover. A procession of foreign tourists, families and small children strode past, confirming the patent ridiculousness of my vertiginous concern. But I simply couldn't push myself to proceed, even though I've been right to the top before, so eventually slunk back down (and refused the congratulatory certificate offered to me on the way out). Meh.
I'm in good company, apparently. Biographer James Boswell suffered a panic attack halfway up in 1763 when he visited the Monument, then the highest viewpoint in London. But he persevered, not that he enjoyed the experience, declaring it "horrid to be so monstrous a way up in the air, so far above London and all its spires". You'd be fine getting to the top I'm sure, indeed this anniversary weekend might seem the ideal time to try. Even better, to celebrate the occasion all tickets for today, Saturday and Sunday are free, but alas needed to be pre-booked to regulate demand, and despite extended 8am-10pm opening hours they've all sold out. Best go some other time, once all the hoohah's died down, to remind yourself of our capital's fragility in the face of unforeseen peril.
Route 25:Still diverted across the Bow Flyover, even though all relevant roadworks ended a couple of months ago.
Bus Stop J: Previously all westbound buses at Bow Church stopped at either Bus Stop J or Bus Stop K. These were about ten metres apart. Now all nine buses stop at Bus Stop J, as was planned (but not enacted) five weeks ago. Bus Stop K: Removed, vanished, gone, disappeared. But the bus shelter remains (and it's barely six months old). Digital Bus Stop K: No longer has any daytime services, which is correct. But somebody's forgotten to switch the N205 nightbus from Bus Stop K to Bus Stop J. Bus Stop L: Adjacent to Bus Stop K, and formerly the penultimate stop on Route 8. Now used solely as a bus stand for route 205 (and blocks all view of oncoming buses). Digital Bus Stop L: Somebody's forgotten to switch route 8 from Bus Stop L to Bus Stop J.
Digital Bus Stop G: Still appears on the TfL digital map, even though it hasn't existed for a year. Digital Bus Stop E: Still appears on the TfL digital map, unlabelled, even though it hasn't existed for eleven months. Bus Stop M: Seems to be OK, thanks.
Yes, it's September already. Then next month the clocks go back, then it's Fireworks Night and before you know where you are Christmas will be rolling round again. Never fear, London always puts on a last flurry of events and activities and happenings before the nights draw in, and we're all invited. Here's my weekend by weekend guide to free September delights.
All month
» Totally Thames (Sep 1-30): There was a time, not so long ago, when the Mayor's Thames Festival filled the South Bank and lit up the sky for one weekend in September. No more. Now we get a whole month of events, many of them ticketed, kicking off today with the arrival of a three-storey floating lantern by Tower Bridge. If you fancy a Lost Rivers walk or a talk by an expert, prepare to stump up, but there are also plenty of splendid freebies, if you don't run out of patience scrolling through the frustratingly over-tiled, impractically atomised programme.
» Lambeth Heritage Festival (Sep 1-30): Dozens of talks, walks and openings across the borough, notably featuring Lambeth Palace, Brixton Windmill and the River Effra (and a proper brochure to flick through, bliss).
Weekend 1: September 3/4
» London's Burning (Thu-Sun): A major series of events to commemorate the 350th anniversary of the Great Fire of London, including a Fire Garden outside Tate Modern (Fri-Sun), a domino-topple in the City (Sat, 6.30pm), underwater ballet in Broadgate (Thu-Sat) and the burning of a wooden city on a barge in the Thames (Sunday evening)
» The Great River Race (Sat, noon-3.30pm): 300 craft engage in a spectacular paddle up the Thames from Docklands to Richmond.
» Liberty Festival (Sat, 1-6): For National Paralympic Day, the annual deaf and disability arts extravaganza in Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park.
» Angel Canal Festival (Sun, 11-5): Waterside gaiety beside City Road Lock, now in its 30th year. Expect the Mayor of Islington to arrive by narrowboat.
» Horniman Carnival (Sun, 12-5.30): Brazilian-themed concerts, dance and colourful parades in the Gardens.
» Palmers Green Festival (Sun, 12-7): All the fun of music on the green, Salstricity and Britain's tallest mobile climbing wall (in Broomfield Park).
» Brentford Festival (Sun, from 12): Live tunes, stalls and a dog show, plus 18 ales via CAMRA, in Blondin Park W5.
Weekend 2: September 10/11
» Heritage Open Days (Thu-Sun): Hundreds of buildings that aren't usually open, are open. Most of them are outside London, but there are plenty open in Kingston (which is spending the weekend pretending it's in Surrey).
» St Katharine Docks Classic Boat Festival (Sat, Sun, 11.00-5.00): Annual gathering of small boats near Tower Bridge. Includes a visit by The Barnet Hill Lifeboat Crew Shanty Singers.
» Hidden River Festival (Sat, 10-6.30): In its fourth year, a music festival and family funday on the banks of the New River at Woodberry Down.
» Brazil Day (Sat, 12-7): Remember Rio and feast on all things Brazilian in Trafalgar Square.
» Hackney Carnival (Sun, 2-5): Not of Notting Hill proportions, but follow the feathers and sound systems from Ridley Road to the Town Hall (and back).
» Tour of Britain (Sun, 2.30-4.30pm): The final stage of this cross-country bike race is a lycra-tastic sprinty circuit heading in three directions out of Trafalgar Square. Ironically, the new East-West Cycle Superhighway means that the route no longer follows the Embankment.
» Kings Place Festival (Fri-Sun): Head to King's Cross for 100+ performances of spoken word, comedy, dance, jazz and classical music. Here's a list of the free events.
» Essex Architecture Weekend (Sat, Sun): OK, it's outside London, but there are many quirky 20th century buildings to explore in this one-off suburban celebration.
Weekend 3: September 17/18
» Open House London (Sat, Sun): The grand-daddy of architectural festivals, with hundreds of weird and wonderful buildings throwing open their doors across the capital. Alasdair's excellent summary list is here. Some of the really special events are fully booked, and you're now too late to sign up for the Downing Street raffle. However, today's the day to grab a ticket to modernist Highpoint (bookings from 9am), while the seven Crossrail building site tours go live this afternoon at 1pm. There'll be tons to see over the weekend, in fact far too much to choose from. Be there, or regret it for the subsequent 52 weeks.
» Great Gorilla Run (Sat, from 10.30): Dress up as a gorilla and run 7km to raise money for charity (or just come along and watch sweaty knackered apes).
» Bermondsey Street Festival (Sat, 11-6): A designery "village fête", plus dog show, plus food and stalls (with or without Zandra Rhodes).
» Thames Sailing Barge Parade (Sat, from 3.30): A one-off regatta of historic craft sets sail from Docklands to Tower Bridge and back. Followed by an Open Day at West India Dock on the Sunday.
» Sail Greenwich (Thu-Sun): The Royal Borough wants to flog you a cruise ticket, but alternatively watch the tall ships from the shore for free.
» London Design Festival (continues until next weekend): Hundreds of design-er events will be taking place across the capital, based in seven on-trend clusters. Having struggled through the programme online, I think the V&A looks your best bet.
» Estuary 2016 (Sat, Sun): Just outside the capital, the Shorelines Literature Festival takes over the heritage spaces at (and around) Tilbury Cruise Terminal.
Weekend 4: September 24/25
» Malaysian Night Market (Sat, noon-10): Food and dance (but mostly food) in Trafalgar Square. Followed on Sunday by the Japan Matsuri festival (12-8).
» Pearly Kings and Queens Harvest Festival (Sun, from 1pm): Cockney royalty circles the City from Guildhall Yard to St Mary-le-Bow.
» Deptford X (from Friday 25): Five emerging contemporary artists make merry in SE8.
» There must be something else on this weekend, surely.
(and sneaking into the first weekend of October)
» Thames Barrier Closure (Sun, 6.30-4.30): Annual all-day maintenance closure (peaking around high tide at 3pm). Come and see water piled up on one side only... while it's only a practice.
» Autumn Ambles (Sat, Sun): 42 free guided walks from Walk London... but no turning up on spec, you now have to book ahead.
So far this summer I've been to Kent, Hertfordshire, Surrey, Norfolk, Berkshire, Essex, Wiltshire, Sussex, Cumbria, the West Midlands, Hampshire and of course London. For my next day trip I have an el cheapo rail ticket to Liverpool lined up, but no coherent plans for what to do when I get there. Last year I crammed so much into my ten hour visit that this time I need to dig deeper, or spread my net wider, or just fill in some of the gaps I missed. The coming weekend is too late for BeatlesWeek and too early for the Southport Air Show, but is the Biennial worth a look, has much of the garden festival survived, what's new on the Wirral, and where's that quirky thing I've missed?
![[simplified map]](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/ae/Great_fire_of_london_map.png){kind=link}