One of the interesting side-effects of living on the edge of Stratford is that the Olympic Delivery Authority sometimes send you letters. Dear Householder, they say, and then let you know about something 2012-related they plan to do on your doorstep. It'll be something that's bound to happen whatever you think, but they need to tell you about it because they have to tick the box marked "public consultation" .
Our latest local planning application is for a Vehicle Screening Area to be used during the Olympic Games in 2012. Organisers don't want any spectators turning up by car, but lots of vehicles still need to enter the park to make the Games work. Handymen to keep the place ticking over, deliveries of McDonalds burgers, visiting dignitaries in luxury coaches, that sort of thing. And it's clearly essential that none of these vehicles get inside the perimeter with a cargo of high explosive on board - hence the need for vehicle screening areas dotted around the edge of the park. We're getting one of these in Tower Hamlets. Squashed between the A12and the River Lea, north of the mainline railway and south of Fish Island. Nowhere lovely, nowhere that'll be greatly missed. But planners still have to ask whether anybody minds, because that's the law.
You might expect that a planning application like this would be online. Well, if it is, I can't find it. I can't find it on the official ODA Planning Register, because that's an unfriendly mess with a godawful mapping interface. I can't find it on the London 2012 website's Planning Consultations page, because nobody's thought to include it there. And I can't find it on the webpage where information's held about "living near the Olympic Park". Admittedly there is a hotline telephone number to ring, but nobody's going to phone that on the off chance that there just might be plans for a Vehicle Screening Area round the corner. If I hadn't had the letter through my door, I'd never have known.
So, with zero information available online, I went along to yesterday's drop-in session at my local library. One venue, one day only - one chance to find out. There were no posters in the building, no announcements - nothing signposted. If I hadn't known the two folk in the corner were Olympic-related I'd have walked straight by. But yes, they had the plans for the screening zone out on a table and were only too happy to talk.
The entire takeover of the railway sidings and surrounding plant will be temporary, and the area will be returned to normal after the Games. There are two options, depending on whether the landowner of the northern half signs up or not. It'll be back of house vehicles parking up here, not spectators. A newly remodelled road junction will be created at the Old Ford turnoff on the A12. Really, it'll be nothing earth-shattering. Unless you're my one reader who lives virtually nextdoor, you wouldn't be interested.
But the bloke giving me the Olympic spiel let slip one particularly interesting snippet of advance information. Included amongst the many Vehicle Screening Areas there'll be one out east for Stratford's new Westfield megamall. As you might expect, shoppers driving into its multi-storey car parks during the Games should expect to be police-checked. More unexpectedly, these random screening checks will begin early, several months before the the Opening Ceremony takes place. There you'll be popping into John Lewis for an Easter gift or barbecue set, and your car might just be flagged down for an anti-terrorist once-over. The E15 police state kicks off prematurely, it seems, because security chiefs can't be too careful.
Our conversation was highly professional, and the ODA employees were able to answer all my questions. It was only after I'd turned to leave that I realised they hadn't once asked me what I thought about the plans. This had been a one-way transmission exercise, from them to me. They hadn't offered me one of their response cards piled up on the table and asked me to fill it in. They hadn't asked whether I was in favour or not, they'd just assumed. Indeed, in common with several other so-called'consultation'events I've been to round here over the last few years, no direct consultation actually took place.
The Tower Hamlets Vehicle Screening Area will be built whatever local people think, however the authorities decide. In this particular case, that may be no bad thing. But in their general approach to public consultation and stakeholder engagement, I fear the ODA are merely ticking boxes .
PR Masterclass Lesson 5: How to tell half the story
This weekend a brand new timetable begins on the Metropolitan line. The new service is good news for passengers living in Chesham, and bad news for passengers living in Amersham. TfL, however, have chosen to issue only one of the following press releases. Can you guess which?
London Underground (LU) services from Chesham will run direct into central London from Sunday 12 December.
This change is a result of a new Metropolitan line timetable which will enable London Underground to run more of the new, air-conditioned, longer trains which came into service in August.
The changes follow consultation with local residents that took place back in 2008, which found the majority in favour of the change.
Angela Back, Metropolitan line General Manager, said: 'This is great news for customers travelling to and from Chesham outside of the rush hour. By eliminating the need to change at Chalfont & Latimer, customers will have a quicker and more convenient journey in to and out of central London.
'It will also mean that we are able to introduce more of the new walk-through, air-conditioned trains, which started serving part of the Metropolitan line earlier this year. The new trains are made up of eight cars which cannot be separated and are therefore unable to serve the bay roadat Chalfont & Latimer station which the Chesham shuttle, which is made up for four carriages, currently serves.
'The new timetable will allow LU to run longer trains in and out of Chesham, all day, every day.'
The changes, which will not affect the current peak-time services, are as follows: • Two trains per hour running direct between Chesham and central London throughout the day • Two Metropolitan line trains per hour between Amersham and central London, instead of the present four. The two trains per hour service provided by Chiltern Trains (one train per hour on Sundays) would be unaffected, so the total number of trains from Amersham to central London would fall from six to four per hour (and from five trains to three per hour on Sundays)
Off-peak London Underground (LU) services from Amersham will be halved from Sunday 12 December.
This change is a result of a new Metropolitan line timetable which will prevent London Underground from running the old, comfortable trains which came into service almost 50 years ago.
At the moment, four trains an hour run between Amersham and Baker Street during off peak periods. From Sunday, and for the foreseeable future, two of these trains will be diverted to Chesham instead. Bad luck Amersham.
Angela Back, Metropolitan line General Manager, didn't say: 'This is grim news for customers travelling to and from Amersham outside of the rush hour. By scrapping the Chesham shuttle, Amersham customers will have a poorer and less frequent journey in to and out of central London.
'It will also mean that we are able to introduce more of the new walk-through, air-conditioned trains, which have fewer seats and will mean more long-distance commuters having to stand. The new trains can't be chopped in half like the old ones, so we couldn't carry on running the current Chesham shuttle service even if we wanted to. All this talk of public consultation is a mere smokescreen.
'The new timetable will allow LU to run about 200 fewer trains in and out of Amersham every week.'
The changes, which will apply all week (apart from two hours on weekdays), are as follows: • Only two Metropolitan line trains per hour between Amersham and central London, instead of the present four. The two trains per hour service to Marylebone (one train per hour on Sundays) would be unaffected. Amersham residents currently never have to wait more than 10 minutes for a train. In the future, miss the Chiltern service and they'll have to wait 20. • The last Chesham shuttle runs on Saturday. But from Sunday onwards, it's Amersham that suffers.
Does your local park frighten you? Is it full of rampaging knife-wielders and dangerous dogs? Would you go more often, were it not for the drug-addicts, pickpockets and nuisance cyclists? Well, fear not, because Boris has a plan. A special accolade to boost safety in London's parks above current rock-bottom levels. The Mayor's Safer Parks Award.
That's 'safer' parks, rather than 'safe' parks. The whole point of the Award is "to officially recognise good practice in tackling anti-social behaviour and increasing safety in London’s parks". It's not just a standard to meet, we're told, but also "a measure and acknowledgement of improvement".
If your park is already safe, forget it. This award's only for parks where people currently get the willies. And I have to say, I can't think of one. Maybe that's because I'm a forty-something male and unlikely to be scared by a tree-lined open space. Maybe that's because I've been fortunate enough not to be the victim of crime, violence or anti-social behaviour in a public place. Or maybe that's because parks aren't inherently frightening, unless you're the sort of person who worries about everything and might therefore see these awards as some form of comfort blanket.
But let's assume you live close to a genuine Park of Fear. What do you do? Well, first you'll need Boris's questionnaire. This seeks to collect your views, and those of the surrounding neighbourhood, to determine precisely how nightmarish your local park might be. All proceeds smoothly until question 7... Thinking about safety, for what reasons, if any, do you feel unsafe in the parks or green spaces in your local area? There are twenty possible multiple choice answers, ranging from Teenagers hanging around to Gun crime via People sleeping rough or begging. Only at number 19 do we get the option I do not feel unsafe in my local park. Same on question 8... Which, if any, of the following would make you feel safer when using your local parks and green spaces? The entire questionnaire appears slanted towards assuming you probably do find parks a bit scary. And maybe you do, but surely most Londoners don't?
Should you want to start up an action group, which is all very Big Society, that'd be great. First pick a greenspace to champion (Boris has provided a handy map, which includes someridiculouslytinypatchesof grass which aren't really parks at all). You can't go it alone, there has to be some local partnership involved. You have to register online and fill in a big form by the end of January. Your application can only move forward if it's been supported by the local authority strategic lead for anti-social behaviour or your borough's Community Safety Manager. And you have to submit documentary evidence of safety-related performance data ("ie levels and community perception of crime and anti-social behaviour in the park") else you're going nowhere. It'll help, obviously, if your survey data shows mass local panic, because that'll be easier to improve upon later. Lost interest in applying yet?
And then next March you might hear that you've been successful, be that a Bronze, Silver or Gold Safer Parks Award. Is there a cash prize, I hear you ask? Er, no, just a plaque, and a certificate, and a logo to use on websites, letterheads and publicity materials for a 12 month period. Will that do?
Your reward is in making your local park appear less frightening, and all without spending a penny of taxpayers' cash. Ideal if you'd like to help Boris look as if he's doing something, whereas in fact you'd be doing it for him. Scary, isn't it?
London's route 66 kicks off from bus stop Z outside Romford station. It's not quite Chicago, but a great big puddle at the side of the road makes a temporary substitute for Lake Michigan. A driver pulls up at speed beside the kerb, splashing passengers in both bus shelters with melted slush. The dream bus to Leytonstone is a long time arriving.
Clickety click, our carriage arrives. The windows look steamed up, but closer inspection reveals that the exterior glass is merely filthy. We head under the railway into the shopping centre, past capacious pubs and folk lugging gift-stuffed carrier bags. At the first stop two teenagers alight, having deliberately taken the bus for a journey they could have walked in three minutes flat. It isn't junk food that's making our younger generation obese, it's free bus travel.
Romford's ringroad is choked with Saturday shoppers. Our bus enters the logjam on Mercury Gardens, then takes a full quarter of an hour to inch round to the next stop beside Romford Market. If only the driver would open the doors and let us out early, we could walk up the pavement and catch the bus in front. Jobsworth, not a chance.
North Street aids our escape, nipping up a bus lane that's wholly unnecessary at this time of day. Then we're at the junction with Eastern Avenue, the A12 arterial, whose four-lane dual carriageway will speed our passage for the rest of the journey. To begin with there's a full mile of farmland which somehow nobody's ever built upon, so no bus stops. But at Whalebone Lane the council stock begins, clinging close to the inside carriageway, as ribbon development takes hold. There'll be no chugging slowly around housing estates for us, we're scything straight through, occasionally pulling into a layby to allow passengers on and off.
To be honest, this route 66 isn't proving quite as atmospheric as a spin down its Midwest namesake. No prairies, no dustbowls, just the occasional sports ground and hospital to break the residential monotony. We don't even have the joy of pulling into Newbury Park's starksemi-cylindricalbus station, because that's trapped on the other side of the central reservation and woefully underused. But we do link to one, two, three, four, five Central line stations as the journey continues. The 66 is Redbridge's gateway to underground escape.
The clientèle aboard our bus churns over, becoming more ethnically diverse with every passing stop. We get our first pushchair, which Mum dumps in the wheelchair space before plonking down to ring a friend on her pink smartphone. But then, horror of horrors, competition. A genuine wheelchair user is attempting to board, heralded by a beeping siren and extended ramp. Mum shifts her offspring into the corner, completely blocking the backrest, and leaving barely enough room for our new wheeled passenger to edge alongside. Then she sits down and starts texting, oblivious to the disgruntled face staring at her through the rails. I secretly hope that the pushchair will want to disembark before the wheelchair, because that'd be bloody carnage, but it is not to be.
After successfully negotiating the Gants Hill and Redbridge roundabouts, it's only at Wanstead that we finally escape the A12's arterial monotony. It takes ages to turn right into the High Street, not helped by an over-cautious learner who's uncertain how filter lanes work. This is a proper high street, unlike so many others in East London, with a traditional butchers and a womenswear shop called Judith of Wanstead. The 66 has only been diverted this way for a year, bringing a bus service to the old people's homes along New Wanstead for the first time. Great for them, an extra five minutes stuck on board for us.
A quick spin round the Green Man roundabout and our road trip draws to an end. Nobody celebrates by getting off and bursting into song, but then Leytonstone station is hardly Santa Monica. Alas, in the absence of an open-topped Cadillac and a rolling highway, a seat aboard route 66 will have to suffice.
It's a tough life being an author. First you have to write a book, which isn't easy. And then you have to sell it. Often, I suspect, that's the harder part.
Dee sits at a wooden table in a bookshop doorway, waiting to be noticed. Her book is piled up beside her, and she has a pen in her hand. Maybe some of the Christmas shoppers passing by will eventually notice her. She takes another sip of her Costa Coffee and waits.
Romford's festive crowds are out in force. Most don't bother looking into Waterstone's, let alone stepping over the threshold in search of hardback gifts. Even when they do, Dee's presence is mutely stated. No posters in the windows, nor any announcements in store. Only a few leaflets strewn across the tabletop reveal who she is and why she's here.
Come and meet local author Dee Gordon at Waterstone's Romford. She will be signing copies of her brand new title 'The Little Book of the East End' from 11am on Saturday 4th December.
Dee's book is one of those nuggety informative volumes filled with snippets of historical trivia. The picture on the front cover shows an apple and a pear, although that's probably too subtle for most. Or it would be, if only anybody was looking.
If shoppers are interested at all, it's in Dee's companion volume stacked up to one side, published this time last year. That's 'The Little Book of Essex', which is packed with bite-sized trivia about "one of England's most colourful counties". The people of Romford still like to believe they live in Essex, even though the town's been part of London for the last 45 years.
A lady finally pauses to say hello. She sports a warm woollen hat, and there's a silver twig-like Christmas decoration sticking out of her shopping basket. Two companions join her, and Dee chats politely to the group. Suddenly one whips out a camera and asks if they can have their photo taken with the famous local author. One sale guaranteed.
I follow up behind and greet Dee with a question. I ask how broad her geographic definition of 'the East End' is. To my delight she gives the suicidal answer and admits that her book only covers Tower Hamlets. Nothing within is of any relevance whatsoever to Romford, located eight miles to the east. Her publisher would scream. But that's fine, I'm probably the only Eastender shopping in The Liberty mall today. I'm target audience. What are the chances?
Dee says she's done lots of research. She hopes there'll be lots of East-End-related things in the book I didn't know before. I'm not immediately convinced, because the last time I bought a book in "The Little Book of..." series I was hugely disappointed. But Dee gets the benefit of my doubt, because she didn't write that particular book (or nick bits from this blog to fill it). And because she's charming. So I'll have a copy, ta.
She signs my purchase with a smile, and hopes I enjoy the read. I wish her luck and retreat out into the plaza. Looking back through the doorway I see her sitting alone again beside her tower of unsold books. She sips her coffee, and the rest of the shop buzzes obliviously around her. Only two more hours to go.
The good news is that Dee was right, and her book is indeed Tower-Hamlets-tastic. It delves down into seriously local trivia, not just the obvious Ripper stuff but delightful minutiae about everywhere from Bethnal Green to Docklands. She's included the Blackwall Tunnel pillion ghost, Bow Road's Victorian teenage gangs and Mile End's circumnavigating goat - all of these were new to me. As an Eastender, that's ten quid well spent. Residents of Romford, however, might want to look elsewhere.
It's been snowy recently, hasn't it. Snowier than it has been for years. Although I'm sure it used to be this snowy once, didn't it, back when we were young? And then there was this snowy drought, until a couple of years ago. Or something.
So I've had a go at making a list of all the days on which it's snowed over the last 20 years.
Trust me, you can do this thing when you're the sort of person who keeps a daily diary (and who adds a special symbol in his diary every time it snows) (which is a bit sad really) (but, hey, quite useful right now, as it turns out). This is therefore a fairly unscientific list, unverified by meteorological professionals, and more dependent on whether I happened to be looking out of the window or not at the crucial moment. It also shifts, geographically, from East Anglia where I lived in the 1990s, to London where I've been living in the 21st century. That makes comparison between the two decades especially dodgy, because East Anglia's colder and nearer the North Sea and therefore gets more snow than inland 'heat island' London. In fact the whole thing's woefully subjective. But look, it's better than nothing, OK?
It snowed on every date listed in the tables below. Most snow events were just a few flakes or a light sprinkling. If it snowed enough to properly settle, the date's in bold. If it snowed a lot, and settled a lot, the date's underlined.
Snowy days in East Anglia(1991-2000)
Year
Winter/Spring
Autumn/Winter
1991
Feb 6 78
Dec 21
1992
Jan 9, Feb 18
1993
Feb 26 27 28, Mar 1
Nov 20 21, Dec 24 28
1994
Feb 22, Apr 4
1995
Jan 1, Mar 2 6 27 28
Dec 5 7 20 24 30
1996
Jan 25 26 27, Feb 6 18 19 20 21 22, Apr 12
Dec 27 30 31
1997
Jan 7 9, May 6
Dec 1 17
1998
Feb 28
Dec 15
1999
Jan 12, Feb 8
Dec 15
2000
Dec 28
There you go. 1995 and 1996 were especially snowy (by East Anglian standards, that is - I bet Scotland had more). And it definitely snowed more before 1997 than it did after. On to the 2000s...
Snowy days in London(2001-2010)
Year
Winter/Spring
Autumn/Winter
2001
Jan 18, Mar 2
2002
2003
Jan 8 30
2004
Jan 28
2005
Feb 21 22, Mar 4
Dec 27
2006
Feb 23
2007
Mar 19
2008
Mar 22 23
Nov 23
2009
Jan 5, Feb 1 2, Apr 6
Dec 16 17 18 21
2010
Jan 5 6 8 9 12 13, Feb 8 10
Nov 30, Dec 1 2 3 6 16 17 18 20
What a weedy decade for snow, compared to the previous one. There's not been much snow in the London area at all, at least until that heavy fall in February 2009 which caught the capital by surprise. And then lastwinter was proper snowy, just like the good old days. 2010 in particular is turning out to be the snowiest year since 1996 (which is sore comfort if your trains still aren't running).
So yes, it has been snowy recently. Snowier than it has been for years. Although it used to be this snowy once, back when we were younger. Make the most of it, before global warming damns us all to perpetual 2002.
Eel Pie Island. It has a great name. It's one of London's most off-beat locations. It's a proper island, in the middle of the Thames. It used to be called Twickenham Ait. About 120 people live on it. It has a quirky creative reputation. It was only connected to the mainland via a footbridge in 1957. During the following decade Pink Floyd, The Who and The Rolling Stones all played gigs at the Eel Pie Hotel. These days the jazz/rock thing has moved elsewhere and the island's gone a bit private. Hurrah, then, that they're welcoming visitors at the moment for the Eel Pie Island Open Studios event. You could have gone there last weekend. You can still go there tomorrow or Sunday. I went last Sunday so that I could tell you all what it's like. And good news, the place lived up to expectations.
I hit Twickenham, crossed the High Street, then wandered down to the river's edge [photo]. Thefootbridge to Eel Pie Island arched up from the quayside, past a well-wrapped couple feeding a flock of flapping waterfowl. I'd got this far before "No Vehicles" "Cyclists please dismount" "Persons crossing do so at their own risk" but always felt I wasn't welcome and turned back. This time I made it to the other side"Private Island" "No thoroughfare or access to the river" and stepped onto the island. Almost immediately I was attacked by Eel Pie's first line of defence - a hosepipe firing water at chest height across the footpath from the first house on the right. The owner apologised, he was merely attempting to feed his water supply through the fence, but it wasn't the most welcoming of starts.
At the centre of the island is a common or garden footpath which links together the front gates of various houses and cottages [photo]. Every domestic residence has a name, be it Palm Beach, Blinkwater, hurley cottage (lower case) or the Loveshack. The latter's typically leftfield, with an alligator's head on the corrugated front wall and an upsidedown mannequin with legs flailing in the front garden [photo]. Residents are only five minutes walk from a Waterstones and a Boots, but might as well be in a different world. Some of the locked paths lead off to rather splendid abodes with full Thames-side frontage, another links to the boathouse of the Twickenham Rowing Club. But usually, as a mere member of the invading public, you're welcome to go no further.
Not so this weekend. The Christmas Open Studios event sees the gates to the boatyard flung open, because you have to walk through their big shed to reach the arts collective beyond [photo]. It's a proper boatyard too, with a couple of large cruisers currently in dry dock [photo], and a slipway littered with maritime detritus. The first pair of open studios were down a trip-hazard passage to the right - one offering charming glass sculptures, the other home to a talented caricaturist/cartoonist. One of you reading this will be getting a foldout cartoon Christmas card from the latter, once I've signed it licked it and written your name on the front. Another two of you can expect one of Wendy Mckenzie's hand-painted greetings cards for your birthday, because they're lovely, although it might be a long wait.
There were several workshops to poke around inside, some of them bisected boats, others low chalets warmed by a fired-up kiln. I was brave and ventured up a wooden ladder to talk to Sarah in her attic, even though I had no intention of buying any of her sculpted objects because I don't know anyone cultured enough to appreciate one. Mosaics, ceramics, pottery - they all felt somehow more genuine being for sale round the back of ascrappyboatyard rather than in some bijou West End boutique. [photo]
I won't claim that the Open Studios event is the answer to all your festive gift-buying needs. There are only about twenty artists on site, and none of them are selling Xbox Kinects or whatever that gadget is your nephew wants. But the place even managed to get me in a buying mood, which is saying something, and I'd have shelled out more for a glass of mulled wine if only the tureen hadn't frozen solid in the cold. But you might find something here you'd like, or that someone else would, if you make it onto Eel Pie Island before the end of Sunday. And hell, any excuse to poke around up the obscure end of one of London's weirdest locations.
Thursday 14th June 2018 20:00 A special edition of Panorama reveals that England's World Cup bid was only successful because London's mayor offered complimentary prostitutes to FIFA's more corrupt officials. 20:30 Prime Minister Boris Johnson punishes the BBC by trimming its licence fee a further 2%, to £10.50.
Friday 15th June 2018 08:00 The 'Big Society Reformed Scroungers Choir' rouses the nation with a stirring rendition of Three Lions. 10:00 Tube strike now into its fifth week. Fears grow for the 150 commuters trapped on Crossrail somewhere below Oxford Circus. 13:59 Ticketholders, officials and visiting dignitaries still queueing to pass through Ring of Steel outside Wembley Stadium. 14:00 Opening ceremony of the 21st FIFA World Cup In the absence of any spectators, eighty thousand policemen and security guards are invited to fill the seats. 14:10 Some poncey artistic spectacle involving St George, an inflatable dragon and eleven morris men kicking a pig's bladder about. 14:50 King William V buries Bobby Moore's ashes beneath the centre spot and declares the World Cup officially open. 15:00 Opening Match - Group A: England v Saint Kitts and Nevis(Wembley Stadium) 15:48 Sir Gary Lineker leads the half-time discussion on Twitter. 17:00 According to Sir Gary, England can still qualify if they win both of their remaining games by four clear goals. 19:00 Group B: Kyrgyzstan v Honduras(Milton Keynes Bowl) 21:00 Ah, the world's top two footballing nations never fail to disappoint, do they?
Saturday 16th June 2018 10:00 Sales of barbecues, facepaint and white-van-flags at record levels. 12:00 At the Liverpool FanFest, fifty ladies wearing nothing but Pepsi Cola ringpulls are arrested under the Ambush Marketing Act. 15:00 Group A: People's Republic of Scotland v South Africa(Liverpool Beatles Stadium) 15:01 The whine of eighty thousand vuvuzelas causes major turbulence aboard a passing Boeing 797. 15:55 Half time entertainment is provided by Brooklyn Beckham's new band, the Spice Boys. 16:58 Scottish team consoles itself with the thought that at least they conceded three fewer goals than England. 19:00 Group B: Iceland v Chile(West Ham Athletics Track) 19:16 Greenpeace fly a crop sprayer above the stadium to protest against global warming. Artificial snowstorm envelops East London. Match abandoned.
Sunday 17th June 2018 10:00 Sales of barbecues, facepaint and white-van-flags at even record-er levels. 13:00 Residents of Devon asked to stay at home so that visiting dignitaries can travel down the M5 without disruption. 15:00 Group C: California v Qatar(Plymouth Recreation Ground) 16:50 Well that was a bloody tedious nil nil draw. 16:51 ITV's commentary team praise the last 90 minutes as some of the finest football ever seen (then cut to an ad break). 19:00 Group X: North Korea v South Korea(Sunderland McVities Arena) 19:37 First goal to North Korea. Supreme Leader Kim Jong-un, watching from his nuclear bunker, announces death to the infidels. 20:18 Equaliser scored by South Korea. President Lee Hoi-chang, watching from his nuclear bunker, announces death to the infidels. 21:30 Game ends in penalty shootout. World holds its breath.
THE LOST RIVERS OF LONDON Well, there you go, that's London's lost rivers duly blogged. Twelve rivers that used to be visible but no longer are, all of them investigated, photographed and summarily digested. What a pointlessly stupid thing to do. I could have had a life over the last 11 months, whereas instead I've been out regularly traipsing through London's suburbs, scribbling things down in reference libraries and staying indoors of an evening to write everything up in far too much detail. And for what? There are no rewards, save that of a job complete. Yes, I know you've enjoyed it. But you're in the minority, you know that. Most people couldn't give a damn about parks in Peckham and backstreets in Acton. They'll have come back to the blog this morning hoping I've finally shut up about rivers, and be mortified to see me dribbling on about them for one more day. I have rock solid evidence, too, of your increasing lack of interest. The first set of river photos I posted this year - for the Westbourne - got more than 500 views. Every set since has had fewer viewers than the set before. Counter's Creek got 300, for example, the Effra 160, the Walbrook barely 120, while this latest set for the Tyburn's not even scratched 100 despite four days of plugging. I guess lost rivers are just too niche a subject, so why would the world be interested? What I should have done is tweeted all the rivers in 140 characters or less "Hackney Brook: OMG the Emirates, Clissold Park and some house where Marc Bolan lived - who knew?" because that would have been a lot quicker, and much more zeitgeist. Anyway, look, I've enjoyed the full in-depth investigation, and I feel far better educated as a student of London psychogeography as a result. Plus I've now been everywhere on this map that's marked light blue, which is a feat I bet you can't match. I should also warn you that if we were ever out walking together (which I admit is unlikely) I could now bore you silly by continually pointing at bits of ground and saying "that used to be a lost river, that did." If I've hit your home patch over the last year, I'm delighted. If you've seen bits of London in a different way, great. And to the reader who emailed me the idea in the first place, thanks, it was indeed a great idea. Sorry I delivered it all wrong, and not in any way how you'd have liked it. Now all I need is an equally pointless quest to embark upon next year. Any thoughts?
THE LOST RIVERS OF LONDON The River Tyburn 4b) Buckingham Palace → Pimlico
To fully remove the lower reaches of the river Tyburn, its waters were dropped into a brick sewer in the early 18th century. Rather than tracing the route of the river towards Westminster, the new culvert instead headed south from Buckingham Palace and made for the Thames at Pimlico. This was the King's Scholars' Pond Sewer, named after Westminster School's ablest pupils (which is perhaps not the way they'd prefer to be remembered). Soon after leaving the royal residence it today passes beneath more mundane backstreets, then past the big new shopping/office complex at Cardinal Place. I'm guessing it flows beneath Billy Elliot at the Victoria Palace Theatre [photo], which is something best not considered when you're sitting in the stalls. The sewer's also causing problems with the construction of a new ticket hall for Victoria tube station at Bressenden Place, because the brown tube isn't as far below the ground as engineers would like.
Next up, an unexpectedly grim back passage. That's King's Scholars' Passage, a lengthy access road squashed between six-storey brick cliffs round the back of Vauxhall Bridge Road [photo]. If you can ever avoid visiting, do. This emerges outside the Queen Mother Sports Centre (no, she never popped by for an Age Vitality Workout, it's merely named after her). The sewer then follows the curve of Tachbrook Street, which is delightfully Georgian-terrace on one flank and depressingly postwar-block on the other [photo]. Nearly there. One final stretch beyond Pimlico station, beneath the Tachbrook Estate, and we're at the Thames.
Unusually for a lost river, the bottom of the Tyburn is really obvious. Two houses stand out beside the busy riverside dual carriageway, being rather older than the modern piles to either side [photo]. One's Rio Cottage, labelled with a plaque announcing it was built in 1832 "as part of Kingschoole Sluice". Nextdoor at number 140C is Tyburn House - similarly old looking but with an extra storey on top. Between them they guard the exit to the King's Scholars' Sewer, which disgorges (when necessary) beneath one resident's back window [photo]. They can even nip down a metal staircase at low tide to their own pebbly beach, if they're brave enough. And in case all the clues aren't obvious enough, a slab of slate affixed to the riverside path charts a rundown of the Tyburn's progress all the way from Shepherds Well to Tachbrook Street [photo]. Journey's end, job well done. [photo]
THE LOST RIVERS OF LONDON The River Tyburn 4a) Buckingham Palace → Westminster
The final stretch of the Tyburn, from Buck House east to the Thames, isn't especially well documented. That's a) because this was originally marshland, and b) medieval Londoners weren't especially interested in drawing accurate maps as a legacy to future generations. What is certain is that the most obvious route, along the line of the lake down the middle of St James's Park, isn't the original. This started life as a long ornamental canal, arrow-straight, created by a French landscape gardener at the behest of king Charles II. 150 years later the Prince Regent asked John Nash for a more naturalistic redesign, and he created the curving lake we still see today [photo]. So, lovely though the view is from the central bridge near the pelicans, it's definitely not rivery. [photo][photo]
Instead the waters of the Tyburn probably followed Buckingham Gate, which is a mostly tedious road heading downhill from the southern corner of the palace [photo]. Past the Wellington Barracks, past the end of Petty France, then forking left at the Blewcoat School (now the National Trust's main London giftshop). It tracked Caxton Street before, peculiarly enough, flowing straight through the modern site of New Scotland Yard [photo]. And then across Victoria Street into Abbey Orchard Street, which was indeed where the nearby Abbey grew its fruit, but is now covered by a Peabody Estate and some ugly civil service bastions.
A millennium ago the Tyburn bifurcated approximately here. Its twin streams formed the western boundaries of Thorney Island - then a small eyot in the Thames covered by thickets. As the highest land hereabouts it was the only place capable of supporting foundations, so the nucleus of Westminster grew up on the island with the Abbey and the Palace at its heart. Expansion required drainage, so Thorney gradually merged with the mainland and lost its identity. Today the name survives only in Thorney Street, which is the service road round the back of MI5's HQ at Thames House.
Branch 1 of the lower Tyburn passed to the north of Westminster Abbey and up to the foot of Whitehall. It supposedly ran along the line of King Charles Street[photo], between the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and HM Treasury [photo]. And then across the foot of Whitehall, south of the Cenotaph, to reach the Thames in the vicinity of Westminster Pier [photo]. Don't go looking for traces today, there's nothing to see. Meanwhile branch 2 continued through Dean's Yard at the back of Westminster School [photo] - an esteemed private establishment who are holding their 450th Anniversary Gala tonight. Then along Great College Street, which feels more Winchester than Greater London, and out into the Thames south of the Houses of Parliament [photo]. The mouth would have been somewhere in Victoria Tower Gardens, and a storm drain outlet is still visible at low tide close to Lambeth Bridge. [photo]
Following the Tyburn: The Mall, Buckingham Gate, Caxton Street, Victoria Street, Abbey Orchard Street, Dean's Yard, Great College Street, Victoria Tower Gardens.
THE LOST RIVERS OF LONDON The River Tyburn 3) Oxford Street → Buckingham Palace
If you think you know Mayfair, a walk along the route of the lost river Tyburn may change your mind. This begins somewhere familiar enough - South Molton Street. The peculiar diagonal angle that this street makes to the surrounding roads is explained by the parallel Tyburn, which ran immediately behind the houses on the western side. The stream precisely defined the eastern boundary of the Grosvenor estate, one of Mayfair's most exclusive neighbourhoods, and was arched over and made into a covered sewer in the 1720s. The buried Tyburn became South Molton Lane, still a mere backstreet even today and nowhere near as aspirational as its fashionista neighbour.
Brook Street's up next, a major east-west thoroughfare named after the river it once crossed [photo]. George Frideric Handel was one of the first residents to move in when the estate was developed, in 1723, and lived for nearly 40 years a few doors up from the culverted Tyburn. And yes, if you're wondering, this is indeed the Brook Street in which the Brook Street Bureau was formed. Margery Hurst's famous secretarial employment agency started out here in 1946, and continues to be named after a lost river even though company HQ is now in St Albans.
The diagonal line of the Tyburn continues along Avery Row - a narrow alleyway named after the bricklayer originally responsible for culverting this stretch of the river, Henry Avery. The stream never quite reached as far east as New Bond Street, instead twisting south down Bourdon Place to cross the foot of Grosvenor Hill. The hill's quite pronounced, even today, rolling down past a chain of hemmed-in mews houses [photo]. They're all backwaters it seems, the streets along which the Mayfair Tyburn flowed, and none more so than Bruton Lane. This miserable service road kicks off at the Tudorbethan Coach & Horses[photo], then enters a grim netherworld of rear frontages, monolithic office blocks and fire escapes [photo]. If the folk who invented the London version of Monopoly had seen this side of Mayfair, they'd have made it the first brown instead of the last blue. [photo]
Hay Hill's next, another proper Mayfair slope, which diverted the Tyburn westward across the corner of Berkeley Square. Back when all round here was grand mansions, the river used to divide the back gardens of Devonshire House and Lansdowne House. Now paved over, this section has become Lansdowne Row - a back passage of small shops and sandwich bars that's packed only at lunchtimes [photo]. Another curving road mimics the Tyburn's former course, namely Curzon Street [photo], which leads to the delightful off-beat enclave of Shepherd Market. From 1686 to 1764 this was the spot where London's largest May Fair was held - a fortnight of drinking and debauchery held on open land beside the brook. Wining and dining is a little more refined here now, with both river and festivities despatched elsewhere. [photo]
The Tyburn's crossing of Piccadilly is more than obvious, emerging from Mayfair via Brick Street (alongside the Japanese embassy) [photo]. The indentation continues into Green Park [photo], across the western half where fewer tourists stroll and where the trees are too dense for deckchairs [photo]. This area was originally called Upper St James's Park but split off to earn its new "Green" title in 1746. An ornamental lake once lay on the line of the river, almost precisely in the centre of the park[photo], and was named the Tyburn Pool. It might still be there had the area been better looked after, but Queen Victoria considered the pool an eyesore and had it filled in. Green Park's been pleasantly bland ever since. [photo]
And so to Buckingham Palace, built close to the point where the medieval Tyburn once drained into the Westminster marshes [photo]. Centuries of drainage lent the river a firmer course, initially east towards Westminster, later diverted underground south towards Pimlico. The current Palace therefore stands not on a river but a sewer, which reputedly passes underneath the front courtyard and beneath the south wing [photo]. If you're the illegal adventurer type it's perfectly possible to clamber down into the egg-shapedbrick drain and inspect the Queen's effluent, although I'm told it's nothing special. As for the swirling ornamental lake in the Palace's back garden, the backdrop to many a royal stroll and garden party, this might appear to be Tyburn-related but it's not [photo]. Its waters are fed in from the Serpentine, half a mile yonder, which means they're actually derived from the lost river Westbourne. [photo]
Following the Tyburn: South Molton Lane, Avery Row, Bourdon Place, Bruton Place, Bruton Lane, Berkeley Street, Lansdowne Row, Curzon Street, Shepherd Market, Brick Street, Piccadilly, Green Park, Constitution Hill.
THE LOST RIVERS OF LONDON The River Tyburn 2) Regent's Park → Oxford Street
The River Tyburn exited Regent's Park further north than you might expect. The former stream never reached the final curl of the boating lake beyond the footbridge. Instead it slipped out of the park nearer Sussex Place, where the London Business School stands today, and fairly close to the northern end of Baker Street. This is the magnetic point that draws in tourists attempting to find 221B - a purely fictitious address, not that this stops the Sherlock Holmes Museum pretending to be based there. Inquisitive visitors ought to be suspicious that the entrance is located immediately between 237 Baker Street and 241 Baker Street, but most fail to spot the fiddle. [photo]
The Abbey National used to be based where Holmes' home should have been, but its HQ has recently been redeveloped into luxury apartments. At least they kept the tower. Here the Tyburn veered to the west of Baker Street, traversing the busy Marylebone Road across a very obvious dip in the land. It clipped Gloucester Place, somewhere in the vicinity of Algeria, Lithuania and Honduras (or at least their respective embassies). Then back to Baker Street through the middle of another former blue chip HQ - Michael House. Marks and Spencer was run from here for years, but bosses moved out in 2004 in favour of less austere offices on Paddington Basin. In its place is a vast new mixed use development, name of 55 Baker Street[photo], clad with a faceted glass lattice (best viewed from inside rather than out [photo]).
Next up, Marylebone proper. The Tyburn followed what's now Blandford Street, past the former bookseller where a young Michael Faraday spent eight years as an apprentice. Today it's an estate agents, obviously, but they've had the good grace to name themselves Faradays, and there's a proper non-blue plaque above the door [photo]. No, the Tudor Rose pub isn't Tudor, it's a 1930s pastiche. Blandford Street reaches Marylebone High Street at a pedestrian-friendly triple zebra crossing [photo]. Up the other end of the high street is St Mary's church, originally named after the river as "St Mary the Virgin, by the bourne". Bit long, that, so it was shortened to "St Mary le burn", and later to "St Marylebone". The Tyburn lives on, at least as a corrupted suffix.
On any modern map of the area, the one road which looks out of place is Marylebone Lane. Everything else is straight and griddy, and yet this backstreet meanders in errant curves. That's because it was once the country lane round here, and the Tyburn ran alongside. Today's it's a boutique-y street which Time Out likes feature all-too regularly in its "quirky shopping" features. Of note is the delicatessen/cafe owned by Paul Rothe & Son[photo], stacked with repetitive jars and still with a late Victorian sensibility. A pub halfway down used to have the very-relevant name of "The Conduit of Tybourne" [photo], but under new ownership has recently reverted to the more-original "Coach Makers". Then there's the unique Button Queen[photo], located at the precise point where the Tyburn veered right to leave the lane. This fragile blue store used to be a wildly out-of-time stockist of all things buttony, but has recently been demolished to make way for new development. The business survives across the road, you'll be glad to hear, but with regrettably less charm.
The line of the river crosses Wigmore Street to pass into St Christopher's Place - a favourite midweek haunt for shopaholic ladies who lunch. This narrows to a tiny alleyway [photo] before emerging somewhere you'll definitely recognise - the heart of Oxford Street [photo]. More specifically, the gentle dip in the road located close to Bond Street station, slightly downhill from the Disney Store on one side of the valley and Selfridges on the other. Shoppers on London's most famous retail thoroughfare probably don't realise that Oxford Street was called Tyburn Road up until the early 18th century, at which point it was renamed after the university town 50 miles straight on past Marble Arch.
The City of London is a couple of miles away from here, but medieval residents obtained their drinking water from this particular stretch of the Tyburn. Lead pipes were laid from here to Cheapside during the reign of Henry III, and these eventually developed into a series of nine conduits that survived several centuries. Conduit Street, between New Bond Street and Regent Street, is still named after what's probably London first public utility supply system. Nowadays the only alleged appearance of sparkling Tyburn water hereabouts is in the basement of Grays Antiques[photo]. 200 dealers have stalls in this collectibles complex (which is located just around the back of Bond Street station), and those in the Mews building share floorspace with a most unusual water feature [photo]. A shallow channel, filled with golden fish, runs from one end of the basement to the other and is crossed by a small arched bridge in the centre [photo]. The owners assure visitors that this is the actual Tyburn, and absolutely not an ornamental culvert fed by water from the mains. It could, I suppose, be fed by groundwater seeping from the surrounding clay, but I fear it's nothing more than a damned good bit of marketing.
Following the Tyburn: Outer Circle, Sussex Place, Baker Street, Glentworth Street, Marylebone Road, Gloucester Place, Blandford Street, Marylebone Lane, Jason Court, St Christopher's Place, Gees Court, Oxford Street.
THE LOST RIVERS OF LONDON The River Tyburn 1) Hampstead → Regent's Park
Unusually for a lost river, the top of the Tyburn is really obvious. On the corner of Fitzjohn's Avenue and Akenside Road in Hampstead, a short trek south of the tube station, are the remains of a commemorative drinking fountain [photo]. Nothing gushes forth here today, but this was once the site of the "Shepherd's Well" which supplied the villagefolk of Hampstead with drinking water [photo]. Other local wells may have left a nasty mineral taste in the mouth, but water from the Shepherd's Conduit tasted clean and pure and so was much in demand. A penny a pailful, for those who couldn't be bothered to fetch it themselves. The track back to town survives as "Spring Path" [photo], and the Gothic pile on the corner is still known as Old Conduit House [photo]. Like I said, really obvious, all the clues are there.
The Tyburn ran down towards Swiss Cottage, past a statue of Sigmund Freud, centuries before either of those were ever there [photo]. About a foot in width, this was once a sparkling stream whose waters very rarely dried up. It passed through the western fringes of Belsize Park, crossing what are now leafy residential avenues, and slipping between the local leisure centre and a glassy mega-hotel. A second tributary rose further to the east, with its source in the grounds of Belsize Manor. In 1728, as Bellais House, this was a "beautifully situated" place of public amusement for the more genteel members of Georgian society. No trace of that house remains today, merely the townhouses that now cover the old estate, although there's still a clear ripple in the contours leading down from Belsize Park Gardens.
Both branches of the Tyburn curled round the western flank of Primrose Hill, which kept them apart from the larger River Fleet on the opposite side. The two tributaries met up on Avenue Road before edging into the borough of Westminster and following the line of Townshend Road. Houses are big round here, with gated driveways and swivelling cameras, but still somehow on the pleasant side of aspirational. Meanwhile the remains of the river trickle beneath the streets through the Kings Scholar's Pond Sewer, constructed circa 1825 with a quirky brickiness that Jon can tell you lots more about.
And then, Regent's Park. The river headed in beneath the Thirties apartments on the northern flank, before reaching an artificial valley carved across its course. This belongs to the Regent's Canal, which architect John Nash was forced to drop into a cutting so that it's perceived ugliness couldn't tarnish the rest of his great park. So the Tyburn has to cross over the canal [photo], and its pipes form the basis of the Charlbert footbridge. Most people walk over the top without even guessing [photo], but the folks at SilentUK have been for a crouch through the underworld...
The pipe continues underground, but a separate Tyburn legacy is ever-so visible on the surface of Regent'sPark. It's the boating lake [photo]. Don't think small and round. This lake's more bunch-of-bananas shaped, and curves almost all the way down the western side of the park. One finger starts close to the American ambassador's back garden [photo] and is therefore under permanent Secret Service scrutiny. Another starts nearer to the Zoo, this representing a very minor tributary which could never originally have been deep enough to support a pedalo [photo]. But the lake curls too much to precisely match the original Tyburn. Don't be fooled - this entire ornamental lagoon was artificially created by excavation when the park was first landscaped. It was originally fed by the Tyburn's piped-in waters, at least until January 1867 when the ice broke killing 40 men and boys skating on its surface. The water level was immediately lowered, and ice skating's been banned here ever since [icy photo]. Rest assured that the sewer's long been diverted to bypass the lake altogether, so all that floats here now are hireboats and waterfowl. [photo]
Following the Tyburn: Shepherd's Path, Akenside Road, Fitzjohn's Avenue, Belsize Park, Winchester Road, Harley Road, Wadham Gardens, Elsworthy Road, Avenue Road, Acacia Road, Townshend Road, Shannon Place, Eamont Street, Prince Albert Road, Charlbert Street, Charlbert Bridge, Outer Circle, Winfield House, Regent's Park Boating Lake.
Olympic update
Our latest local planning application is for a Vehicle Screening Area to be used during the Olympic Games in 2012. Organisers don't want any spectators turning up by car, but lots of vehicles still need to enter the park to make the Games work. Handymen to keep the place ticking over, deliveries of McDonalds burgers, visiting dignitaries in luxury coaches, that sort of thing. And it's clearly essential that none of these vehicles get inside the perimeter with a cargo of high explosive on board - hence the need for vehicle screening areas dotted around the edge of the park. We're getting one of these in Tower Hamlets. Squashed between the A12 and the River Lea, north of the mainline railway and south of Fish Island. Nowhere lovely, nowhere that'll be greatly missed. But planners still have to ask whether anybody minds, because that's the law.
Route 66: Romford - Leytonstone
London's route 66 kicks off from bus stop Z outside Romford station. It's not quite Chicago, but a great big puddle at the side of the road makes a temporary substitute for Lake Michigan. A driver pulls up at speed beside the kerb, splashing passengers in both bus shelters with melted slush. The dream bus to Leytonstone is a long time arriving.
It winds from Romford to LeytonstoneClickety click, our carriage arrives. The windows look steamed up, but closer inspection reveals that the exterior glass is merely filthy. We head under the railway into the shopping centre, past capacious pubs and folk lugging gift-stuffed carrier bags. At the first stop two teenagers alight, having deliberately taken the bus for a journey they could have walked in three minutes flat. It isn't junk food that's making our younger generation obese, it's free bus travel.To be honest, this route 66 isn't proving quite as atmospheric as a spin down its Midwest namesake. No prairies, no dustbowls, just the occasional sports ground and hospital to break the residential monotony. We don't even have the joy of pulling into Newbury Park's stark semi-cylindrical bus station, because that's trapped on the other side of the central reservation and woefully underused. But we do link to one, two, three, four, five Central line stations as the journey continues. The 66 is Redbridge's gateway to underground escape.
Won't you get hip to this kind of tipThe clientèle aboard our bus churns over, becoming more ethnically diverse with every passing stop. We get our first pushchair, which Mum dumps in the wheelchair space before plonking down to ring a friend on her pink smartphone. But then, horror of horrors, competition. A genuine wheelchair user is attempting to board, heralded by a beeping siren and extended ramp. Mum shifts her offspring into the corner, completely blocking the backrest, and leaving barely enough room for our new wheeled passenger to edge alongside. Then she sits down and starts texting, oblivious to the disgruntled face staring at her through the rails. I secretly hope that the pushchair will want to disembark before the wheelchair, because that'd be bloody carnage, but it is not to be.A quick spin round the Green Man roundabout and our road trip draws to an end. Nobody celebrates by getting off and bursting into song, but then Leytonstone station is hardly Santa Monica. Alas, in the absence of an open-topped Cadillac and a rolling highway, a seat aboard route 66 will have to suffice.
Dee sits at a wooden table in a bookshop doorway, waiting to be noticed. Her book is piled up beside her, and she has a pen in her hand. Maybe some of the Christmas shoppers passing by will eventually notice her. She takes another sip of her Costa Coffee and waits.
Eel Pie Island. It has a great name. It's one of London's most off-beat locations. It's a proper island, in the middle of the Thames. It used to be called Twickenham Ait. About 120 people live on it. It has a quirky creative reputation. It was only connected to the mainland via a footbridge in 1957. During the following decade Pink Floyd, The Who and The Rolling Stones all played gigs at the Eel Pie Hotel. These days the jazz/rock thing has moved elsewhere and the island's gone a bit private. Hurrah, then, that they're welcoming visitors at the moment for the Eel Pie Island Open Studios event. You could have gone there last weekend. You can still go there tomorrow or Sunday. I went last Sunday so that I could tell you all what it's like. And good news, the place lived up to expectations.
At the centre of the island is a common or garden footpath which links together the front gates of various houses and cottages [photo]. Every domestic residence has a name, be it Palm Beach, Blinkwater, hurley cottage (lower case) or the Loveshack. The latter's typically leftfield, with an alligator's head on the corrugated front wall and an upsidedown mannequin with legs flailing in the front garden [photo]. Residents are only five minutes walk from a Waterstones and a Boots, but might as well be in a different world. Some of the locked paths lead off to rather splendid abodes with full Thames-side frontage, another links to the boathouse of the Twickenham Rowing Club. But usually, as a mere member of the invading public, you're welcome to go no further.
There were several workshops to poke around inside, some of them bisected boats, others low chalets warmed by a fired-up kiln. I was brave and ventured up a wooden ladder to talk to Sarah in her attic, even though I had no intention of buying any of her sculpted objects because I don't know anyone cultured enough to appreciate one. Mosaics, ceramics, pottery - they all felt somehow more genuine being for sale round the back of a scrappy boatyard rather than in some bijou West End boutique. [photo]
ENG-ER-LAND's World Cup 2018 (Provisional timetable for opening weekend)
Well, there you go, that's London's lost rivers duly blogged. Twelve rivers that used to be visible but no longer are, all of them investigated, photographed and summarily digested. What a pointlessly stupid thing to do. I could have had a life over the last 11 months, whereas instead I've been out regularly traipsing through London's suburbs, scribbling things down in reference libraries and staying indoors of an evening to write everything up in far too much detail. And for what? There are no rewards, save that of a job complete. Yes, I know you've enjoyed it. But you're in the minority, you know that. Most people couldn't give a damn about parks in Peckham and backstreets in Acton. They'll have come back to the blog this morning hoping I've finally shut up about rivers, and be mortified to see me dribbling on about them for one more day. I have rock solid evidence, too, of your increasing lack of interest. The first set of river photos I posted this year - for the Westbourne - got more than 500 views. Every set since has had fewer viewers than the set before. Counter's Creek got 300, for example, the Effra 160, the Walbrook barely 120, while this latest set for the Tyburn's not even scratched 100 despite four days of plugging. I guess lost rivers are just too niche a subject, so why would the world be interested? What I should have done is tweeted all the rivers in 140 characters or less "Hackney Brook: OMG the Emirates, Clissold Park and some house where Marc Bolan lived - who knew?" because that would have been a lot quicker, and much more zeitgeist. Anyway, look, I've enjoyed the full in-depth investigation, and I feel far better educated as a student of London psychogeography as a result. Plus I've now been everywhere on this map that's marked light blue, which is a feat I bet you can't match. I should also warn you that if we were ever out walking together (which I admit is unlikely) I could now bore you silly by continually pointing at bits of ground and saying "that used to be a lost river, that did." If I've hit your home patch over the last year, I'm delighted. If you've seen bits of London in a different way, great. And to the reader who emailed me the idea in the first place, thanks, it was indeed a great idea. Sorry I delivered it all wrong, and not in any way how you'd have liked it. Now all I need is an equally pointless quest to embark upon next year. Any thoughts?
To fully remove the lower reaches of the river Tyburn, its waters were dropped into a brick sewer in the early 18th century. Rather than tracing the route of the river towards Westminster, the new culvert instead headed south from Buckingham Palace and made for the Thames at Pimlico. This was the King's Scholars' Pond Sewer, named after Westminster School's ablest pupils (which is perhaps not the way they'd prefer to be remembered). Soon after leaving the royal residence it today passes beneath more mundane backstreets, then past the big new shopping/office complex at Cardinal Place. I'm guessing it flows beneath Billy Elliot at the Victoria Palace Theatre [photo], which is something best not considered when you're sitting in the stalls. The sewer's also causing problems with the construction of a new ticket hall for Victoria tube station at Bressenden Place, because the brown tube isn't as far below the ground as engineers would like.
Unusually for a lost river, the bottom of the Tyburn is really obvious. Two houses stand out beside the busy riverside dual carriageway, being rather older than the modern piles to either side [photo]. One's Rio Cottage, labelled with a plaque announcing it was built in 1832 "as part of Kingschoole Sluice". Nextdoor at number 140C is Tyburn House - similarly old looking but with an extra storey on top. Between them they guard the exit to the King's Scholars' Sewer, which disgorges (when necessary) beneath one resident's back window [photo]. They can even nip down a metal staircase at low tide to their own pebbly beach, if they're brave enough. And in case all the clues aren't obvious enough, a slab of slate affixed to the riverside path charts a rundown of the Tyburn's progress all the way from Shepherds Well to Tachbrook Street [photo]. Journey's end, job well done. [photo]
The final stretch of the Tyburn, from Buck House east to the Thames, isn't especially well documented. That's a) because this was originally marshland, and b) medieval Londoners weren't especially interested in drawing accurate maps as a legacy to future generations. What is certain is that the most obvious route, along the line of the lake down the middle of St James's Park, isn't the original. This started life as a long ornamental canal, arrow-straight, created by a French landscape gardener at the behest of king Charles II. 150 years later the Prince Regent asked John Nash for a more naturalistic redesign, and he created the curving lake we still see today [photo]. So, lovely though the view is from the central bridge near the pelicans, it's definitely not rivery. [photo] [photo]
Branch 1 of the lower Tyburn passed to the north of Westminster Abbey and up to the foot of Whitehall. It supposedly ran along the line of King Charles Street [photo], between the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and HM Treasury [photo]. And then across the foot of Whitehall, south of the Cenotaph, to reach the Thames in the vicinity of Westminster Pier [photo]. Don't go looking for traces today, there's nothing to see. Meanwhile branch 2 continued through Dean's Yard at the back of Westminster School [photo] - an esteemed private establishment who are holding their 450th Anniversary Gala tonight. Then along Great College Street, which feels more Winchester than Greater London, and out into the Thames south of the Houses of Parliament [photo]. The mouth would have been somewhere in Victoria Tower Gardens, and a storm drain outlet is still visible at low tide close to Lambeth Bridge. [photo]
Brook Street's up next, a major east-west thoroughfare named after the river it once crossed [photo]. George Frideric Handel was one of the first residents to move in when the estate was developed, in 1723, and lived for nearly 40 years a few doors up from the culverted Tyburn. And yes, if you're wondering, this is indeed the Brook Street in which the Brook Street Bureau was formed. Margery Hurst's famous secretarial employment agency started out here in 1946, and continues to be named after a lost river even though company HQ is now in St Albans.
The diagonal line of the Tyburn continues along Avery Row - a narrow alleyway named after the bricklayer originally responsible for culverting this stretch of the river, Henry Avery. The stream never quite reached as far east as New Bond Street, instead twisting south down Bourdon Place to cross the foot of Grosvenor Hill. The hill's quite pronounced, even today, rolling down past a chain of hemmed-in mews houses [photo]. They're all backwaters it seems, the streets along which the Mayfair Tyburn flowed, and none more so than Bruton Lane. This miserable service road kicks off at the Tudorbethan Coach & Horses [photo], then enters a grim netherworld of rear frontages, monolithic office blocks and fire escapes [photo]. If the folk who invented the London version of Monopoly had seen this side of Mayfair, they'd have made it the first brown instead of the last blue. [photo]
The Tyburn's crossing of Piccadilly is more than obvious, emerging from Mayfair via Brick Street (alongside the Japanese embassy) [photo]. The indentation continues into Green Park [photo], across the western half where fewer tourists stroll and where the trees are too dense for deckchairs [photo]. This area was originally called Upper St James's Park but split off to earn its new "Green" title in 1746. An ornamental lake once lay on the line of the river, almost precisely in the centre of the park [photo], and was named the Tyburn Pool. It might still be there had the area been better looked after, but Queen Victoria considered the pool an eyesore and had it filled in. Green Park's been pleasantly bland ever since. [photo]
The Abbey National used to be based where Holmes' home should have been, but its HQ has recently been redeveloped into luxury apartments. At least they kept the tower. Here the Tyburn veered to the west of Baker Street, traversing the busy Marylebone Road across a very obvious dip in the land. It clipped Gloucester Place, somewhere in the vicinity of Algeria, Lithuania and Honduras (or at least their respective embassies). Then back to Baker Street through the middle of another former blue chip HQ - Michael House. Marks and Spencer was run from here for years, but bosses moved out in 2004 in favour of less austere offices on Paddington Basin. In its place is a vast new mixed use development, name of 55 Baker Street [photo], clad with a faceted glass lattice (best viewed from inside rather than out [photo]).
On any modern map of the area, the one road which looks out of place is Marylebone Lane. Everything else is straight and griddy, and yet this backstreet meanders in errant curves. That's because it was once the country lane round here, and the Tyburn ran alongside. Today's it's a boutique-y street which Time Out likes feature all-too regularly in its "quirky shopping" features. Of note is the delicatessen/cafe owned by Paul Rothe & Son [photo], stacked with repetitive jars and still with a late Victorian sensibility. A pub halfway down used to have the very-relevant name of "The Conduit of Tybourne" [photo], but under new ownership has recently reverted to the more-original "Coach Makers". Then there's the unique Button Queen [photo], located at the precise point where the Tyburn veered right to leave the lane. This fragile blue store used to be a wildly out-of-time stockist of all things buttony, but has recently been demolished to make way for new development. The business survives across the road, you'll be glad to hear, but with regrettably less charm.
The City of London is a couple of miles away from here, but medieval residents obtained their drinking water from this particular stretch of the Tyburn. Lead pipes were laid from here to Cheapside during the reign of Henry III, and these eventually developed into a series of nine conduits that survived several centuries. Conduit Street, between New Bond Street and Regent Street, is still named after what's probably London first public utility supply system. Nowadays the only alleged appearance of sparkling Tyburn water hereabouts is in the basement of Grays Antiques [photo]. 200 dealers have stalls in this collectibles complex (which is located just around the back of Bond Street station), and those in the Mews building share floorspace with a most unusual water feature [photo]. A shallow channel, filled with golden fish, runs from one end of the basement to the other and is crossed by a small arched bridge in the centre [photo]. The owners assure visitors that this is the actual Tyburn, and absolutely not an ornamental culvert fed by water from the mains. It could, I suppose, be fed by groundwater seeping from the surrounding clay, but I fear it's nothing more than a damned good bit of marketing.
Unusually for a lost river, the top of the Tyburn is really obvious. On the corner of Fitzjohn's Avenue and Akenside Road in Hampstead, a short trek south of the tube station, are the remains of a commemorative drinking fountain [photo]. Nothing gushes forth here today, but this was once the site of the "Shepherd's Well" which supplied the villagefolk of Hampstead with drinking water [photo]. Other local wells may have left a nasty mineral taste in the mouth, but water from the Shepherd's Conduit tasted clean and pure and so was much in demand. A penny a pailful, for those who couldn't be bothered to fetch it themselves. The track back to town survives as "Spring Path" [photo], and the Gothic pile on the corner is still known as Old Conduit House [photo]. Like I said, really obvious, all the clues are there.
And then, Regent's Park. The river headed in beneath the Thirties apartments on the northern flank, before reaching an artificial valley carved across its course. This belongs to the Regent's Canal, which architect John Nash was forced to drop into a cutting so that it's perceived ugliness couldn't tarnish the rest of his great park. So the Tyburn has to cross over the canal [photo], and its pipes form the basis of the Charlbert footbridge. Most people walk over the top without even guessing [photo], but the folks at SilentUK have been for a crouch through the underworld...
"The pipe shifted into a smaller egg shape, before long reaching the Regents Canal. The pipe split into two rather unfavourable 4ft pipes, carrying the flow over the canal via a bridge, fun, but the show must go on. Slowly striding through the black, chunky liquid, dangerously close to catching some splash in the face, bags catching at every possible opportunity, thank god it was only 40 metres."The pipe continues underground, but a separate Tyburn legacy is ever-so visible on the surface of Regent's Park. It's the boating lake [photo]. Don't think small and round. This lake's more bunch-of-bananas shaped, and curves almost all the way down the western side of the park. One finger starts close to the American ambassador's back garden [photo] and is therefore under permanent Secret Service scrutiny. Another starts nearer to the Zoo, this representing a very minor tributary which could never originally have been deep enough to support a pedalo [photo]. But the lake curls too much to precisely match the original Tyburn. Don't be fooled - this entire ornamental lagoon was artificially created by excavation when the park was first landscaped. It was originally fed by the Tyburn's piped-in waters, at least until January 1867 when the ice broke killing 40 men and boys skating on its surface. The water level was immediately lowered, and ice skating's been banned here ever since [icy photo]. Rest assured that the sewer's long been diverted to bypass the lake altogether, so all that floats here now are hireboats and waterfowl. [photo]
