A bunch of journalists were taken up the Shard yesterday to see what the view looks like. Theyweredulyimpressed, prettymuch. This was to promote the launch of London's highest viewing gallery, The View From The Shard, which opens on February 1st next year. Visitors will get to access floors 68, 69 and 72 - that's 800 feet up - and enjoy a 40-mile panorama across London's tiny rooftops. Ticket prices, appropriately, are rather steep. The full "kaleidoscope lifts" and "cloudscape" experience will cost you £24.95, bookable in advance. And that's a lot of money. I thought I'd check how much by comparing The View From The Shard with some of London's other major ticketed attractions. Several cost more on the day, but can be bought rather cheaper if you go online. The Harry Potter Tour is more expensive, but that's in far flung Watford and buys you several hours entertainment. Which I believe makes The View From The Shard London's most expensive major tourist attraction. Lucky bunch of journalists, that's what I say.
Tickets for The View From The Shard aren't selling fast. The first tour on the first day is sold out, and most of the first Saturday too, and one evening slot on Valentine's day. But other than that you can pick almost any half hour window you like up to the end of May and pre-book your visit.
That's really risky, isn't it? What if the weather's rubbish? What if there's thick fog? Most importantly, what if the cloudbase is so low you can't see anything? Well, sorry, bad news.
You might end up forking out a fortune to see bugger all, or swirling mist, or driving rain, or accidental darkness because you forget to check when sunset was. I'm sure the experience at other times will be unforgettable, but is it worth £25? I'm yet to be convinced.
One hundred years ago today (oh how I love blogposts that begin like that) the Woolwich Foot Tunnel was opened. It linked Woolwich to North Woolwich, which at that time were both in Kent despite being on opposite sides of the Thames. Hundreds of dockers needed to commute from one side to the other, and they couldn't always rely on the Woolwich Ferry (born 1889) to get them there. The tunnel had been designed by Sir Maurice Fitzmaurice, who also engineered Vauxhall Bridge and the Aswan Dam. The Woolwich Foot Tunnel was his pre-retirement project, a glazed tube opened by the Chairman of the London County Council on Saturday 26 October 1912. Centenary visit anyone?
As 100 year old foot tunnels go, it's not in the best of conditions. Greenwich Council have thrown millions at the old girl over the last couple of years, but the contractors missed their deadline and the revamp was terminated partway. What a mess. You'd be hard pressed to spot where any of their money's been spent if you turned up today. Indeed you'd be hard pressed to spot the tunnel at all, so appallingly is it signposted on either bank of the Thames. On the Woolwich side the entrance is hidden round the back of the Waterfront Leisure Centre, tucked in beside the goods entrance and the Riverside Suite. Even then the rotunda at the top of the shaft is wreathed in scaffolding and screened by a blue wall, with the only indication of what's below being a sheet of A4 paper tucked into a plastic pocket. "Tunnel Entrance", it reads, with a red arrow scrawled below in marker pen pointing round the corner to an unlabelled recess. It looks like you're about to walk down into a backyard where tramps piss, but look more carefully and the doors into the underworld are open.
I turned up at the Woolwich end of the Foot Tunnel earlier this week, just before dusk. I can't say the view ahead was inviting. I love a decent bit of urban decay, but even I stepped inside with a certain degree of trepidation. The air was gloomy and the walls thick with grime, as if nobody's given the place a scrubdown in years. Discarded litter lay scattered across the steps - a spicy tuna wrap here, several ketchup-dipped chips there, one empty McFlurry. I followed the staircase down as it wound around the sealed-off liftshaft, for 100 steps or so to under-river level. Woolwich never got the great glass elevators that were installed at Greenwich. Instead the beloved wood panelled lifts were rendered inoperable, seemingly permanently, until someone with money and motivation gets their act together. If you're in a wheelchair, forget it. This former step-free crossing is now the preserve of pedestrians and bike-carrying cyclists only.
As I reached the bottom and looked ahead beneath the Thames, I was surprised. Normally there's somebody else down here, usually more, approaching in the distance or wandering slowly away. Not this time. This time I appeared to be completely alone in the tunnel, which is an unusual feeling fifty feet down, and not the sort of thing which happens in Woolwich's sister tunnel at Greenwich. This was seriously creepy, a pre-Hallowe'en taster, and I was nervous lest some ne'erdowell might interrupt my subterranean crossing. In truth I knew there was nobody there, because approaching humans are very obvious down a straight tunnel where every footstep echoes. But the contour of the footway slopes, sufficiently so that there could have been unmentionable horrors lurking silently beyond the halfway point. From the middle of the tunnel it's a good five minutes back to the surface in either direction, which is plenty of time to be left bleeding in a severed pool on the floor. There may be Help Points installed on the wall at either end but don't think they'll save you - each is taped up and inoperable. This tunnel is for use at your own risk, with no emergency exit.
Banishing any painted devils, I started to thoroughly enjoy my crossing. An entire 500 yard foot tunnel all to myself, that's no everyday experience. I strode ahead beneath umpteen narrow metal pipes and ceiling-mounted boxes, and fresh lamps that have only recently brightened the way. London's great river was above me, perhaps only ten feet away, as I followed in the footsteps of Woolwich's pre-war dockland workforce. And then I saw him - one dark figure walking towards me from the southern side. Damn, this now meant the genuine possibility of thuggery. I carried on walking, not in any way disturbed, probably, no really it's fine, until closer visual scrutiny proved he was no more scary than I to him. Now I was merely bitter that an intruder had wrecked my opportunity to cross the Thames solo. Ah well, it was good to see this cross-river link actually being used, even if passenger numbers were well below even Dangleway levels.
The tunnel flattens out in the middle, then curves back up towards the Newham shaft. It would make a great place for skateboarding, or very fast cycling... which is why Greenwich council have installed several metal chicanes to prevent excessive acceleration. They look a bit ugly, especially if you're going for a longshot longitudinal photo... but then Greenwich Council have also banned the taking of all photographs in the tunnel as well. Flash photography might set off visitors' epilepsy, that's the excuse, and let's have no busking, animal fouling, skating or spitting while we're at it. And no loitering, so bang goes any opportunity of holding a special 100th birthday party down here today. The council want you through and gone with a minimum of fuss, and quite frankly I'm not sure you'd want to linger.
At last I reached the final staircase, and a second dead lift, at which point rush hour suddenly arrived. Five Woolwich-bound commuters appeared in sequence down the stairs, one of them a solo female, two more with bikes. It gets busier here whenever a bus arrives at the terminus up top and passengers don't want to wait to board the Woolwich Ferry. Down they pour, again far fewer than in the tunnel's heyday, keeping the link alive. But it's a wonder any new visitors ever find their way in. The rotunda is scaffolded and boarded off, as on the southern bank. The only entrance is hidden from view, unless you're directly in front of it. There's no pavement access, not unless you're thin and can walk along steps, which means walking instead into the ferry-bound traffic. Nobody seems to be proud of this tunnel, nobody's offering a welcome. Indeed there's not a single notice nor signpost announcing what this riverside portal is or where it might lead. And that's sad.
As centenaries of great London institutions go, this one seems to have been summarily ignored. Instead there's distant talk of a road tunnel at Silvertown and/or a new ferry at Gallions Reach. But Woolwich remains the prime crossing hereabouts for those on foot, indeed the very last crossing for pedestrians before the North Sea. Nobody would build it today, it's not swish enough. But its resilience has seen it through the last century, and one suspects it'll still be here long after the last cablecar has flown. Happy 100th, Woolwich Foot Tunnel, and here's to many decades more.
The Royal British Legion's annual Poppy Appeal launched yesterday. On a Wednesday. That's funny, I thought. I'm sure last year the Poppy Appeal launched on a Thursday. And indeed it did.
Last year's 17-day campaign has become this year's 18-day campaign. A whole extra day of selling and pinning and collecting. Why is that? I'm all for raising money for ex-Service personnel and their families, but do we really need an extra day to ram the message home? Say no to poppycreep.
The British Legion's campaign's been 17 days long for some years now. And even that I think is pushing things somewhat. An entire two and a half weeks of poppy-wearing risks turning the act of remembrance into a duty rather than a tribute. Woe betide the celebrity or newsreader who's seen without a poppy between now and Sunday 11th. Watch how every singer on the X Factor dutifully pins a paper flower to their costume for three consecutive Saturdays because someone's told them to. We've somehow allowed a two minute silence to takeover twenty-five thousand minutes each year, and that can't be right.
Except hang on, we've had an 18 day campaign before. Interestingly this occurred the last time Remembrance Sunday was on 11th November, so maybe there's something about this particular calendar configuration which makes the British Legion launch early. Or maybe not. Let's go back a little further.
Woo, what happened there? 2005's Poppy Appeal was long enough, but the previous year the campaign had stretched to an astonishing three and a half weeks. From the earliest launch date there's ever been to the latest date Remembrance Sunday can ever fall, now that's extreme. However elongated this year's campaign is, it's nothing compared to 2004's marathon.
About a decade ago, the Poppy Appeal operated on a less extensive scale. Each year's campaign was launched precisely a fortnight before Remembrance Sunday, which still allowed for a full two week collection period. There was a blip in 2000, but maybe that's because either S Club 7 or Thora Hird weren't available on the Sunday so they had to push back to the Thursday instead.
Now that's more like it. 1997 was the year in which the Spice Girls launched the British Legion Poppy Appeal, and they did so only a week and a half in advance. That's more the length of campaign I think is appropriate - a concentrated burst of honour rather than a diluted spell of expectation. I'd be much happier if 2012's Poppy Appeal had launched next Wednesday, to prevent the entire campaign from descending into an unnecessarily lengthy period of soldier-worship.
It's early evening at a quiet East End station. I've alighted at the very far end of the platform, and before long I'm the only man remaining on the platform. As I approach the foot of the exit staircase I notice a young woman with a buggy standing there waiting. She's motionless, facing the steps, holding her pushchair tightly in front of her. It's clear she's waiting for assistance.
Would you stop and help out? Or would you walk on by?
Surely it's only polite, even chivalrous, to offer to help. She could be standing waiting for several minutes otherwise, the unwitting victim of TfL's inability to make all stations step-free. A flight of stairs can be a terrible barrier to movement, not only for those in a wheelchair but also for those with small children. Imagine having to make your way around the capital facing these challenges every day. The very least a passer-by can do is to stop and offer to assist. Grabbing hold of one side of the buggy would be the right thing for a caring citizen to do, surely, and walking backwards up some steps isn't hard. Then there's the pleasure to be gained from helping out, especially when a young child's involved, and the "thank you" that's sure to come at the top of the flight. If more people stopped and helped rather than walking on by, imagine how much nicer our society could be.
But why not leave her to it? Everybody else walked off the platform and left her to it, so why should you be any different? She couldn't have known you'd be here, and relying on goodwill to get around is somehow wrong. It's her own choice to be on this inaccessible platform, when there's a perfectly good step-free bus at street level. And who's to say she wants you to nip in and take control anyway? Imagine how scary it could be for a stranger to appear from leftfield and grab hold of your child, however well meaning they might be. A lot of would-be Samaritans are far too keen to assist without stopping and thinking whether they're actually required. Not to mention, what would be the consequences if you slipped or tripped on your buggy-carrying journey up the steps? You could do more harm than good, with no legal means of recourse.
If you haven't made your decision yet, now's your last chance before reading ahead. Go back and select an option - help out or walk by - and then I'll tell you what I did.
I had a good think about this one. I was trying to work out why a young woman with a pushchair might be waiting at the bottom of a staircase facing away from the platform. Was there somebody else I hadn't seen who she was waiting for? I looked up to the footbridge and indeed there was. An older woman, probably her mother, was standing at the very top of the steps setting down several bags of shopping. This was no solo journey, this was a planned manoeuvre in two parts with the buggy going second. I could still have intervened. I could have offered to help out, saving the mother a walk back down the steps and speeding up their eventual exit. But no, they had it all worked out, so I left them to it.
I'm a walking on by kind of person. If someone's lugging a heavy suitcase up some steps, I'm content to leave them. If two young parents are negotiating a staircase with two buggies, I won't intrude. It's their choice, not my responsibility. I'd not expect anyone to stop to help me. I'd make sure I could cope with my luggage before leaving the house, or travel with a friend, or take an alternative route that allowed me independence. Sorry, if that was you on the stairs when I walked on by. You coped without me. I'd rather not get involved.
It's time to wave goodbye to Ceefax. You probably didn't realise it was still broadcasting, because it probably isn't round your way. But Ceefax lives on in the one corner of the country where analogue TV survives, which is Northern Ireland. And it lives on until just before midnight tonight, at which point the plug is pulled, the final digital switchover takes place and Ceefax is consigned to history.
You could have watched Ceefax yesterday, had you been awake early enough. BBC2 sometimes shows Pages From Ceefax in the slot before breakfast, complete with authentic testcard-style music, rather than simulcast the BBC News Channel with BBC1. Yesterday's highlights kicked in at 4:45am, a rolling programme of news, sport and weather, just like it has done for decades. But this was the very last Pages From Ceefax, because you can't have Pages from something which doesn't exist. Did you not tune in, or at least record it to replay over a bowl of Shreddies before work? Just me then?
The BBC's early morning continuity announcer gave the final Pages From Ceefax an appropriate sendoff. A rare appearance for the 1979BBC2 logo was accompanied by a reminder to viewers of the significance of what was about to happen. We learned that Ceefax in Vision has been broadcast on the BBC since 1980, until today, and that this was "the end of an era". So "Enjoy for the very last time...", said the mellifluous voice, before a blue screen with a blocky yellow C E E F A X appeared. How exciting those graphics once were, and now how utterly superseded. The usual parade of pages rolled by for just over an hour, accompanied by a selection of those easy listening sax pieces that were such a part of testcard viewing in my youth. This was the full version of "Great Ocean Road", I understand, which aficionados can relive here if in need of melodious respite.
Ten minutes before oblivion an intermittent countdown (in red) appeared in the top left corner of the display. With four minutes remaining the music changed to a complete rendition of "Bart" by 70s US rock band Ruby - which you might have sat through while waiting for a schools programme in your youth. The final news page had the headline "BBC Journalist's Savile Warning", an unfortunate self-referential dig, and indeed a potential headline from 1972! The latest stock market indices followed, with the FTSE 100 at 5896.2, down 20.9. But it was the sports headlines which had the honour of being the very last page, led by "Ten-man Newcastle in Derby Draw". And then at 05:57/04 precisely (because Ceefax was brilliant at knowing the time, unlike any of its digital successors), fade to black. Actually make that blue, and a final widescreen montage specially created as a pixellated parting shot.
"And that was TV history," said the announcer. "Farewell and thank you Ceefax for the last 38 years."
I could invite you round to mine to watch the recording, but these days you can relive the whole thing via YouTube so there's no need. And that'll be one of the reasons Ceefax has died. It used to be the fastest way of finding out what had just happened in the outside world, and now the outside world's available everywhere all the time. In the 1970s you might have had to wait until tomorrow to find out who won a particular football match, whereas Ceefax allowed you to watch each goal update in real time. It was the UK's first widely available digital service, very much the precursor of that global newspaper you now keep in your pocket.
As well as nostalgia, Ceefax leaves behind its younger sibling, the BBC Red Button. This is essentially the same service, improved, yet somehow it isn't nearly as good. Red Button teletext hides in a world of interconnected one-way menus, accessible via a chain of coloured commands you might or more likely might not remember. Yes there are numbers for most of the pages but most people don't use these, choosing instead to weave their way through a series of branching indices. I used to know that the Top 40 was on page 197, whereas now I'm so uncertain where Friday's weather is I never choose to look. Indeed whereas Ceefax was slow but simple, the Red Button version's too complex, and anyway, the internet's better.
BBC Northern Ireland are throwing a farewell party for analogue television after News At Ten tonight. No doubt Ceefax will get a mention, if only in passing, before spluttering out in the early hours. We'll cope, indeed most of us already are, barely registering the departure of a service that was once a trusted friend. Ceefax's demise has been planned for the best part of a decade, with its disappearance tomorrow bang on schedule. I'm much more nervous about the next phase of digital switchover, the loss of FM radio, even though that particular doomsday's continually being delayed due to lack of consumer interest.
So farewell to blocky Mode 7 graphics, and the latest vegetable prices, and pages that rolled round only once every 30 seconds. It may have shone brightest in the 80s and 90s, but Ceefax brightened our lives for almost 40 years. We'll not miss it, because for most of us it already isn't there. But it was far more important to us than our grandchildren will ever imagine, could ever imagine. A pioneering service closes tonight.
Day out:Ely It's about fifteen miles north of Cambridge. It's just over an hour by train from London. It's a city, one of the three smallest in England. It's named after a slippery fish. I met my Dad there for a birthday rendezvous on Saturday. And it's not a bad place for a day out.
Ely Cathedral: You can see this 12th Century masterpiece from miles away. It was built on a hilltop, or what passes for a hilltop round here, which earned it the nickname "The Ship of The Fens". The nave is one of the longest in England, and the Lady Chapel one of the largest. Throw in an octagonal Lantern, built as a replacement for the Norman Tower following its untimely collapse, and there's no mistaking the cathedral's silhouette on the flat horizon. Alas Ely is also famous for being the first UK cathedral to impose an admission charge, at prices that have escalated since - currently £7 to get in and £16.20 for the full works. That does include a tour, a trip up a couple of towers and a look round the Stained Glass Museum, but my Dad and I both agreed we wouldn't be paying up to go inside. Had we arrived on Sunday (top tip) then general admission would have been free, but instead we made the most of admiring the ornate exterior. There are particularly good views across the Dean'sMeadow.
Ely Eel Trail: Ely wouldn't be Ely without eels. There wasn't much other industry hereabouts before the fens were drained, and the townsfolk made a living catching, selling and smoking these abundant creatures. Even the stone for the cathedral was paid for in eels (8000 a year, to the Bishop of Peterborough, in perpetuity). Not surprisingly the city makes much of its eel-related past, including several sculptures and works of art dotted around the town. You can track these down by following the Eel Trail, a two mile stroll which also passes all of Ely's other interesting attractions. It's marked in the pavement by dozens of small copper plaques, which is a nice idea but utterly impractical for following without getting hopelessly lost. Instead you'll need a leaflet from the Tourist Information Centre, only 50p, and surely the best way to explore Ely without missing anything.
Oliver Cromwell's House: The commoner who destroyed the monarchy lived in Ely. Oliver Cromwell moved his family here from Huntingdon in 1636 after inheriting a large estate, and became an increasingly important member of the local community. That family home still stands, and has become both the city's Tourist Information Centre and a small museum. It's worth a look round, for a small fee, to see the surroundings which inspired revolution. A short film kicks things off, then there's an audio guide to lead you through a handful of rooms downstairs and up. You won't be surprised to hear that Eel Pie is being prepared in the kitchen, allegedly one of Elizabeth Cromwell's favourite recipes. Most of the other rooms are filled with information and artefacts and re-creations, including animated mannequins whose mechanical innards are just a little too audible. That includes Oliver's sleeping body in the final chamber, which has been dressed up as 'The Haunted Bedroom' despite the fact that Cromwell died many miles away in Whitehall. And was he hero or villain? The museum attempts to stay equivocal on the subject, then asks visitors to vote before they leave.
Ely Museum: It used to be the city jail, with its own peculiar ecclesiastical take on the law. It's also very old, with parts of the building dating back to the 13th century, and scratched graffiti from several very old prisoners evident on the walls. Now it's the local museum, with exhibits ranging from Roman remains to (obviously) the history of eel fishing. On view is the velocipede ridden to victory in the world's first recorded bicycle race, and also a model of Ely Cathedral made out of thousands of matches. It's that sort of place, and the kind of repository every small community needs.
High Street/Market Street: Ely's not been taken over by clone stores and chains, and retains a variety of independent stores and eateries. Twice a week the market comes to town, on Saturday a pleasing mix of aspirational and down-to-earth.
Riverside: At the foot of the hill, below the town, the River Great Ouse rolls by. It's broad and slow, with extensive water meadows beyond, and plied by a substantial number of boats of all sizes. The Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race was rowed here in 1944, the only time in the race's history that it's taken place away from the River Thames. Now it's Ely's artistic quarter, combining an art gallery, an entertainment centre and a former maltings now home to dozens of antiques dealers. There are geese and ducks and swans everywhere, which adds to the charm, plus an award-winning tearoom that has queues out of the door even on a grey October day. And watch out too for the eel sculpture, the eel mosaic, the eel forks and the eel etchings. Just don't expect to spot any of the slippery creatures wriggling in the water, not any more.
Hundreds have gathered on Palace Green to celebrate Britain's favourite fruit. A ring of stalls encircles the damp grass, some here with specific apple-related activities, others merely to flog stuff.
The Scouts are planting pips in pots, while the WI have baked you-know-what sponges. The apple juice guys are doing a roaring trade selling home-crushed bottles, and more usefully have warm cider punch for immediate ladling. The burger vans, meanwhile, have merely shifted pork and apple to the top of their menus. A basket of apples is up for grabs for whoever can most closely guess how many fruit are within. There's also a "longest apple peel" competition, for which it's alleged many have been practising for several weeks, although you'd not guess from looking at the results.
Instead of a coconut shy there's an apple shy, where teenagers are busy hurling balls at cookers to win eaters. The Mayor and his wife are at the Farmers Market stall, he bedecked with ceremonial chain, she resplendent in a floppy feather hat. Even the local health club have got in on the act, handing out all their usual promotional material along with a dubious leaflet relating the fruit's supposed health benefits. "Apples lower cholesteral" is their starter for ten, before moving on with "Apples keep you slim" and a triumphant "Apples may fight cancer".
Over by the museum a small band of morris dancers are jigging to the sound of a fiddle, like they do in these parts. A larger band of musicians has gathered outside the refectory, their faces painted, and with scraps of coloured handkerchief hanging from their clothes. The couple who booked the noon wedding in the cathedral probably weren't expecting to have quite so many spectators looking on... and look like they wish they'd wrapped up warmer.
In one tent a group of orchard owners are holding court. They've brought along samples of a hundred or so different varieties of apple, from humble Bramleys to Kidd's Orange Green. They're laid out in a wooden grid, in alphabetical order, with dates and places of origin typed neatly underneath. The idea is that visitors bring apples from their own gardens to be identified, although few are taking up the offer, and most seem more than happy to scan the racks in reverent awe. With so much choice the message is clear - why would you ever pick up a bag of Golden Delicious at the supermarket again?
Harvest home, a celebratory crunch, and roll on autumn.
A bunch of journalists were taken up the Shard yesterday to see what the view looks like. They were duly impressed, pretty much. This was to promote the launch of London's highest viewing gallery, The View From The Shard, which opens on February 1st next year. Visitors will get to access floors 68, 69 and 72 - that's 800 feet up - and enjoy a 40-mile panorama across London's tiny rooftops. Ticket prices, appropriately, are rather steep. The full "kaleidoscope lifts" and "cloudscape" experience will cost you £24.95, bookable in advance. And that's a lot of money. I thought I'd check how much by comparing The View From The Shard with some of London's other major ticketed attractions. Several cost more on the day, but can be bought rather cheaper if you go online. The Harry Potter Tour is more expensive, but that's in far flung Watford and buys you several hours entertainment. Which I believe makes The View From The Shard London's most expensive major tourist attraction. Lucky bunch of journalists, that's what I say.
As 100 year old foot tunnels go, it's not in the best of conditions. Greenwich Council have thrown millions at the old girl over the last couple of years, but the contractors missed their deadline and the revamp was terminated partway. What a mess. You'd be hard pressed to spot where any of their money's been spent if you turned up today. Indeed you'd be hard pressed to spot the tunnel at all, so appallingly is it signposted on either bank of the Thames. On the Woolwich side the entrance is hidden round the back of the Waterfront Leisure Centre, tucked in beside the goods entrance and the Riverside Suite. Even then the rotunda at the top of the shaft is wreathed in scaffolding and screened by a blue wall, with the only indication of what's below being a sheet of A4 paper tucked into a plastic pocket. "Tunnel Entrance", it reads, with a red arrow scrawled below in marker pen pointing round the corner to an unlabelled recess. It looks like you're about to walk down into a backyard where tramps piss, but look more carefully and the doors into the underworld are open.
As I reached the bottom and looked ahead beneath the Thames, I was surprised. Normally there's somebody else down here, usually more, approaching in the distance or wandering slowly away. Not this time. This time I appeared to be completely alone in the tunnel, which is an unusual feeling fifty feet down, and not the sort of thing which happens in Woolwich's sister tunnel at Greenwich. This was seriously creepy, a pre-Hallowe'en taster, and I was nervous lest some ne'erdowell might interrupt my subterranean crossing. In truth I knew there was nobody there, because approaching humans are very obvious down a straight tunnel where every footstep echoes. But the contour of the footway slopes, sufficiently so that there could have been unmentionable horrors lurking silently beyond the halfway point. From the middle of the tunnel it's a good five minutes back to the surface in either direction, which is plenty of time to be left bleeding in a severed pool on the floor. There may be Help Points installed on the wall at either end but don't think they'll save you - each is taped up and inoperable. This tunnel is for use at your own risk, with no emergency exit.
The tunnel flattens out in the middle, then curves back up towards the Newham shaft. It would make a great place for skateboarding, or very fast cycling... which is why Greenwich council have installed several metal chicanes to prevent excessive acceleration. They look a bit ugly, especially if you're going for a longshot longitudinal photo... but then Greenwich Council have also banned the taking of all photographs in the tunnel as well. Flash photography might set off visitors' epilepsy, that's the excuse, and let's have no busking, animal fouling, skating or spitting while we're at it. And no loitering, so bang goes any opportunity of holding a special 100th birthday party down here today. The council want you through and gone with a minimum of fuss, and quite frankly I'm not sure you'd want to linger.
The Royal British Legion's annual Poppy Appeal launched yesterday. On a Wednesday. That's funny, I thought. I'm sure last year the Poppy Appeal launched on a Thursday. And indeed it did.
Ely Cathedral: You can see this 12th Century masterpiece from miles away. It was built on a hilltop, or what passes for a hilltop round here, which earned it the nickname "The Ship of The Fens". The nave is one of the longest in England, and the Lady Chapel one of the largest. Throw in an octagonal Lantern, built as a replacement for the Norman Tower following its untimely collapse, and there's no mistaking the cathedral's silhouette on the flat horizon. Alas Ely is also famous for being the first UK cathedral to impose an admission charge, at prices that have escalated since - currently £7 to get in and £16.20 for the full works. That does include a tour, a trip up a couple of towers and a look round the Stained Glass Museum, but my Dad and I both agreed we wouldn't be paying up to go inside. Had we arrived on Sunday (top tip) then general admission would have been free, but instead we made the most of admiring the ornate exterior. There are particularly good views across the Dean's Meadow.
Oliver Cromwell's House: The commoner who destroyed the monarchy lived in Ely. Oliver Cromwell moved his family here from Huntingdon in 1636 after inheriting a large estate, and became an increasingly important member of the local community. That family home still stands, and has become both the city's Tourist Information Centre and a small museum. It's worth a look round, for a small fee, to see the surroundings which inspired revolution. A short film kicks things off, then there's an audio guide to lead you through a handful of rooms downstairs and up. You won't be surprised to hear that Eel Pie is being prepared in the kitchen, allegedly one of Elizabeth Cromwell's favourite recipes. Most of the other rooms are filled with information and artefacts and re-creations, including animated mannequins whose mechanical innards are just a little too audible. That includes Oliver's sleeping body in the final chamber, which has been dressed up as 'The Haunted Bedroom' despite the fact that Cromwell died many miles away in Whitehall. And was he hero or villain? The museum attempts to stay equivocal on the subject, then asks visitors to vote before they leave.
Riverside: At the foot of the hill, below the town, the River Great Ouse rolls by. It's broad and slow, with extensive water meadows beyond, and plied by a substantial number of boats of all sizes. The Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race was rowed here in 1944, the only time in the race's history that it's taken place away from the River Thames. Now it's Ely's artistic quarter, combining an art gallery, an entertainment centre and a former maltings now home to dozens of antiques dealers. There are geese and ducks and swans everywhere, which adds to the charm, plus an award-winning tearoom that has queues out of the door even on a grey October day. And watch out too for the eel sculpture, the eel mosaic, the eel forks and the eel etchings. Just don't expect to spot any of the slippery creatures wriggling in the water, not any more.
