Senate House: When it opened in the 1930s, this University of London landmark was the tallest non-cathedral in town. You'll know it as that starktower opposite Russell Square, rising straight ahead if you nip out the back door of the British Museum. It was designed by CharlesHolden, whose recent success at 55 Broadway had come to the attention of the university authorities. He created an imposing Portland stone edifice, essentially one long central spine with lower courtyard blocks to either side. The upper floors were to comprise the university library, and the central tower is still entirely filled by the book stack. A small liftshaft runs up one flank, some winding stairs down the other, with both incorporated into the tower's elevated outline. Fancy a look around?
I fancied a look around, so I turned up for the advertised architectural tour. Unfortunately I'd read my Open House guide incorrectly, because it turned out all the day's tours were pre-book only. On the volunteer's clipboard all twenty spaces were filled, but in reality only four people had bothered to turn up. That's appalling, given the number of people who'd have liked to attend, for which we might blame the no-showers or we might blame the ballot system that randomly picked them. Whatever, there was no problem in me and several other speculative visitors tagging along, which saved the building's architect from shepherding almost nobody. I enjoyed a fantastic tour led by the man in charge of the building's renovation, but it can't be right that London Open House pre-booking is being substantially topped up by queue-jumpers.
The interior of Senate House isn't what you might expect from outside. OK, the uplighters beneath the tower give a clue, but only stepping through into the main axis brings you face to face with fullcraftedpresence. A grand staircase rises ahead with balconies to either side, and those are the original globular luminaires hanging from the golden ceiling. At one end is the Vice Chancellor's old office, all wood panelling and Art Deco-ish lampshade, while at the other is Chancellor's Hall with its pillars and yet more uplighters. Our guide knew all about the architecture's overarching themes, but also the battle they'd recently had installing modern cabling and the difficulties of Grade II* listed central heating. The building was also open to those not on a tour, but I might not have thought to walk through the double doors opposite Princess Anne's portrait to discover the Senate Room beyond. This lush cuboid with walnut walls (and uplighters) is supposed to be Holden's masterpiece, which is impressive when you have Arnos Grove in your portfolio. We couldn't go any higher to explore the library, but 75 minutes in modernist academe was a morning well spent.
Anonymous Camden Open House venue: Sheltering from Sunday's storm brought me to the basement of this typical looking terrace. Free tea or coffee were on offer, and a space to dump umbrellas, which made this the most civilised Open House location I visited. Half-hourly tours were advertised, so when a chirpy volunteer asked us to follow, we followed. He smiled a lot, and clutched his factsheet close to his chest, whilst giving us a not terribly in-depth history of the building we were ascending. "I don't know much about..." was one of his favourite phrases, along with "you'll have to ask the staff downstairs at the desk." He'd researched a few tangential anecdotes, though nothing relevant to the building, and chuckled rather louder than we did on delivery. On the top floor we stood around in the library, where members of the tour group with relevant background knowledge asked basic questions he couldn't answer. On the way back down we filled the secretary's office for what seemed like forever, reduced to staring at the detritus on her desk for lack of other interesting diversion. And back by the front door we passed the bloke running the next tour, who was busy bandying about words like "cornice" to attentive faces... and only then did we realise how short-changed our group had been. Before taking his leave our volunteer told us how much he enjoys taking part in Open House each year and how he always picks somewhere different to steward, oblivious to the talentless embarrassment of a tour he'd just led. Most OH volunteers are excellent, don't get me wrong, so this delusional chump was a rare misfire. But as I stepped back into the rain and heard him summoning his next tour group, I couldn't help but feel sorry for their upcoming wasted half hour.
Chrisp Street Market Clocktower: Ah, the Lansbury Estate. East London's finest array of very-postwar housing, proudly displayed to all and sundry at the Festival of Britain in 1951. I've wandered round before, and been to the market many times, but I've never ever been up the clocktower. It's not been open this century, to the best of my knowledge, even though it was meant to be an observation platform and a focal point for the local population. Its brickwork zigzags upwards, mirroring the twin staircases inside, one for walking up and the other for walking down. Estate architect Frederick Gibberd described his clocktower as a “practical folly”, and it certainly has the right mix of everyday allure. How exciting, then, to finally gain access and to reclaim the elevated future that the Fifties promised. Few had come, probably because advertising hereabouts was limited to a scribbled sheet of paper stuck to the usually-locked door on the ground floor. One or two marketgoers noticed, and grasped the opportunity, but most stayed on the ground and mingled and bought stuff and left.
Only one staircase was open, the other sealed off by tape at the top (for no apparent reason). There are several landings on the way up, each with an open view, and which it was easy to imagine smelling of post-pub relief. Thankfully not. Small boxes on the floor are used for after-dark illumination, staged alternately red and blue, a rather more modern addition. And so to the narrow upper deck, the walkway encircling the entire perimeter. The tower's clockface is bold and blobby, even more so from directly underneath, though the Union Jack hanging from the balcony is only temporary. And there's the full 360 panorama, which those of us who live in East London so rarely get to enjoy due to the estuary's lack of contours. The City and Shard spike the western horizon, beyond the Lansbury rooftops and the streets of Stepney. Not quite so good a view to the south, with various highrises blocking the financial powerhouse of Docklands. Southeast the appealing combination of Robin Hood Gardens, cablecar and Dome, more or less. Immediately east the stark silhouette of the Balfron Tower, sister of the Trellick, lit up in the afternoon sun. And up north, somewhere past my house, the Olympic Stadium nestling almost insignificantly amid the inner suburbs. It's a damned shame that this visual treat isn't available on a more regular basis, even if only once a month, even though it would have to be supervised to avoid aerial unpleasantness. And thanks to Open House for opening it up, and satisfying my thirst to ascend, and bonding me to my local area just one notch more.
That's it. The last Metropolitan 'A Stock' train slipped out of public service last night. There'll be one last hurrah nipping round the entire line on Saturday, but that's special £40 tickets only, and they're long gone. These fine old workhorses have given sterling service over the last fifty years, but their time is up and an air-conditioned future awaits. This train terminates here.
Wednesday evening, mid-City, height of the rush hour. A bog-standard Met line train rolls into the platform, white headlamps blazing. As the doors beep open its passengers pour off and not that many step aboard. If they'd all waited another minute they could have ridden the special train, unique of its kind, that's approaching through the tunnel. It has a smallwhiteboard on the front - 1960-2012, Last Day In Service. The carriages are still unusually full, a body on every seat, and they're definitely not your normal commuters. These are the men who love trains (I looked, but I couldn't see any women, sorry), out to ride their favourite rolling stock one last time. I sit down beside a large bloke who smells like your worst traingeek stereotype. It's not the fragrant final journey I was hoping for.
At Aldgate a familiar mechanical whining noise kicks in, emanating from somewhere unseen beneath the carriage. Normally everybody alights, but today a substantial proportion stay on board - they're here for the journey, not the destination. Many others get out to walk along the platform and stretch their legs, or more likely amble up to the cab for a commemorative picture. There are a lot of photos being taken, of anything and everything stock-related, because this won't ever be possible again. But hurry, because we're not hanging around at Aldgate for long. Train 412 is a regular scheduled Metropolitan service that's already been out to Amersham three times today, and needs to make space for the new breed coming in behind. At eight minutes past six the doors slam shut with a not quite synchronous clunk, and the train heads off on its penultimate public journey.
A short distance up the tunnel we pause. "Sorry for the delay," says the driver, "but we're waiting for a C Stock ahead." He'd never normally say that, but on this occasion he knows his audience. For one stop only we're the enthusiasts' train, as evidenced when one man slips out a Fisco Unimatic tape measure and starts checking the dimensions of my seat. But at Liverpool Street the clientèle changes, as we're joined by hordes of City commuters heading home to Metroland. Many of them get a seat while others stand, flicking through the Evening Standard or checking their Blackberries. Nobody slips their briefcase onto the luggage rack, and no umbrellas dangle from the overhead hooks. A few of these passengers may have noticed this isn't their normal train but most are entirely oblivious - to them we're just a semi-fast to Watford.
With each passing station more crowd aboard, for this the A Stock's final exit from the City. The platform announcer at Farringdon is on the ball, alerting passengers to their "privileged journey" home tonight. I'm sat by the window, a longitudinal view that'll be hard to come by tomorrow, watching the brightly lit Metropolitan future speeding by. It's hard to believe I'll never do this again, especially given that these trains have been running since before I was born. Every time the grinding whirr kicks in I'm transported back to childhood trips to town, an unexpectedly evocative sound, yet imminently doomed. But I'm not heading all the way out to Hertfordshire, I have more important places to be, so I join the throng disembarking at Baker Street and pat the old girl goodbye.
From today on, consider the Metropolitan line fully upgraded. Every train in service now has air-conditioning, every train has scrolling in-car announcements, every train has fewer seats, and every train is fully accessible. Expect TfL to update a number of wheelchair blobs on the next tube map from white to blue, now that the entire S Stock fleet affords level-ish access from platform to train. It's a whopping investment, and a major success, and never mind any nostalgia for trains gone by. Which leaves the Circle and Hammersmith & City lines with the Underground's oldest remaining rolling stock, although these too have kicked off the process of being replaced. When the last of the C Stock disappears don't expect quite so much of an outpouring of affection as these Met line trains have earned. And if you're on that final train on Saturday, wish her a final thanks from me.
London's toppermost listings magazine, Time Out, finally threw in the towel and went free this week. From a cover price of £3.25 to diddlysquat, the intention is to drive up readership with a Tuesday morning giveaway. Other publications (such as the Evening Standard) have had success with this model, but it relies on increased readership of adverts replacing income lost at the newsstand. It might work, especially if punters can be directed online where Time Out hopes they'll book tickets and stuff. You'll see evidence of the magazine's new "book now" rationale if you scan the listed events promoted on the Time Out homepage, or if (as they hope) you download the dedicated Time Out app. The risk is that punters might see their new freebie as another chuck-on-the-floor lightweight, not an invaluable guide to the week ahead, but we'll see.
I wasn't sure I'd get a copy now they're only being given out in a single morning rush hour. Imagine my surprise to find a bloke in a red cap doling out Time Outs outside Bow Church DLR, which is not somewhere any other free periodical bothers with. A few hundred yards later at Bow Road station another free issue was thrust into my hand, and all this before eight in the morning. This suggests some considerable amount is being invested in distribution, or else they were just making a special effort for the launch. But at the other end of my journey, at a major tube station in central London, no copies whatsoever. On my way home the bloke at the kiosk where I bought last week's copy told me there had been "loads of 'em about" later in the morning, but I passed through as a wholly missed opportunity.
And what of the new slimlinemagazine. To be fair it's only one-third down on last week's pagination, which isn't bad for a 100% reduction in price. A couple of longer articles remain, but the content's mostly granular recyclable 100-word snippets. The font size has increased, so it's taken rather fewer words to fill the 80 pages (and no doubt a corresponding cut in staff costs). Almost all of the familiar sections remain, thinned down rather than cut. But we're now talking highlights only, as the comprehensive listings for which Time Out was once famous are summarily dumped.
Let me analyse the new Time Out properly by tallying the pagination of three separate editions. A fat issue from five years ago kicking off with The Big Smoke and ending with My Favourite Londoner. Last week's issue, starting with the now defunct letters page and ending with Michael Hodges' Slice of Life. And this week's zero pence 80-pager, from The Hot List at the front to London's Top Ten at the back. I've counted up all the content, occasionally approximately, and the table below shows how each section's declined in size.
Section
TIME OUT
12 Sep 2007 196pp, £2.80
TIME OUT
20 Sep 2012 124pp, £3.25
TIME OUT
25 Sep 2012 80pp, free
notes
Intro stuff
19 pages
15 pages
8 pages
Much bittier, and briefer (but still something to read)
Things To Do
9½ pages
5½ pages
4 pages
Now only selected top-level events get a mention (sigh)
Film
17 pages
12½ pages
4 pages
Want listings? Bugger off to the internet (or get the app)
Music
11 pages
9 pages
4½ pages
For all future gig-booking opportunities, it's adverts only
Classical
3 pages
3 pages
½ page
Time Out's not really for the classically-inclined
Clubs/Cabaret
7½ pages
5½ pages
3 pages
Apparently London now only has 14 clubs (last week 59)
Comedy
3 pages
4½ pages
2 pages
With no more than three stand-ups a night (usually one)
Theatre/Dance
12 pages
10½ pages
3 pages
Several highlights, but no depth (and minimal fringe)
LGBT
2 pages
1 page
1 page
Hanging on in there (barely)
Art
5 pages
4½ pages
3 pages
Doing its best in not much space
Shopping
9½ pages
5 pages
2½ pages
Nuggety promos a la Stylist or Shortlist
Food & Drink
8 pages
3½ pages
2½ pages
Unexpectedly limited, and oddly uninspired
Time In/TV
18 pages
8 pages
2 pages
From the mag that fought for listings, no more listings
Books
2½ pages
1½ pages
nil
Dead. Books are officially dead. Sorry.
Classified
9 pages
2 pages
nil
Small ads have entirely migrated online
Sport/Health
5 pages
nil
nil
There's no money in this, it's long gone
Adverts
55pp (28%)
38pp (31%)
29pp (36%)
A greater proportion of ads, but not by much
In attempting to cover almost everything, the new Time Out covers nothing in depth. Film and Music come out best, relatively speaking, but each has fewer than five pages of editorial reduced from considerably more. The film section fares particularly badly, without even a complete list of this week's new releases, and box office listings entirely jettisoned. Sure, that's all on the internet these days, but the magazine's next to useless for planning a decent night out. The other enormous casualty over the years is Theatre, where Time Out's gone from a comprehensive overview of West End and Fringe to, well, not much really. If you're in town for the week and looking for a night in the stalls, Time Out won't help you. The future's smartphone enabled, obviously, but a significant proportion of the population aren't anywhere close yet.
On the Time Out blog the magazine's editor, Tim Arnold, says "It’s bigger, bolder, funnier and I truly believe it’s better." He's clearly lying about it being better, because his highlights-only Time Out Lite can only skim the capital's surface. Those seeking detailed information will now be at the mercy of the Time Out website - fine for film, but whose searchable event listings I've never found a rich source of inspiration. But at least the magazine has retained its independent and comprehensive editorial stance, unlike the equally-free Shortlist and Stylist which are no more than platforms for PR puff. And come on, what do you expect for nothing? Time Out's not what it was, nor will it ever be again, but it is still worth grabbing a copy.
For efficiency's sake I thought I'd concentrate on one borough for this year's London Open House, like I did a few years back with Haringey and Southwark. Skedaddling around Camden wasn't as easy as you might think, either in the planning or the execution, but I made it to a fair few fascinating places. Here's four.
Alexandra Road: It looks like an ordinary street on the map, but Rowley Way is anything but. Futuristicterracesslope down to a pedestrianised curve, six storeys high on one side and four on the other. Low-rise, high-density, that's the Alexandra and Ainsworth estate. All the buildings are cast from white concrete, less pristine now than in the 1970s, and following the line of the Euston railway. Together they resemble a Blake's 7 filmset rather than the backstreets of Kilburn, and were part of Camden Council's pioneering social housing scheme. Every flat boasts its own inward-looking terrace, draped with plants or bikes or washing or whatever, making this a strikingly interactive community where it's nigh impossible to hide. At the far end of the curve is a humming power station with three thin chimneys, alongside a Tenants Hall with weekly food co-op (please tie your dog up outside before entering). Cars have been banished to a subterranean undercroft beneath the paved path, a claustrophobic dystopia lined by imposing garages. On the southern side is a linearpark, narrow but four acres long, with grass and gardens and hard courts spread out along its length. On a sunny Saturday it's all rather lovely, although the park's clearly seen better days and is under threat from continued disrepair. For Open House we were permitted to enter one of the less upgraded maisonettes, but shoes off first please (always select your socks on Open House day with care). The duplex interior was adequately-sized if not spacious, especially upstairs where a wooden partition could be drawn back to link kitchen and living room. The brown tiles, wooden stairs and ducted heating screamed Seventies, although noteverybody across the estate has kept theirs. We chatted to the owner, who's been here almost since the place was built, and is fiercely proud of the concrete hilltown she calls home. Watch this 20 minute documentary about living on Rowley Way and I think you'll see what she means. [six photos]
Cecil Sharp House: London's folk music hub isn't some club in the West End, it's a little-known building in Primrose Hill. Tucked onto the triangular site where Gloucester Avenue meets Regents Park Road, look out for the white shield announcing that the brick shell beyond is home to the English Folk Dance and Song Society. They arrived here in 1929, five years after the death of Cecil Sharp, the man who'd inspired construction of the building. He'd specified precise dimensions for all the rooms, and the need for a library to house his collection of folk-related books, but never saw his dream realised. I think he'd be impressed today. The place was buzzing on Saturday with attendees of all ages, and most definitely not a dead-end backwater for the retired. Our guide led us into the barndance-sized mainhall to see Ivon Hitchen's mural, for which privilege we had to interrupt the term's first class of "Melodeon for Beginners". Sorry. To see the stags in the practice room downstairs we had to sneak into the back of "Intermediate Banjo" just as the lesson was kicking off. Sorry. Even nipping into the bar, formerly the men's changing room, we stumbled upon three gentlemen clearing away dirty glasses so that they could jam their way through the afternoon. Apologies. The librarian was keen to see us, in his well-ordered room where sea shanties, ballads and nursery rhymes are all shelved separately. I noted that the magazine rack contained subscriptions to Concertina World, Dulcimer Players News and Fiddle On, amongst many others. A broad programme of concerts and ceilidhs are held in the main hall, indeed Time Out readers have voted Cecil Sharp House their second favourite live music venue in the capital. It strikes me that thousands of Londoners who don't know the place exists would undoubtedly enjoy all it has to offer, be that participating or as part of an audience. In case that's you, my apologies, but now you know.
Royal College of Physicians: The professional body that oversees Britain's doctors used to be based in a creaky building off Pall Mall. One bomb changed that, and for their post-war rebuild they commissioned something very different indeed on the edge of Regent's Park. Architect DenysLasdun could have designed something 'safe' to stand alongside Nash's terraces, but instead persuaded the august body to accept a tempered Brutalist design. The mainblock has a blocky mosaic facing, perched on non-classical columns, with Corbusian utilities jutting from the roof. Adjacent is a sunken lecture theatre, faced in contrasting black brick joined at a sculpted corner (I learnt all this on the architecture tour with Barnabas, which was excellent). The interior focus is a twistingstairway rising through a balcony-fringed void, which could have looked like a shopping mall, but in Sir Denys's hands is somewhat more sophisticated. He went on to design the University of East Anglia and the National Theatre, but it's this building which gets the Grade I listing. If you ever end up taking medical exams you'll likely end up receiving your award inside, but if you can't wait that long then regular tours of the building are available all year round.
Swiss Cottage Library: This modernist gem was built as the borough of Hampstead's central library, and completed just before local government reorganisation in 1965. The architect Sir Basil Spence was also responsible for Coventry Cathedral, and although there's no stained glass here there is a cavernous feeling of space and light. Arts up one end, sciences at the other, with open spiralstaircases to link the main floor and mezzanine. The edge of the library building has fins, and once matched by the swimming baths nextdoor (although the pool's since been knocked down and replaced). Our Open House guide used to work here in the early days, and revelled in the opportunity to dig around again in the book stacks beneath the public floors. Should you ever fancy a sit down with a book or periodical, plus a drink and a light bite from a well run cafe, I'd bear Camden's leading library in mind.
Few social housing projects are instantly recognisable, but the silhouette of West London's Trellick Tower couldn't be anything else. Nothing else apart from the Balfron Tower, that is, its smaller sister in Poplar. Both were designed by Erno Goldfinger, the Hungarian architect, whose home at 2 Willow Road I told you about a while back. Trellick's widely agreed to be his masterpiece - a commission from the Greater London Council in 1966 - and the embodiment of his Brutalist concrete-loving style. To get inside you need to buy, or rent (most people rent), or else have very good friends who live in this thin highrise tower. Or you need to wait for Open House weekend and get lucky. I got lucky.
Yet again, the Open House pre-booking system proved incredibly flaky. I tried for a Trellick ticket during the only hour the online booking system was vaguely operational (so much frustration, so many refreshes), and thought I'd been unsuccessful. Then two different emails arrived each telling me I'd got a ticket, but both with the same ID code, so really only one. When I turned up at the tower yesterday the concierge buzzed me in and gave me a leaflet, but no names were checked and nobody ever asked whether I had any right to be here. Our tour was under-attended (I guess the hideous weather battering North Kensington put some people off) so anyone could have walked in off the street to make up the numbers. Even you. I'm not sure how Open House could organise pre-bookings better, but it seems they could hardly organise them worse.
It looks lively enough at Carnival, but the top of Golborne Road's no place to be in a September gale. The street lay empty as the rain beat down, and only the foolhardy were still dogwalking in nearby Meanwhile Gardens. One man sheltered in the doorway of the off licence, another two were chatting under the overhang by the betting shop. It was rammed to bursting in the Trellick Lounge, which sounds like it ought to be an upmarket eaterie, but was instead a cafe cum social club where local males congregate to watch big screen TV. The entrance to the Trellick Tower is currently mounted with scaffolding, above which rises a narrow cliff face specked with slit windows. This is the lift tower, used by residents to gain access to the upper floors of the adjacent accommodation. And sticking out at the tip is the plant room where the boiler and hot water storage tanks reside, or used to until made irrelevant by the 70s oil crisis.
The entrance hall used to be open access but now there's a controlled door and a concierge, which has done wonders for the block's previous unsavoury reputation. The lobby's narrower than you might imagine, but then the whole thing has to fit inside the footprint of the lift tower so there's not much space. A noticeboard alerts tenants to important issues (do not feed the squirrels!), while the far wall is brightened by a geometric pattern of stained glass rectangles. At some point in the last 40 years a CCTV camera has been added, and even that's been done semi-sympathetically within a bold green square, such are the demanding requirements of Grade II* listed status. As each new face entered the lobby it was fairly easy to identify who was a resident and who an Open House visitor. Trellick Tower's not the uniformly aspirational living space many would believe, with a relatively small proportion of the 217 flats owned by eager architecture aficionados.
The lifts are currently being upgraded, with only two out of three in service which delays progress up and down the building. They stop only every third floor, due to the peculiar way the main building is laid out with longitudinal corridors on multiples of three only. On reaching your target floor you exit into a double height lobby with six slit windows in the wall to your right. The attention to detail is impressive, for social housing, even down to the tiling which is a different colour on every floor. A solid-looking doorway leads off to the left, with curved concrete surround and a blocky tinted lintel. Step through and you're into the connecting tube, suspended umpteen storeys high looking down over Kensal Town and the Westway. If you've no head for heights, best live somewhere else.
Each corridor is bright and well-maintained, leading eventually to a second emergency staircase at the very far end. One wall's glass, and canal and rooftops, while the other is lined with more than the usual number of front doors. Cleverly all the flats on floors x+1 and x-1 have their entrance on floor x, with stairs beyond either up or down to the appropriate living space. Some are two-storey maisonettes, others rather smaller one-bedroom dwellings, but all somehow fit together in a complex multi-level jigsaw.
For Open House we were kindly allowed entry into two flats, of very different scales. They were neither exactly as built, nor would you expect them to be, but several original features remained. Each had a certain boxiness, though with plenty of space, a true sense of light and a larger kitchen than I might have imagined. Communal heating, paid for out of the service charge, allows residents carte blanche to pump out warmth all year round. And everyone gets a balcony, south-ish facing, which I'm told helps create a perfect elevated suntrap. In yesterday's grim weather, however, the sliding doors were best kept shut to keep the wind and driving rain outside.
The two owners of the Open House "show flats" clearly love living in the Trellick Tower, in one case infectiously so. I'm not quite sure I'd be so keen, more because of access arrangements than architectural quibbles, and because I couldn't afford to buy. If this has whetted your appetite then Chris currently has a flat for sale on the 21st floor, and a bespoke website that'll entice you still further. You'll need half a million pounds, which is bloody good going for a former council flat, plus a substantial wodge of cash to pay for upcoming blockwide refurbishments. But how cool to live in Erno's iconic tower, overlooked by nobody, king of the sky.
In six years time, if all goes to plan, the first Crossrail trains will glide into Canary Wharf to collect passengers. The shopping centre associated with the new station should be with us by Easter 2015, so you'll be able to drop by and buy sushi relatively soon. But to get any lower, four floors down where the platforms are, that's a much longer wait. Unless you were lucky in the London Open House raffle, that is, in which case you might have slipped in yesterday.
Sheesh, the London Open House pre-booking system has been a disaster this year. They promised an online launch several times, then retreated when the system wholly and utterly failed. They shifted the deadline and promised the system would work better, only it didn't, and only a random handful of desperate web-refreshers managed to book anything. They apologised and shifted to an email-only lottery, which probably worked better, although I applied for lots and won absolutely nothing. A complete mess all told, and even more so in the execution. According to the cribsheet at Crossrail security our tour had 20 pre-booked attendees, except the majority of these turned out to be illusionary, accidentally generated during the website booking meltdown a month ago. Only six of us gained entrance with official documentation, and all the remaining places were filled by speculative queuers who'd ignored the "pre-book only" message and turned up anyway. Well done to them for trying, but a kick in the teeth to anyone who failed to book a place and stayed away. The snowballing success of London Open House (which is great) has created total reservation instability (which is not), and the team desperately needs to sort out something better by next year.
The Jubilee line station at Canary Wharf was created by draining one of the existing docks and digging a deep hole. The Crossrail station's being built in much the same way, this time in the North Quay. Construction work began in 2009, and since then a vast concrete structure has arisen. The top two storeys are visible above the waterline, a good 250m long, and destined to be full of retail and restaurants. I find it hard to believe that Canary Wharf needs yet more shopping space, but I guess demand for lunchtime browsing and after-work entertainment is insatiable. Rather worthier is the linear park that's due to appear on the rooftop, a rare strip of greenspace hereabouts, and part of wider plans to knit Poplar more closely into its wealthier neighbour.
Entrance to Crossrail's construction zone can be found directly underneath West India Quay DLR station. Nobody gets too far inside without protection, which for those of us on the tour meant hi-vis, helmet, goggles and gloves. "Feel free to take take photos," said the manager in charge, although that's easier said than done when your fingers are encased in safetywear. We crossed the water via a ramped bridge and entered the heart of the site. One day there'll be stairs and disabled-friendly lifts, but for now access to the lower areas is only by hoist. I had visions of this being some flaky maritime contraption, but instead it was more like a miners' cage, perfectly safe for lowering up to 2000kg of human cargo into the abyss. "Don't worry about the jolt when it starts up," our guide reassured us, "that's perfectly normal."
The doors opened at what will one day be ticket hall level. It's a massive ticket hall, broad and very long, comparable to that of the Jubilee line station a few hundred metres away. Expect a direct link to enable swift interchange, via a passageway also linking this shopping mall to the lower mall at Canary Wharf. Developers are expecting 36000 passengers an hour to pass through this station during the morning peak, that's ten a second, so the ticket gates (or whatever swish technology we have by then) needs to be able to cope. It's all a bit nondescript down here at the moment, a lengthy concrete cuboid plus scaffolding lit by bright lights, but expect a much more architectural sheen when you finally arrive here.
Steps twist down to the bottom of the station - very temporary metal stairs descending into the void, down and down. The final landing is labelled "Level -6" and is approximately where the platforms will be. We had one more flight to go because there are no platforms as yet, only the box in which they'll eventually appear once tracks have been laid. We stood in the path of oncoming trains, a few years too early, and gawped around. It is a very longstation, as I think I've already mentioned, but it needs to be long to cope with ten-carriage trains (and the possibility of later extension). Getting on at the right end of the train is going to be important come 2018 - board at the front and you'll alight at Moorgate, board at the rear and you'll alight at Liverpool Street. There'll also be floor-to-ceiling electronic platform doors dividing waiting passengers from arriving trains, much more substantial than on the Jubilee line, with all the fire safety benefits such sealing-off brings.
The main reason there are no tracks yet is that so far there are no tunnels. Four giant metal hoops stand ready to be pierced, two at each end of the station, their interior supported by thick piles until breakthrough comes. Crossrail's tunnel boring machines are due to arrive here next April, after burrowing a mile from the Limmo peninsula at the mouth of the Lea. Then in July they'll be off again, this time towards Stepney and Whitechapel, bringing dreams of high-speed commuting that little bit closer. We were allowed right up to, even into, the incoming eastbound portal, to see the concrete octagon within the metal circle at close hand. Various people posed for pictures ("this is me wearing serious safety gear stood in front of an important wall"), then took photos of their partners for good measure.
You could tell that the project manager leading our tour party was proud of his team's achievements so far, and rightly so. Design and building have been undertaken by Canary Wharf Contractors Limited, not TfL or any of the usual national construction companies, and so far they're delivering ahead of schedule. I'm sure he'd have stayed talking for much longer given half a chance, except there was another tour party arriving behind so we had to end our subterranean odyssey forthwith. Another ride in the hoist awaited, this time from 25 metres below water level back to the surface. And that's the last I expect to see of this amazing station until I come back by train in six years time, this chamber transformed. You'll all be saying "wow, it's a step-change in the London transport experience", but we Open House visitors will also remember it as a hole.
And no, my camera didn't function well in the artificial gloom. I grabbed a few blurryshots, but if you want something better then IanVisits and M@ from Londonist were taken down to platform level a few months back, and not a huge amount has changed down there since.
Senate House: When it opened in the 1930s, this University of London landmark was the tallest non-cathedral in town. You'll know it as that stark tower opposite Russell Square, rising straight ahead if you nip out the back door of the British Museum. It was designed by Charles Holden, whose recent success at 55 Broadway had come to the attention of the university authorities. He created an imposing Portland stone edifice, essentially one long central spine with lower courtyard blocks to either side. The upper floors were to comprise the university library, and the central tower is still entirely filled by the book stack. A small liftshaft runs up one flank, some winding stairs down the other, with both incorporated into the tower's elevated outline. Fancy a look around?
The interior of Senate House isn't what you might expect from outside. OK, the uplighters beneath the tower give a clue, but only stepping through into the main axis brings you face to face with full crafted presence. A grand staircase rises ahead with balconies to either side, and those are the original globular luminaires hanging from the golden ceiling. At one end is the Vice Chancellor's old office, all wood panelling and Art Deco-ish lampshade, while at the other is Chancellor's Hall with its pillars and yet more uplighters. Our guide knew all about the architecture's overarching themes, but also the battle they'd recently had installing modern cabling and the difficulties of Grade II* listed central heating. The building was also open to those not on a tour, but I might not have thought to walk through the double doors opposite Princess Anne's portrait to discover the Senate Room beyond. This lush cuboid with walnut walls (and uplighters) is supposed to be Holden's masterpiece, which is impressive when you have Arnos Grove in your portfolio. We couldn't go any higher to explore the library, but 75 minutes in modernist academe was a morning well spent.
Chrisp Street Market Clocktower: Ah, the Lansbury Estate. East London's finest array of very-postwar housing, proudly displayed to all and sundry at the Festival of Britain in 1951. I've wandered round before, and been to the market many times, but I've never ever been up the clocktower. It's not been open this century, to the best of my knowledge, even though it was meant to be an observation platform and a focal point for the local population. Its brickwork zigzags upwards, mirroring the twin staircases inside, one for walking up and the other for walking down. Estate architect Frederick Gibberd described his clocktower as a “practical folly”, and it certainly has the right mix of everyday allure. How exciting, then, to finally gain access and to reclaim the elevated future that the Fifties promised. Few had come, probably because advertising hereabouts was limited to a scribbled sheet of paper stuck to the usually-locked door on the ground floor. One or two marketgoers noticed, and grasped the opportunity, but most stayed on the ground and mingled and bought stuff and left.
London's toppermost listings magazine, Time Out, finally threw in the towel and went free this week. From a cover price of £3.25 to diddlysquat, the intention is to drive up readership with a Tuesday morning giveaway. Other publications (such as the Evening Standard) have had success with this model, but it relies on increased readership of adverts replacing income lost at the newsstand. It might work, especially if punters can be directed online where Time Out hopes they'll book tickets and stuff. You'll see evidence of the magazine's new "book now" rationale if you scan the listed events promoted on the Time Out homepage, or if (as they hope) you download the dedicated Time Out app. The risk is that punters might see their new freebie as another chuck-on-the-floor lightweight, not an invaluable guide to the week ahead, but we'll see.
Alexandra Road: It looks like an ordinary street on the map, but Rowley Way is anything but. Futuristic terraces slope down to a pedestrianised curve, six storeys high on one side and four on the other. Low-rise, high-density, that's the Alexandra and Ainsworth estate. All the buildings are cast from white concrete, less pristine now than in the 1970s, and following the line of the Euston railway. Together they resemble a Blake's 7 filmset rather than the backstreets of Kilburn, and were part of Camden Council's pioneering social housing scheme. Every flat boasts its own inward-looking terrace, draped with plants or bikes or washing or whatever, making this a strikingly interactive community where it's nigh impossible to hide. At the far end of the curve is a humming power station with three thin chimneys, alongside a Tenants Hall with weekly food co-op (please tie your dog up outside before entering). Cars have been banished to a subterranean undercroft beneath the paved path, a claustrophobic dystopia lined by imposing garages. On the southern side is a linear park, narrow but four acres long, with grass and gardens and hard courts spread out along its length. On a sunny Saturday it's all rather lovely, although the park's clearly seen better days and is under threat from continued disrepair. For Open House we were permitted to enter one of the less upgraded maisonettes, but shoes off first please (always select your socks on Open House day with care). The duplex interior was adequately-sized if not spacious, especially upstairs where a wooden partition could be drawn back to link kitchen and living room. The brown tiles, wooden stairs and ducted heating screamed Seventies, although not everybody across the estate has kept theirs. We chatted to the owner, who's been here almost since the place was built, and is fiercely proud of the concrete hilltown she calls home. Watch this 20 minute documentary about living on Rowley Way and I think you'll see what she means. [six photos]
Cecil Sharp House: London's folk music hub isn't some club in the West End, it's a little-known building in Primrose Hill. Tucked onto the triangular site where Gloucester Avenue meets Regents Park Road, look out for the white shield announcing that the brick shell beyond is home to the English Folk Dance and Song Society. They arrived here in 1929, five years after the death of Cecil Sharp, the man who'd inspired construction of the building. He'd specified precise dimensions for all the rooms, and the need for a library to house his collection of folk-related books, but never saw his dream realised. I think he'd be impressed today. The place was buzzing on Saturday with attendees of all ages, and most definitely not a dead-end backwater for the retired. Our guide led us into the barndance-sized main hall to see Ivon Hitchen's mural, for which privilege we had to interrupt the term's first class of "Melodeon for Beginners". Sorry. To see the stags in the practice room downstairs we had to sneak into the back of "Intermediate Banjo" just as the lesson was kicking off. Sorry. Even nipping into the bar, formerly the men's changing room, we stumbled upon three gentlemen clearing away dirty glasses so that they could jam their way through the afternoon. Apologies. The librarian was keen to see us, in his well-ordered room where sea shanties, ballads and nursery rhymes are all shelved separately. I noted that the magazine rack contained subscriptions to Concertina World, Dulcimer Players News and Fiddle On, amongst many others. A broad programme of concerts and ceilidhs are held in the main hall, indeed Time Out readers have voted Cecil Sharp House their second favourite live music venue in the capital. It strikes me that thousands of Londoners who don't know the place exists would undoubtedly enjoy all it has to offer, be that participating or as part of an audience. In case that's you, my apologies, but now you know.
Royal College of Physicians: The professional body that oversees Britain's doctors used to be based in a creaky building off Pall Mall. One bomb changed that, and for their post-war rebuild they commissioned something very different indeed on the edge of Regent's Park. Architect Denys Lasdun could have designed something 'safe' to stand alongside Nash's terraces, but instead persuaded the august body to accept a tempered Brutalist design. The main block has a blocky mosaic facing, perched on non-classical columns, with Corbusian utilities jutting from the roof. Adjacent is a sunken lecture theatre, faced in contrasting black brick joined at a sculpted corner (I learnt all this on the architecture tour with Barnabas, which was excellent). The interior focus is a twisting stairway rising through a balcony-fringed void, which could have looked like a shopping mall, but in Sir Denys's hands is somewhat more sophisticated. He went on to design the University of East Anglia and the National Theatre, but it's this building which gets the Grade I listing. If you ever end up taking medical exams you'll likely end up receiving your award inside, but if you can't wait that long then regular tours of the building are available all year round.
Open House: Trellick Tower
It looks lively enough at Carnival, but the top of Golborne Road's no place to be in a September gale. The street lay empty as the rain beat down, and only the foolhardy were still dogwalking in nearby Meanwhile Gardens. One man sheltered in the doorway of the off licence, another two were chatting under the overhang by the betting shop. It was rammed to bursting in the Trellick Lounge, which sounds like it ought to be an upmarket eaterie, but was instead a cafe cum social club where local males congregate to watch big screen TV. The entrance to the Trellick Tower is currently mounted with scaffolding, above which rises a narrow cliff face specked with slit windows. This is the lift tower, used by residents to gain access to the upper floors of the adjacent accommodation. And sticking out at the tip is the plant room where the boiler and hot water storage tanks reside, or used to until made irrelevant by the 70s oil crisis.
For Open House we were kindly allowed entry into two flats, of very different scales. They were neither exactly as built, nor would you expect them to be, but several original features remained. Each had a certain boxiness, though with plenty of space, a true sense of light and a larger kitchen than I might have imagined. Communal heating, paid for out of the service charge, allows residents carte blanche to pump out warmth all year round. And everyone gets a balcony, south-ish facing, which I'm told helps create a perfect elevated suntrap. In yesterday's grim weather, however, the sliding doors were best kept shut to keep the wind and driving rain outside.
In six years time, if all goes to plan, the first Crossrail trains will glide into Canary Wharf to collect passengers. The shopping centre associated with the new station should be with us by Easter 2015, so you'll be able to drop by and buy sushi relatively soon. But to get any lower, four floors down where the platforms are, that's a much longer wait. Unless you were lucky in the London Open House raffle, that is, in which case you might have slipped in yesterday.
Entrance to Crossrail's construction zone can be found directly underneath West India Quay DLR station. Nobody gets too far inside without protection, which for those of us on the tour meant hi-vis, helmet, goggles and gloves. "Feel free to take take photos," said the manager in charge, although that's easier said than done when your fingers are encased in safetywear. We crossed the water via a ramped bridge and entered the heart of the site. One day there'll be stairs and disabled-friendly lifts, but for now access to the lower areas is only by hoist. I had visions of this being some flaky maritime contraption, but instead it was more like a miners' cage, perfectly safe for lowering up to 2000kg of human cargo into the abyss. "Don't worry about the jolt when it starts up," our guide reassured us, "that's perfectly normal."
Steps twist down to the bottom of the station - very temporary metal stairs descending into the void, down and down. The final landing is labelled "Level -6" and is approximately where the platforms will be. We had one more flight to go because there are no platforms as yet, only the box in which they'll eventually appear once tracks have been laid. We stood in the path of oncoming trains, a few years too early, and gawped around. It is a very long station, as I think I've already mentioned, but it needs to be long to cope with ten-carriage trains (and the possibility of later extension). Getting on at the right end of the train is going to be important come 2018 - board at the front and you'll alight at Moorgate, board at the rear and you'll alight at Liverpool Street. There'll also be floor-to-ceiling electronic platform doors dividing waiting passengers from arriving trains, much more substantial than on the Jubilee line, with all the fire safety benefits such sealing-off brings.
The main reason there are no tracks yet is that so far there are no tunnels. Four giant metal hoops stand ready to be pierced, two at each end of the station, their interior supported by thick piles until breakthrough comes. Crossrail's tunnel boring machines are due to arrive here next April, after burrowing a mile from the Limmo peninsula at the mouth of the Lea. Then in July they'll be off again, this time towards Stepney and Whitechapel, bringing dreams of high-speed commuting that little bit closer. We were allowed right up to, even into, the incoming eastbound portal, to see the concrete octagon within the metal circle at close hand. Various people posed for pictures ("this is me wearing serious safety gear stood in front of an important wall"), then took photos of their partners for good measure.
