Down with the Kids at the Horniman Museum

IMG_3714You know how much I enjoy visiting places in London that are new to me.  It’s even more fun when I didn’t know they existed before, and they turn out to be idiosyncratic and a bit bonkers.  Let me introduce you to The Horniman Museum.

If you live in south east London I expect you’ve heard of it already, but for those of us in the North, it was a mystery.  ‘South of the River’ represents a transport challenge we’re not always prepared to scale; south east in particular is one of those areas that, for me, is pretty much a blank on the map.  So when my Drawing in Museums class was due to take place there, I was torn: it was good to go somewhere new, but how on earth was I going to get there?  It turned out to be surprisingly easy, making use of the Overground lines, (which I have avoided since a particularly miserable journey from Richmond a couple of years ago.)  It turns out that some of their trains do actually go to where they say they will.

The Horniman Museum was established by Mr Horniman using the wealth his family had generated through tea trading in the 19th century.  His fancy for collecting ‘to bring the world to Forest Hill’ led to the building of a museum which he left to the people of London.  His main areas of interest seem to have been in zoological specimens, handicrafts from far flung cultures and musical instruments.

It’s an eccentric collection, but on the day of my visit it was undeniably popular, perhaps too popular, as a destination for the under 10s.  A brilliant place for a school trip, for crocodiles of small children to file past glass cases filled with stuffed animals, shells and animal bones before a visit to the aquarium.  The noise was astonishing.  The barrel ceiling and the wooden and glass cases threw back the squeals and chattering of scores of young voices and the tramp of school shoes on linoleum.

Sitting in front of a glass case of shells, I was the perfect height for the passers by to be able to peer at my sketch book and ask me IMG_3713questions.

‘Do you do this all the time?’

‘What is it?’

being my particular favourites.

It was quieter in the afternoon, and I spent the time in the Centenary Gallery where I started to sketch a little wooden figure apparently used to decorate the prow of a boat in the Samoan Islands, but my efforts were thwarted when the light that had been illuminating its display case went out.  I turned my attention to the chicken mask which is also from the Pacific Islands.

Some museum information shed light on the evolution of the curating philosophy of the Collection.  At the outset, much of its purpose was to illustrate ‘primitive’ arts from less advanced peoples to prove the superiority of the evolution of the western European.  In post Colonial times, the collection has been entirely reassessed and is now organised to show,  in the Centenary Gallery at least, the results of the same preoccupation with masks and the illustration of people in different communities around the world.

Part of the point of having our drawing classes in Museums is to look at entirely unfamiliar objects, and render them on paper.  Their unfamiliarity means that it is not possible to fall into the trap of assuming I know what they look like.  I find it a surprisingly relaxing and engaging thing to do.  I can sit quietly, and draw.  It doesn’t matter if I finish or not, it doesn’t matter if it’s any good or not.  It’s just a drawing; lines on a piece of paper.

As I’m writing this I realise that I have lost that feeling of freedom to experiment and to fail and it not matter, in my writing.  Somehow, if I take it seriously  it has to carry more weight and expectation, and it has become correspondingly more difficult.

Now what am I going to do with that realisation….?

 

Light and Dark – An Afternoon in the City

2014-03-04 12.41.01I have, with a friend, an, as yet unrealised, plan, to spend a full day doing cultural things in London without spending any money.  Being a plan concocted by two lawyers, it is of course not quite as simple as that – it would be too easy, and therefore a bit of a cheat, just to sit in the National Gallery or British Museum all day.  To be fully ‘plan compliant’ the day has to involve us in doing something we’ve not done before, to fulfil the other ongoing objective to explore our city.

A lunchtime concert in a City church has long been on the agenda (perhaps not strictly speaking ‘free’, as it would require a very mean spirit indeed not to leave a donation, but we agreed to allow it within the rules of ‘the plan’).  We picked a day, Tuesday of this week, and of the recitals we could find on the internet, we picked the one at St Stephen Walbrook, on the basis of location; neither criteria being particularly culturally sensitive.  So what a lucky happen-stance.

St Stephen Walbrook is a Wren designed church, which now cowers beneath City behemoths on three sides, and stands opposite a massive hole, filled with cranes ringed by hoardings.  Inside, it is calm and filled with light.  The centre is dominated by a Henry Moore created altar, and the pews are ranged in concentric circles around it.  The recital was by The Guastalla Quartet, and their programme was Beethoven’s String Quartet in G Major Op 18 N02, and Shostokovich String Quartet No3 in F Major Op73.

I wasn’t familiar with either piece; during the Beethoven I admired the church, and wondered about its reconstruction after it was bombed in the War, and looked at the play of light from the high windows and thought what a lovely way it was to spend a lunchtime, with some nice music.  When it came to the Shostokovich however, there was nowhere to look but at the musicians; the drama and energy of the piece demanded my full attention.  In half an hour, it charts every emotion of war, from the self delusional belief that things aren’t that bad before it begins, through the horror or battle to the grief of bereavement and on to the resolutions to avoid it in the future.   It was an astonishing and unexpected experience.

Outside, afterwards,  the cranes and City blocks were still there, making the cocoon of the church building feel even more surreal than before.

We were heading for the Museum of London. but the walk at street level along London Wall is unremittingly awful, so we took a 2014-03-04 15.42.33detour through the Barbican, even if it is always, at least for me, pure chance if I find where I want to go at my first attempt, so confusing is the layout.  There, The Curve, an odd sliver of space behind the concert hall, usually houses interesting installations.  (Last year I visited the Rain Room installation)

At the moment, it is hosting Momentum by United Visual Artists.  The space is completely dark apart from a series of moving lights, each a sort of pendulum, moving both together and independently of each other.  Ambient sound adds to the generally unsettling environment.  It took several minutes for my eyes to adjust to the deep blackness at the start of the walk through, and I was anxious about tripping up or bumping into someone; the sounds in the distance suggested the baying of dogs at night time, and I did, briefly think about turning back.  As the intensity of the lights changed and their position moved, I was forced to focus on nothing but the spots of illumination, and as we walked around the curve, sometimes we tried to be in the spot light, while at other moments tried to move out of the way as it swept over us.

It was fun….. and the world was very bright when we came out the other end.

Our final destination was The Cheapside Hoard exhibition at the Museum of  (not exactly free, but reduced price entry with out Art Fund Pass, another flexing of the rules associated with ‘the plan’, allowing us to capitalise on the sunk cost of the annual membership).  A cache of Elizabethan and Jacobean jewels found in a cellar in Cheapside just over a hundred years ago, the Hoard retains an aura of mystery and is yet to be fully researched and analysed.  Believed to have been hidden sometime between 1640 and 1666 (when London was destroyed by fire), it is explained as being the stock in trade of a goldsmith, which was most likely hidden during the time of the Civil War and then couldn’t be found again after the destruction of the Great Fire.

It is a huge collection of gemstones, necklaces, rings, pendants, cameos and other curios, some of them so tiny and detailed that you need one of the freely supplied magnifying glasses to be able to see them.  Among many surprises was how far many of the jewels must have come – that there were trade routes stretching all the way around the world – and that it was thought worthwhile to transport the gems to London.  I also couldn’t help but wonder how the craftsmen ever had enough light to work on such tiny yet detailed pieces.

A selection of portraits from the period illustrate how many of the items on display were worn; understatement clearly not being fashionable at the time.

It wasn’t a free day, but it wasn’t expensive, and worth every penny.

A Day at The V&A

IMG_3616Another day, another drawing class, another museum.

This time, we were at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and spent the morning in the Cast Court, and the afternoon with the Mediaeval architectural detail.  And once again, we were in a nook of the museum, which I’d never spent any time visiting before.

The Cast Court is a strange, eerie place.  It’s a large space, filled to the glass covered roof in plaster casts of monuments and architectural bits and pieces from around the world, from Trajan’s  Column, displayed in two sections, to architraves, to the tombs of Mediaeval knights .  Evidently, the collection of such copies was a Victorian obsession, for both the act of collecting itself, as well as providing props through which to educate the contemporary designers about great historical art and architecture.  Consequently, much of the collection reflects the Victorian interest in the classical and gothic.

With over two hours to dedicate to one drawing, with no letting up of concentration or challenge from the teacher, I was forced to focus entirely on one object, while at the same time feeling the weight of all the other enormous casts bearing down on me.  I chose one of the Celtic crosses because I thought the areas of erosion would suit me – it doesn’t matter that the sketch looks like nothing, the thing itself was just covered in nobbly bits……  But the more I looked at it, the more I could discern what must have been the original design of the carvings.

The specific challenge of the class was to draw tonally and without line – I only cheated a little bit.  I simply couldn’t work out how to capture the circular element without an outline.

IMG_3617The afternoon presented another test for my concentration: hoards of French teenagers.  Attracted by the same comfy padded benches in part of the the Medieval Gallery as me, they spent a couple of hours playing with the various features on their telephones, and despite the best efforts of the museum’s custodians, sitting on some of the displays to eat the leftovers from each of their pack lunches, and jeering at their classmates.

I didn’t budge.

Finney’s Post, an elderly architectural detail, comes with an entertaining myth. Finney had a wife who was alleged to be a scold.  One day, she fell into a stupor and was believed to be dead.  On the way to the churchyard, her coffin was bumped into this post and she woke up.  She went on to live for several more years, not necessarily to the joy of her husband.  The post bore his name ever after.

I’m on Mrs Finney’s side.

With the Assyrians at The British Museum

IMG_3613One of the aspects of drawing in museums that I have discovered I enjoy the most, is the enforced opportunity to spend an extended period of time looking at one thing, or at most a small collection of things.

For each class, our teacher selects a limited range of pictures or artefacts for us to choose between, and then we have an hour or so to sit, on a little folding stool, in front of whichever one we pick.  They are frequently in parts of the galleries and museums that I may never have previously visited, or if I have, I’ve been like all the other visitors, walking past quickly, already gorged or desensitised by the visual overload offered by the institutions.

Last night, we were in the Assyrian galleries at the British Museum.  In contrast with other Galleries open late on a Friday evening, the British Museum is less busy than during the daytime, when it can be near impossible to walk around the more popular rooms unimpeded by large groups of tourists.  I had one room all to myself for the first hour; apart from the occasional visitor strolling past, and the blasts of comically prosaic communication about tea breaks from the attendant’s walkie talkie, I was able to sit and examine the patterns on the relief wall panels, and wonder at the hands that made them, as I failed to capture their essence in my sketchbook.  For all my many visit to the British Museum, I’ve never sat in such quiet contemplation there.

For the second part of the evening, all the members of the class sat together, gazing up at the monumental sculptures of , trying to capture the strangeness of the beasts; the crinkled hair, the bobbly beards and sharp human features.  There’s such drama in studying the details of the sculptures.

I admit it – I’m often one of those who just walks by, catching a glimpse of things out of the corner of my eye, and moving on to the next thing, so that I may never remember what I’ve actually seen.  But there are days where there is nothing better, calmer and more focussed than just looking at one or two things closely, and then going home.

Keeping On

2014-02-10 16.42.52I’ve been neglecting you lately.  It’s not that I’ve not been thinking about you, it’s more that I’ve found more excuses, and a couple of genuine reasons for not writing.  There’s the residual reluctance, a general lassitude, and then two days lost in panic over what turned out to be a false positive on a malware detection programme.  (It can take an extremely long time to download additional diagnostic software and then to run it when your internet connection is unstable and capricious.)

But I have been out and about, seeing plays and exhibitions, and thinking about what I might tell you about them, even if I haven’t yet put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard to write a complete piece (there are lots of short excerpts, and embryonic rants lined up in my drafts folder).

In case you’ve not seen the news lately, it’s been raining in the UK, even more than usual.  But last week in Trafalgar Square we had that rarest of moments, between the showers, when the clouds cleared to reveal the sky, and the late afternoon sun, low in the sky illuminated the view in front of me.  The streets may really be lined with gold after all.

‘King Lear’ at the National Theatre

Matching each other, name for nameThere is a large photograph on the front page of today’s newspaper.  It is of Simon Russell Beale and Anna Maxwell Martin as Lear and Regan in the new production of King Lear in the Olivier Theatre, directed by Sam Mendes.  This latest collaboration between Mendes and Russell Beale is clearly considered newsworthy; and Charles Spencer, on the Reviews page gives the show four stars.

I’m neutral on the subject of Sam Mendes, but where Simon Russell Beale is concerned, I’m a fan.  I’ve seen him on stage many times, I’ve booked things that would largely not appeal to me solely on the strength of his participation, and have never been disappointed…..until now.

It’s probably a shameful confession, but here it is anyway.  So little was I enjoying the experience, I left at the interval.  I had sat through two hours, and the thought of another hour and a half brought tears to my eyes.  I had already been near weeping for the half hour or so before the break, when I was on hyper alert for the rhyming couplet that normally indicates the end of an Act; and each time I had convinced myself that it must, it just must be now, another actor would appear on stage out of the darkness, and shout some more.  Finally, during the eye gouging scene in which they poured water onto the stage, and the bloodied actor wiped his face on it, my silent cry that surely this must be the interval, if only to allow time for the wiping up, the lights went out and the stage was empty.

After sitting through some awful nights in the theatre trying to appreciate Shakespeare (yes I’m talking about you, Ralph Fiennes) I had all but given up on it. It was the National’s production of Othello last year which encouraged me to believe that Shakespeare didn’t necessarily mean meretricious tedium. That was a production of a play I didn’t know well, but which, because of it’s cleverness and the brilliance of the performances, let me understand it, and engage with it on both an intellectual as well as an emotional level.

King Lear is another of the canon that I don’t know well, apart from the broad brush strokes: the three daughters, the carving up of the kingdom, the old king going mad….. and with SRB in the lead, surely here was a production that would enlighten and entertain me.

I think my dislike of the production all stems from a single problem, which was that I couldn’t understand what they were saying.  For all the shouting and shrieking, the words were remarkably indistinct.  This, added to the frequent changing of scene, of one group of actors leaving as another arrived, I couldn’t really work out what was going on, or more importantly why.

S, my theatre companion and I, were in agreement that the only actor whose words were being enunciated clearly enough for us to hear was the one playing Edmund.  It was therefore very amusing to read subsequently (I’m far too tight fisted to buy a programme) that this was Paapa Essiedu, the understudy for Sam Troughton who had lost his voice midway through the performance of the previous day.  Maybe as understudy, he’d not yet achieved the ‘production style’.  It was very disappointing, but must have been a production decision, because I have never not been able to understand what Simon Russell Beale was saying before; and Anna Maxwell Martin’s usually mellifluous voice was lost in her awkward, shrieking harpie.

S would have probably stayed for the second half if I hadn’t asked her if the only reason for staying was that we thought we ‘should’.  Leaving was the only option once we’d acknowledged that it was the naughty thing that we shouldn’t do.

Have you seen it?  Did it get better after the interval?

Adrian Villar Rojas at The Serpentine Sackler Gallery

2013-10-02 15.15.45We’d had a coffee in the courtyard cafe at the Victoria and Albert Museum, still able to comfortably sit outside on the unseasonably warm October morning, once the rain had stopped, and decided that we should go and have a look at the new Serpentine Gallery.  All we knew about the new space had been gleaned from newspaper articles: it was somewhere in Hyde Park, had been a munitions store, and the refurbishment had been designed by Zaha Hadid.

With no discussion, but deep in conversation, we headed down Brompton Road towards Knightsbridge.  It was only after we’d navigated the crossroads by Harvey Nicks that we looked at each other , and in near unison, said, we should have just walked up Exhibition Road.

I like to congratulate myself on the London map that I have in my head.  There are whole areas that are blanks, there be dragons,: tracts  of the City, most of what is South of the River, but the West End and west as far as South Kensington, I like to think I’ve got well mapped as it were.  But walking two long sides of quite a big triangle, instead of taking the direct route, is a reminder that it can sometimes be quicker to think about where you are before setting off.

Having said that, it was a lovely afternoon for a walk in Hyde Park; the sun was so warm that we both ended up carrying our jackets, and because of our ridiculously roundabout route, I saw areas of the Park from new angles.  Our wandering tour was worth it in the end.

The inaugural exhibition at the Serpentine Sackler is a huge installation by Adrian Villar Rojas.  When we arrived, the gallery was being evacuated because of a fire alarm, so we walked around the outside of the building to examine the curves and sweeps of the Zaha Hadid 2013-10-02 15.11.07extension.    From some angles, the whole looks rather incongruous: a square building of golden bricks with a white curve stuck on the side; but the curving roof does have a pleasing shape, and cries out to be stroked – a possibility in those places where it swoops to the ground.  It appears to be made of painted plastic and canvas.  Light flows into the space from light wells in the roof, which are integrated into the support pillars, shapes reminiscent of the depiction of Triffids on 1960s editions of the John Wyndham novel. (There are T-shirts sporting the design shapes, in the minimalist shop for a mere £45.)

It clearly wasn’t a major fire emergency, as by the time we had complete the circuit of the exterior of the building, we were allowed to go inside.

The whole gallery is dedicated to the Villar Rojas installation, even down to the bricks on the floor, which the young man who greeted us at the door informed us were specially made, and had been laid loose, so that they respond with creaking and chiming as you walk on them; like a distant relation to the nightingale floors of Imperial Japan.  Evidently, all of the bricks are newly made using traditional South American methods.  It’s an astonishing feat of concentrated hard work and industry.

The entrance area is dominated by a sculpture of an elephant, made from textured concrete and plaster, apparently ramming itself into the wall, pushing its way into the gallery.  There is something both powerful and poignant about it – its great shoulders stuck underneath a lintel, and its trunk curling helplessly below it on the floor.  The surface is rough, and cracked, as the concrete has dried.  Interior walls of slowly drying and cracking concrete surround the rest of the installation.  The temptation to touch and to feel the surface is near overwhelming (and I gave in, but only for a moment, and really, really gently on tippy tippy finger tips), and there is that smell of fresh plaster in the air, that reminder of every hellish home refurbishment project ever undertaken.

Villar Rojas has created a collection of apparently random objects, the detritus of bits and pieces of contemporary life, and displayed them on racked shelved reaching to the ceiling.  Many are coated in concrete, or sprout vegetation growing from green potatoes.  It’s as if we are looking at a vision of our world which has been dug up by slightly confused archaeologists of the future.

I’m not sure I understood it, but it’s one of those exhibitions that will stay in the memory, if only for how much fun it was to walk on the brick floor.

At The Imperial War Museum

It’s time for another shameful confession: until last week, I had never been to visit the Imperial War Museum.  There’s no particular reason; it’s not for want of interest, but maybe because it’s south of the River, or the moment has never been right.  Anyway, I hold my hand up, and the fault is now rectified.

I could, perhaps have chosen a better time for my inaugural visit, as the building is currently undergoing significant reconstruction in preparation for major exhibitions from next year memorialising the centenary of the First World War.  And when I say ‘significant’, I mean big.  More than have the building is shrouded in hoardings and the sound of jack hammers pounds the air in the stairwell.  The galleries that we visited were soundproofed from the din, although the cafe, stranded in a bay of dusty concrete looked and sounded far from appealing.

As I was visiting with a friend and her four children, we had an excise both to be very selective about what we visited, and perhaps more importantly, to visit the Horrible Histories exhibition about WW2 spies. I’m not that familiar with Horrible Histories, but they appear to offer snippets of real history in a way designed for children, highlighting the ridiculous, the brave, the scatological and the extraordinary, with a fair bit of dressing up thrown in.

The four children found the interactive displays, the collecting of secret stamps on their attendance cards and the things to sniff and touch fun; they were more adept at finding the hidden radio transmitters than I was, and enjoyed stamping around to catch the exploding rats projected onto the floor.  My friend and I enjoyed it too: it provides an edited highlights story of four real people who worked for SOE in the war.  It didn’t shy away from the reality of the dangers they faced, and illustrated their bravery and ingenuity.

I’d recommend it to anyone, although you may need to disguise yourself with a child or two in tow.

The children were still enthused by the exhibition, and, with the promise that they could go to the main shop after we’d seen something else, we opted to visit the A Family in  Wartime display.  Using the story of a real, ostensibly ‘ordinary’ London family, the Allpresses, the exhibition explores the impact of the War on the people of Britain.  With a father who worked in a reserved occupation on the railways, and a family of 10 children, they experienced many of the social changes and dangers brought by the War, from the Anderson shelter in the garden, to one daughter working in a munitions factory and another for the WVS, to the temporary evacuation of the youngest child, and being bombed out of their south London home.  Bringing world shattering events down to the level of the specific and domestic make a far more affecting story for me than more flamboyant and flash-bang displays.

The Museum holds a significant art collection, so I shall be returning now I know where it is!

Two Russian Evenings at the Proms

2013-07-29 18.55.23It’s at the point where ignorance meets interest that I have most enjoyment, I think.

I don’t know a great deal about classical music, or any music really, but (and I wonder is it OK to say this about any art form) I know what I like.  Or I know what I like when I hear it, and I do try to put myself in the way of new things every now and again.

For the last few years I have usually made it to a couple of the Proms concerts each season.  The selection of which particular ones is a function of comparing my diary with that of my concert going buddy S, her preferences (she’s the one with an education in music) and the availability of tickets.

This year we went to two concerts, both on Mondays, a week apart, and both with a distinctly Russian flavour.

The first was Prom 21 , and then Prom 30;  different orchestras, different soloists and conductors, just an overlap of composers.  I can’t really tell you about the virtuosity of any of the performers, or the tone of the orchestra, nor indeed where any of the pieces stand in the context of the oeuvres of any of the composers.  What I can tell you about is the percussion.

It’s probably the low brow’s response to an orchestral concert, to watch the drama of the orchestra, to comment on the extrovert flamboyance of the leader, or the sparkliness of the evening dresses worn by the women players.  But if part of the experience wasn’t watching them, they wouldn’t be sitting on an illuminated stage, and there wouldn’t be television cameras recording for subsequent broadcast on BBC4.

My first reaction to seeing the stage is to count the percussion instruments arranged across the back, and then to count the players.  Lots of instruments and only a couple of percussionists means a variety of sounds but lots of running about for them.  If the players are numerous, then it’s going to be loud and there will be much anticipation watching them prepare and play.  It’s one of the yardsticks for my enjoyment.

Shostokovich’s Symphony Number 11 at Prom 21 was the most exciting thing I’ve seen at the Proms for a long time.  Not only is there a tremendous range of loud and soft, light and dark, folk tune and jagged sound, there were no fewer than 8 percussionists.  My attention was immediately focussed on the back row of the orchestra, and they all had a lot of work to do, especially on the timpani and the snare drum; but it was the man at the end, sitting beside the tubular bells whom I had to watch.  I thought of his as Number 8.

It’s a long symphony, almost an hour, and he spent most of it sitting back on his high stool, arms folded, knees akimbo.  He might have been asleep.  Every time my attention went to another part of the stage for any length of time, I had to keep checking back on Number 8.  If he was going to do something, I didn’t want to miss it.  The timpanist and the two people on the big gongs were dramatic and energetic, but they couldn’t keep me from worrying that if Number 8 moved and hit something, I might miss it.  Then, about 55 minutes into the piece, Number 8 put on his glasses.  At last his moment!  A peel of bells, on the tubular bells with one hand and an upturned bell with the other.  It was the perfect release for the climactic moment of the concert.

The crowd went wild (although they may not all have been as focussed on Number 8 as I was).

I’ve subsequently watched part of the concert again, as it was broadcast a week or so later, and there I am, in the shot of the close up of the conductor, in the audience, applauding, just to prove I was there.

From Kings Cross to Paddington along The Regent’s Canal

IMG_3374

At Kings Cross (with a little bit of #acrossthebuildings)

To walk from Kings Cross to Paddington by the road would not be a particularly pleasant undertaking, on such a busy, traffic filled main artery.  I had heard however that the walk along the canal was a different proposition all together.   It’s been on the list for some time, and its made to to the top before, but then I’ve been thwarted by the weather.  But this week time, intention and meteorology were all in alignment.

According to the available information, it possible to walk the length of the Regent’s Canal from Limehouse to Paddington, but until now I’ve only seen small sections of it when I’ve happened upon it looking over road bridges, or one small walk east from Islington.  I had no real idea how it all joined up.  There is a section from east of Kings Cross to Islington which is underground through a tunnel, without pedestrian access, so my plan is to do the walk in two shots, starting with each end of the tunnel.

Much as I love those stories of bargees having to lie on their backs and propel their barges through the tunnels by walking their feet along the tunnel walls while the horses walked over the top, I accept that I may never get to experience that(!)

IMG_3378We started at the Kings Cross end and headed west. Walking in that direction, we passed from the shiny newly renovated areas around Granary Square and King’s Place, to more grubby urban building backs, through to Camden lock where the chaotic food stalls spill out onto the path.  We walked past people sitting on damp bits of grass, eating food out of plastic boxes.

It’s one of those areas to which visitors to London flock, but I have to confess now, that although I have lived in north London pretty much since 1981, I’ve been there only once before sometime in the 80s, and have since felt no particular need to return.  We did find a congenial spot to sit at a picnic table for a drink, but it is not the most pleasant part of the journey.

From Camden it wasn’t too much of a walk before we were passing along the top perimeter of Regent’s Park. leafy and on a wide path, only occasionally being skimmed by cyclists speeding by.  It’s possible to peer through some of the fences and see birds in one of the the aviaries of London Zoo.

More peering, although perhaps more discretely, was possible when we walked by the ranks of house boats moored in village like areas IMG_3390along the banks.  It all feels a bit packed in together and dense, so while it’s fun to look at all the things people manage to grow in pots on the roofs of their boats, it didn’t make me want to rush out and get one for myself.

And from there, after a little detour on the road, although still quite close to the canal and on a level with it, we came to the fancifully named Little Venice, where, after a cup of tea from a cafe in a boat, we turned away from the bend in the canal and headed down into the Paddington Basin.  Walking underneath the road bridges and hearing the roar of the traffic was a reminder that we had been in central London all the time, but in a quieter parallel world, if only for a short while.

It’s a walk of somewhere between 4 and 5 miles, and at our leisurely pace with plenty of pauses and sit downs along the way, it was a nice way to spend an afternoon.

Now I just have to organise myself to do the section east of the Islington tunnel……

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