A Day Out with Fly

I got out!

Yesterday, having been bullied into this by a woman, yes Fly of all people, forcing me out to meet her at a far off place called London.   I was looking forward to it mind.

So, I hobbled down the hill to the station intending to make Liverpool Street station for the first time in 6 years.  What an adventure!  Six years since venturing out, no wonder I am a fat slob.

Indeed it was 2019 when I last ventured out to Liverpool Street and tramped around for a short while.  I scribbled about that Spitalfields area at the time and now I was to find how it has changed since.

Anyway, Old Man's Card' in hand I headed for the ticket office which Greater Anglia told me would be open from 6 am-2 pm.  Of course it was closed.  This meant the ticket machine that I canny work.   I was seen looking over the shoulder of others attempting how to work the blessed creation.  I may have mentioned this before but I hate technology!  My turn came, I faffed about pressing this button and that, hoping it was the correct one, and not able to find a place for my old man card.  So I paid £30.10p for a return without money off.  Who do I complain to?  I mentioned this on the Greater Anglia Twitter site and got no response, and that is no surprise.  The Chinese man behind me moved towards the machine as I left.  I heard him ask, "How does it work?" and the woman standing there fiddling with her phone claimed she did not know.  I almost turned to help but left that to others heading towards the machine of doom.

I joined the usual motley collection of passengers ignoring one another.  Some sitting under the shade of the closed ticket office, others sitting or standing wistfully along the platform.  No-one spoke. Within a few moments a sun blessed 5 coach Class 720 'Aventura,' number  720503 rolled in.  These are a great improvement on the previous trains, however, my favourite seat was already taken by another.  How dare these people, don't they know who I am? ...Oh!  

The journey was smooth, quiet and delightful, and I had sat in the off side so did not have the sunshine blinding me all the way along. It was so long since I had been on a train and I was enjoying this.

As we sped smoothly along the one hour journey passengers, sorry, customers, came and went at various stations.  Some trailing those cases on wheels that appear the thing today, others making use of the old man card that I could not, some returning or departing to/from home, office or prison, others on a day out, gran and granddad taking the kids off for a day.  A normal day I suggest.  All was quite for the most part.  Outside green fields flew by, occasionally cows, horses or sheep could be seen.  Aged houses with accompanying red brick farms were simmering in the sun.  My favourite, near London, was an aged farmhouse and outbuilding next to a massive roundabout and flyover, with several lanes of traffic right at their front door.  What fun!

A gleaming Liverpool Street, a mass gathering of humanity, at least I think they are human, fussed.  They flapped and fretted as  people do in stations and airports, fearful of wrong platforms or missing their connections.  The desperate or foolish and certainly well paid were to be seen spending money at the various eating outlets around the station.  Prices too high for me to even contemplate searching the menu's.  The crowd was constantly moving bar those staring at the large timetable screen above.  The orange lettering flickering, occasionally offering a departure gate for a train to Norwich, Colchester or all stations in between.  

The line began in the 1840s and progressed onwards through some delightful and mostly flat countryside.  Now from the line we notice the vast growth of housing, and not cheap 'affordable' or council housing at that, all along the route.  Of course when the line opened similar large housing was appearing alongside the line, certainly many 1920/1930s housing is passed in the 'East End.'  The middle class glamour of the time faded with use.

The station itself does indeed gleam.  Workers clean up here and there, while many remember, as I do, the dark forbidding station of times past where the joke was the maintenance peoples main job was keeping the place covered in grime.  It is certainly not like that today.

Having left the train secure at the buffers, a place I have been myself for some time, I went in search of this woman Fly.  I only approached one wrong woman that morning, and no, not a young one, no time for that.  Eventually she found me.   

Together we went shuffling off to find somewhere to sit, eat and talk.  We made use of the escalator up stairs to Bishopsgate.  No Bishop here now of course, he was first around in the 7th century, the gate in the wall preceding him as the Romans built this wall after Boudicca passed through.  Thrusting our way through the City of London throng, still as considerate and loving as always, we passed the Bishopsgate Police Station, which explained all the police vans parked outside, and searched for Spitalfields Market that we knew lay around somewhere around here.  It appeared lost.  

When I recognised the statue of the Goat high above the plaza I knew we were in the right place, but we could no longer sight the market.  Of course not, a great high building had arisen since we last visited and this hid the market from sight.  No maps, or signs indicated where to go.  A Spanish workman indicated where the entrance was and we moved as quickly as possible before it moved again and entered.  

What a few years ago was a wide space filled with stalls, clothes, jewellery, self made art and of course street food stalls had turned into an expensive tourists trap.  Clothes, art and jewellery existed but at a price, while the food stalls had gone, and none were to be seen on the streets outside as before.  Increased rents had driven them away, as well as council bans it appears. 

However, a café/restaurant, call it what you will, I choose the word 'expensive,' was found on the left as we entered.  Here we found a table, good friendly service as they need the tips, and a chance to talk.  This was good, and a delight.  

Having known my friend Fly for many years via the blog it was delightful to sit and listen in real time.  We of course destroyed everybody else and put the world to right, yes, you were mentioned but don't ask how.  However, on musing through the online press today I did not notice any change, possibly they did not listen to our words?  Maybe tomorrow.  We munched our Pitta based meal, drank liquid, and allowed the young black waitress to chat, she was like so many such women I have known in London, I hope life goes well for her.   

It was very good chatting to someone I knew so much about.  Sometimes people in real life are not what they appear online.  Fly was herself and this was good!

In time we had to make a move, I rushed to pay obviously but she beat me to it.  This often used to happen to me when with people.  I appear very slow and lackadaisical when it comes to getting the wallet out, I know not why.  

On the return shuffle we noticed the shops now hiding the past market entrance.  Expensive outfits for those who read colour supplements for fashion advice, including a shop which was dedicated to female eyebrows!  At least four staff were on view so money must be made here.  Jackets £45, or two for £80 were available but we managed to resist any temptation here.  Others must have failed to resist as there were many people about and I guess Saturday would be a big day in this market.  Maybe street food will be available then? 

We passed the city slickers in fast suits carrying expensive takeaways and bottled drinks, the girls chomping delicately on sandwiches and diet drinks or expensive bottled water in the sunshine.  Many sat around the area amongst the elephant statues that abound round here.  Mum and Dad and 20 small ones I read.  These belong to the Herd of Hope, an organisation raising money for endangered elephants.  Sadly I could not find where to enter my donation.  

Back through the growing masses noting the people passing us.  Tourists, smart men going places, office girls, tourists street people, a large man somewhat scruffy and unkempt in appearance came through the crowd barking his opinions to someone only he could see.  I thought how much he looked like me as he passed.  That is my future!  A woman well wrapped up wielded a cardboard sign stating 'Need £18  for Board,' but few believed or stopped to care.  Neither did we, trying to keep one another from falling was hard enough.  

Traffic raced by down the A10, the ancient route towards Kings Lynn and on to York.  Once a busy highway it is now a much busier highway, but few go to Kings Lynn.  As we passed 'Dirty Dicks,' I thought much more of this crowd and that pub is as far as we will go.  Then the traffic halted and we joined the race to cross before the lights changed again.  Naturally, at the station the down escalator did not work.  Who puts stations downstairs anyway?    

Fly and I parted here.  It had been such a short, but such a good time.  It made me glad to have ventured out of the Hermitage and shuffled down the line for this.  All that prayer to ensure it went well worked!  

The lift taking her downstairs to the underground reminded me of Dr Who.  Maybe as the doors closed it grew in size?  I began to wonder if we would ever see her again!  So, I was left, abandoned in a great bustling station.  I Checked the train times I then proceeded to find a working escalator that enabled me to get a picture of the station.

You will note I managed to get the Great slab of the GER Railway War Memorial in at the side.  

Again, the place was awash with movement.  The escalators never empty.  People standing over their bags staring wistfully at the screen high above, coffee being slurped at many overpriced venues around, or held in hands as tickets are inserted into entrance slots in a rush as the train is about to leave.  Others with time and money wander around the upper floor window shopping to pass the time.

Not me.  

I entered the W.H. Smith shop and purchased, via another blasted self service machine, a bottle of sparkling Highland Spring water which cost me £2:89.  It was some time before I realised I had grabbed the 'Still' water and not the 'Sparkling' stuff.  Bah! 

Soon I was sitting on a train heading home.  I took the first one to change at Chelmsford.  Anything can happen to hinder trains so I get as far as possible to avoid disaster or accompanying crowds.  

This train was busy but quiet.  

The towers of Thatcher's Britain glinted far away in the sun.  Far away from the train and I fear far away from real life.  Towering above London and weeping above London as Donald Trump does his best to ruin their bonus this year.  I sympathise, don't you?  

As we approached Stratford she reiterated her message once again over the Tannoy.  "If you see anything that is not right text this number, See it, Say it, Sorted."   I was strongly tempted to text about the building that reach unto the skies over Stratford these days.  The ones pictured are the best, all around ghastly revelations from young architects on Cocaine reveal the damage caused by such habits.  Many look half finished but have been there since the Olympic nonsense was placed here.  Behind us a football stadium, of no use to a proper football team, dominates the skyline in the far distance, a far distance for those who have to walk there every other week.  

I noticed work was continuing to clear land and build, I could not see what this was going to be.  However, on the way back I noticed several tower blocks from the late 50s and early 60s in a state of undress.  Clearly these dated blocks are going and soon more artistic talent will be ruining the neighbourhood once again.

I passed through here around 45 years ago when all around was rail tracks, electric pylons, occasional worn buildings and abandoned vehicles, nothing else.  It looked better then than it does now.

 

Look!  A field with cows in it!  I was so happy just to see such a view after so long.  The cows themselves did not comment as I passed I must say.  A much better view than that found in Stratford.

At Chelmsford I changed for my own train following on 12 minutes behind.  I took the opportunity to photograph passing trains and the renown signal box.  This train I know not, I thought it was the Norwich to Liverpool Street but in fact it appeared empty.  Who knows?

This signal box is famed because of the action of one man, signalman Frederick Herbert Hunt.  During 1943 he remained in the damaged signal box, stopping trains heading through Chelmsford as a bombing raid passed overhead.  The town suffered many raids as a Ball Bearing factory was based here.  In fact it had been moved elsewhere but the raids continued.  Some 50 persons died this night alone.  I'm sure I read somewhere that the signalman also died, however, the train stuffed with passengers survived.

I took this shot in spite of the power crazed female rail employee telling me to 'get behind the yellow line.'  It was as if I had never been near a railway before.  I suppose the speeding train, 5 miles an hour at this point, was dangerous, and she expected me to lean on it or some such.  A uniform turns them into a corporal.  

Another quiet train, more announcements heard many times, and usually ignored.  More glancing at the  screen above helpfully informing passengers where seats were available.  More checking the time and being surprised I was almost home in one piece.

 I left the train and slogged my way up the Matterhorn like rise to the town centre.  It used to be a slope, now it is a major climb.  Who increases the height of roads round here?  I'd like a word.  The weariness almost made me stop of at the Weatherspoon's on the way up.  However, watching one of the regulars entering I changed my mind.  It's that sort of pub.

I passed a fire engine doing I know not what.  However, he was being ably assisted by two young men eager to join in.  The firemen appeared willing to let them.

So, up the stairs, find I had no food out, the servant had forgotten to take something from the freezer.   I was certainly not going out again.  So, make do and mend it was.  Then for some reason I fell asleep...

Day Out and a Horn Blast from 66514.

In a moment of madness yesterday I glanced at the clock, decided I could make the 11 O'clock train, raced off slowly towards the station, was 'sighed at' by the lass at the desk in the way you treat old people who cannot get the card out of the wallet, and jumped aboard one of the new trains that awaited passengers - sorry - customers.  Panting gratefulness I slowly recovered, fit?  Not yet.

   
The layout of the new train was different, the seats harder, the coach empty, and remained so until we reached the larger stations where London bound thrill seekers boarded en masse.  Two lassies even had the audacity to sit next to me and blether.  Tsk!  A decent journey in just about one hour as usual.

London termini have different faces to offer the traveller and none of them are very pretty.  Either of Liverpool Street station exits offer crowded streets, high buildings and masses of people.  The sky is rarely visible in this part of the world.  When you think of it the sky has not been seen much around here for probably two hundred years or so as this has been built up for many years.  

  
Naturally, knowing my way around, I took a short cut I had not used before through this dark alley.  The pub on the corner contained many rather too smartly suited men for my taste, could they be estate agents or Bookies runners I wondered?  Their outlook spoke of money the honesty of which I was unsure.  At the end of this short lane, which I avoided and continued through the more modern road in front of me, I noticed this:-

This was the one time entrance to what was 'Cooper's Wool Warehouse.' Opened in 1863 with the 'Merino Sheep,' which you correctly identified, on top of the gate now being a preserved monument, one of many such in London.  The building, like so many others here, was converted into offices in 1981 and recently upgraded.  Among the tenants are the City of London Police who helpfully block the end of the street with their vehicles.  

However I resisted the temptation to investigate and did not go that way wandering into this four sided ex-warehouse that I never knew existed.  On the other hand the warehouse and its employees never asked after me either did they?  Today a few eating paces, rather half heartedly operated, it may be they were just opening as it was just after noon or possibly preparing for an event, I did not wait to ask.  This does however reveal how much money is being spent around here, the Crossrail project apparently bringing many companies to swarm around Liverpool Street Station in the hope of living off the traffic this provides in some manner.

 
I however, still convinced in the rightness of my decision to take a short cut continued on my way expecting at any moment to arrive at the road awaiting me and turn left as I planned.
I did not.
Instead I blundered on past those three storey London houses built in the late 18th and 19th centuries, all with shops at the bottom, almost all occupied thus revealing the vast amount of Bangladeshi's who now reside in this area.  
This part of London has always attracted immigrants but do not tell the UKIP people as this upsets them, especially those descended from Jews, Russians, Latvian's, Poles, Germans, Italians, and so on and so forth, they do get upset about Johnny Foreigner.  So many gathered about the TV last night to sing 'Britons (read Englishmen) never will be slaves, Rule Britannia!' I consider it difficult for Britannia to rule the waves when she only has seven ships and four are in dock.
The Jewish immigrants were famous in the 19th century, their furry hats and inward lifestyles upset many 'English' at the time.  You will recall how many Jews were bad men in Charles Dickens stories, think of 'Fagan' for instance.  These streets were also the 1930's hotbed of political action as the 'Blackshirts,' Oswald Moseley's imitation fascist army, clashed with left leaning folks who disliked his approach to the Jews and indeed everyone else. 
It was quiet enough on Saturday.

I continued to goof and went further away from my destination.
Many shop signs revealed the ownership and heritage of the owner, just as they have always done here.  Many were selling clothes of one sort or another, shoes, local stores plus café's and restaurants.  I continued in the wrong direction hovering on the shady side of the somewhat downtrodden, let's be honest, dingy streets to avoid the sun.  Lots of buildings required a good wash and brush up here while next door stood a plush restaurant or shoe shop.  I almost bought a bottle of water from a local store but moved on as the staff were on hands and knees sorting things out.  I obtained water for 59p at a plush local shop which was doing very well thank you, the butchers side helping his profits I suspect with Halal meat.  
Many object to Halal as they say cutting an animals throat is cruel.  Funny how no-one objected to the Jews doing this for Kosher meat until recently?  However, a man I knew worked in an abattoir and was perplexed by the amount of animals that were not stunned properly before death.  Handling a half ton cow which is desperate to escape does not lead to decent behaviour!  A properly cut throat they say is quicker, less frightening for the animal and offers better meat.           
Discuss.

Having left home on the basis that I was feeling as healthy as I have been for a very long time I was now beginning to find my knees thought differently.  Wearing the wrong shoes and walking on ragged pavements did not help either.  Luckily in the distance, and in the wrong place, I saw the tower of Christ Church, Spitalfields rising in the distance so there I headed across the very busy road.  Once glance at the front of the building reveals that this Nicholas Hawksmoor building was not built to the 'Glory of God' but to the glory of the builders.  It was one of Fifty Churches being built by the Church of England in the new outlying areas, only 12 were actually built, this one was chosen as the area was dominated by those Huguenots and their descendants who had arrived from Flanders and preferred their own more biblical chapels in the area.  An outstanding creation but not in my view what a church ought to be, the locals agreed with me also.  Those chapels now are often turned into Mosques by the latest incomers. 
As I recall the church was in the 70's a place housing derelicts in the crypt.  People forget the homeless, on Dossers as they were then called, existed in the past also.  London has contained many since the Romans built their landing place here.  
I recall a TV programme from the 1980's where the crypt was emptied, the homeless moved into the main building and an archaeological team removed the hundreds of coffins placed therein in days gone by.  A disgusting sight as I remember it but offering valuable insights into the lives of those considered worthy of being deposited within.  Rather them than me.
I was somewhat peeved as the church was closed on Saturday, possibly to allow the bell ringers to hammer passers-by ears.  Next Saturday, as part of 'Heritage Weekend' it will be open!  I will not be there!  The link shows it may be worth a visit for some, especially as the old Market will also be full of feeding troughs for the rich and hungry. 

      
This is what dragged me ought yesterday morning.  I came across a picture I took many years ago of this door and wondered if it still existed.  Desperate for a day out somewhere I decided, without proper thought, to go for it.  

This was my inspiration!  Taken on the old Minolta it shows little has changed in 30 or so years.  The obvious change is the new owners, note the name has gone, do not enjoy tourists peeking in the wndows and make use of the shutters today.  A great many homes in this area have similar shutters enabling the weavers within to continue their work while as much light gets in and cold weather is kept out.

A clearer view of the large windows while on the roof proper weavers windows on number eleven and a half.  Fournier Street has a place for sale if you fancy it, bigger than these being on the corner, this is a 'snip' at £2.3 million.  I must say the insides of that one are mostly original and well worth a look!
Braintree obtained its wealth from such people Courtauld's being the most successful  Many weavers had arrived in Bocking and many places in Essex many years before and for hundreds of years they were popular and successful businessmen.
I was glad to have wandered about here, even if my body lacked desire for walking.  The change of area, the sights, the memories and the blessed tourists all getting in the locals way made my day, unless I was the one getting in the locals way.  

It is clear some weavers made more money than others, this chap has done well.  Of course he may have retailed cloth, or even better become a lawyer and dealt with officialdom on the locals behalf, that would enable an economic growth for him!

  
The comparison between the plush residences and the poorer ones round the corner spoke of London as it has always been.  These streets, not far from 'Jack the Rippers' area, have always been egalitarian.  Rich and poor side by side, a very London existence.  Stupidly I did not take more pictures of the rougher streets, Brick Lane in part being a bit rough, as there were so many parties of tourists around getting in the way, and I did not think!   Many parties were led by guides offering tales from the past, others might just have read the book 'Brick Lane' and come to see if it was real. No darling, story books are not real!  

I mused over the different building styles each century brought.  These may be late Victorian or Edwardian.  It was the tops of the building that attracted.  I have seen this elsewhere, is it meant to be Gothic?  Or is it just fancy brickwork to contain a room for the servant girl?  Note also all the shops are in business, no charity shop to be seen around these parts.  
It struck me as interesting that many clothes shops exist here today, many selling cloth of some sort, long years after the first weavers the area still has that connection.  Today, Sunday, just down the road Middlesex Street and the local area turns into 'Petticoat Lane' and attracts more than just tourists to its many stalls.
That market, and London has a great many of these, goes back to the late 16th century and a clothes market was there in the 1600's.  Spanish, Huguenots and Jews all spent time in the area and the market opens today on Sundays only, though nearby markets open six days a week.  Bring plenty of money and argue the price for stuff. 

Graffiti 'artists' I find usually leave only a mess however there are those in London that leave better images behind.  The quiet back streets offer opportunity for such around here.

Created in 1894 this building, Bedford House, once offered 'good works' to the locals, education, alleviating poverty and the rise of Quaker social action.  This lasted until 1947 when bottling plant moved in.  Since they left the place has slowly fallen apart.  Now squatted by 'artists' and 'students' who have repaired many parts of the building the owner, whoever that is, appears keen to let it fall apart, possibly to then sell it as the land would bring him millions!  Such a shame, nice building.

Before reaching Bedford House I was much tempted by the street stall selling curry and the like.  I failed to notice the prices but was sorely tempted to pay over the odds, something I do not delight in.  On my way back I accidentally ended up here once again and entered the opening opposite the curry stalls here I found Spitalfield's Market, once home of fruit and veg now home of  trendy London.  
Many stalls, the food ones operating at full speed, the overpriced ones selling garments, handbags and er, objects, less so while people stuffed their faces.  A very large market, full of the middle classes who have been told by their publication's this is where it is all at.  They might be right, if this is what you wish.  
Tourists abounded as I wondered what was the better part of the area, this tourist trendy place that I was become accustomed to in Notting Hill on a Saturday, or the real small shops and grubby streets I had passed through.  The area where people actually live and work had something more honest about it.  Life there being lived as it had been in this area since the 1600's, give or take a plague or two.  Immigrants, new food styles, new languages yet by the third generation they all cheer England on at cricket!
I don't!

 
I have a feeling this was an undertakers display, I chose not to enquire.

In the distance on the last picture three men are standing chatting.  Before them, hidden by the telephone box, lay a stall full of hats.  Trilby abounding I would have called it, they did not.  Guess who is the boss...
I noticed a stall calling itself 'The Naked Grinder' but like so much else around here that was not to be taken seriously...I found.

This is 'I Goat' a sculpture that is supposed to represent the waves of immigrants to this area.  Quite how I know not.  Standing on packing cases it looms high about the square.  Why?  No idea.

Artillery Passage once formed the boundary of the old St Mary Spital Priory closed down in the days of Henry VIII.  'Spital' is short for 'Hospital' and for around three hundred years after the end of the Priory the Archers and Crossbow men took over this space, hence 'artillery.'  The alley as such came with redevelopment in later days and offers a look into ancient London, many such lanes can be found in the 'City.'

The symbol of ironmongers was a Frying Pan.  These would be hung outside their door and the guess is that this now modernised wide open lane was once a grubby narrow passage which was home to many of those who worked that trade.

On the way to the station I hobbled by this shut coffee house.  Rather a mistake I thought, surely business would be good at the weekend with tourists about. 

I did rather like this however.

Back to stand staring at the board awaiting the platform number appearing.  On the way in I noticed Chelmsford Station now had a coffee stall on my platform, previously it was only available on the London bound side.  Therefore I decided to take the Norwich train and speed myself to Chelmsford, sip coffee and await my train which did not leave for a further 18 minutes after the Norwich service.
The Norwich speedy train trundled along.
It did not mention it stopped at Stratford to ensure someone insisted on sitting next to me.
We trundled on, I considered getting off and walking, eventually he returned to speed.  Some slow train in front hindering the express.  Tsk!  

I left the train, allowed the crowd to depart, sought the coffee stall and found it shut!  Typical, 2pm and he had hopped it!  Do they not realise trains run on a Saturday?  There was nothing for it but to wait 20 minutes for the new glossy train.

I amused myself by attempting to capture this aircraft high in the sky, this was not easy.  Higher above, Stansted and Luton bound planes passed across the sky, all leaving long vapour trails to upset the environment lobby making use of such aircraft for their holidays. 

I never noticed this before, it must be new.  I had heard the story somewhere.  Marconi the Radio people along with a major Ball Bearing plant existed in Chelmsford during the war, important targets for the Luftwaffe.  Often Heinkel's would pass over on bombing raids.  One night a large formation of enemy bombers attacked and Moulsham across the river from the main town, suffered badly with some 50 people killed and a great deal of damage done.  As a troop train approached the town this signalman remained at his post, halted the train at a distance to avoid several hundred men suffering, all the while in a signal box that was seriously damaged and in danger of collapse.  
It is nice to know he is remembered this way.

    
As I awaited my saloon car I managed to catch 66514 as he sped through at high speed heading I think for Felixstowe.  He offered a friendly three tone blast as he passed 'God bless you sir' and hurled himself on his way.  He pulled many empty flatbeds behind him, only four or five were in use and I wondered if Brexit was hindering exports?  No similar train passed in the other direction, that way I could gauge the import side, it may just have been to gather empties for the docks of course.

Typical!  The good train was put elsewhere and I was returned on the aged 321 which I must say has softer seats, though that may come from 20 years use of course!  So it was home, sore knees and that coffee.  

Today I remained at home, too stiff to cycle down the road!  Once again enjoying the memory of the good things in London having avoided the bad. £800 a week rent for a studio flat, £2700 a month for one of the better class two bed flats!  The empty flat here is going for £625 a month! How do they afford London?