Walking is the best - the only - way to really see a city. Herewith an amble through one of the oldest in the western hemisphere that has particular resonance for me:
GAZING up at the familiar dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, I saw the past - 300 years of British history wrapped up in one glorious edifice built by Sir Christopher Wren - but I also saw my own, very personal connection with London I lived here in the late 1960s and early 70s, with the ever-present lyrics of the Beatles, the sight of long hair and outrageous fashion - remember Carnaby Street? - and the increasingly loud voices of the antiwar movement. Back then, the whole world seemed on the cusp of a new era, and it was ironic that I returned at another tumultuous time, when the global credit crisis was rocking the city.
GAZING up at the familiar dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, I saw the past - 300 years of British history wrapped up in one glorious edifice built by Sir Christopher Wren - but I also saw my own, very personal connection with London I lived here in the late 1960s and early 70s, with the ever-present lyrics of the Beatles, the sight of long hair and outrageous fashion - remember Carnaby Street? - and the increasingly loud voices of the antiwar movement. Back then, the whole world seemed on the cusp of a new era, and it was ironic that I returned at another tumultuous time, when the global credit crisis was rocking the city.
When we lived here, Penny and I had a
flat in the West End, on the other side of town from St. Paul's, which now sits among flash new buildings. Kensington Gardens, Notting Hill Gate, and
Earl's Court were our 'hoods; our oldest daughter, Jess, was born within sight of Buckingham Palace, but we lived in a realm of
expats, artists, hip Brits, and a few old-line families. The financial district was, with the exception of St. Paul's, a mystery to a
writer more interested in the pubs of Chelsea and Camden Hill than byways of deal-making.
I returned looking forward to exploring what I earlier neglected - the narrow, winding streets of the town's oldest district. Walking was a joy when I lived in London and it still is, especially in The City - aka the Square Mile - where famous Threadneedle, Queen Victoria, and Lombard Streets throb with a riot of cabs, cars, and buses dodged by waves of hurrying figures.
I returned looking forward to exploring what I earlier neglected - the narrow, winding streets of the town's oldest district. Walking was a joy when I lived in London and it still is, especially in The City - aka the Square Mile - where famous Threadneedle, Queen Victoria, and Lombard Streets throb with a riot of cabs, cars, and buses dodged by waves of hurrying figures.
"Here's where it all began," said Peter Wynne
Rees, a big Welshman who showed me around. "This was the first human
occupation, thousands of years ago. The Celts camped on what were the
banks of Walbrook Stream, and now we've got this."
Behind us was the Royal Exchange, a
glittery shopping mall where Cartier, Chanel, and Bulgari had replaced
brokerage firms. The Bank of England - the ponderous Old Lady of
Threadneedle Street - sat on our right. Mansion House, residence of the
Lord Mayor of London, was on the left, and all around the new towers of international
finance. Far ahead, beyond all the construction, sat the pale, peeping,
blue-gray dome of St. Paul's.
I already saw that money was only part of The
City's multilayered story. Here also was an astonishing concentration of
iconic historic buildings. Hidden in alleyways and covered passages are
taverns and shops going back to the time of Chaucer and mentioned in the
subsequent works of many renowned British writers. On streets broad and
narrow stand various legends in stone, often next to rising new
structures.
In a hurry - unless reading a newspaper in a
vest-pocket park at noon, or cradling a pint outside a pub in the angled
light of quitting time - are people, many of them young, who work and
court here even when they live elsewhere, lending The City an air of
youthfulness at odds with its age, and an energy unsuited to its
reputation as the stolid soul of British conservatism.
"Everybody here came from somewhere else," Rees said. "We're truly a city of immigrants, with 300 languages spoken.
Young people all over the world are dying to come here, and do you know
why? It's one big party. They happen to be at the height of their
sexual and intellectual abilities, and we get the benefit of the latter
because of their interest in the former."
Rees was the planning officer for The City of London, run from offices adjacent to the ornate Guildhall nearby, and
had about $650 million in annual income and its own police force. Rees,
with occasional advice from English Heritage, a quasi-governmental
agency, decided if and how the new buildings here got built. He
admittedly had "a low threshold of boredom, so it's in the architects'
interests to make their proposals attractive."
Preserved open space is important to most
Londoners, for whom green grass and sightlines to places like St. Paul's
are sacred. But so are the byways that can only be explored on foot.
Rees led me up Lombard, the historic thoroughfare of Lloyd's,
Barclays, and other banks. "The whole thing started, you know, in the
Black Spread Eagle pub in 1690. That's why some banks' logos still look
like pub signs. So many people began trading at that time that they had
to build a stock exchange to hold them all."
Outside the Jamaica Wine House, men and women were having noontime drinks. They could be in the West End in 1969,
except that instead of bell-bottoms and paisley they were all wearing dark
suits and ties. I overheard a pinstripe say to a vest with a watch fob:
"Can't do gold- too expensive. Can't do bonds- too unpredictable."
"This is where business has always been done,"
said Rees, "in alleyways outside pubs, by people standing around with
pots of beer, talking. One reason The City works is that there are so
many places like this to go to."
As we parted, Rees suggested that I visit the top
of Tower 42, The City's tallest building and home to Vertigo 42, a
hangout for traders that has one of the best views of the financial
district. It was so popular I had to make a reservation - just for a
place to stand. Unfortunately my spot was behind a
column. All I could see through the tall windows was a bit of Tower Bridge
to the east, and to make matters worse, I was charged $35 for a glass of champagne.
I made my way up Cornhill Street to the
Leadenhall Market, the labyrinthine open-air emporium designed in 1881
by Sir Horace Jones. It was built on what has been a market site since
Roman times. Today, occupants of the old shops are mostly restaurants
feeding workers spilling out of the looming towers roundabout, or
purveyors of clothes, gifts, and spirits that are part of larger retail
chains. "We sell more champagne than any of our other stores,"
said Diosa Podda, a clerk in Oddbins, a wine shop. "We get people
pouring in here buying bubbly when the market rises, and we get them
when it falls."
Next door is A Booth, Ltd., florists, the oldest
continual business in Leadenhall. Owner Terry Dawson told me how much
he misses the old poultry and game bird shops. "The last to go were the
fishmongers. They're gone because the financial houses no longer have
their own chefs and butlers, who used to come down here every day to
buy. Now everybody eats out"
The passageways were full of people, many
text-messaging or glued to their cell phones. But stop and ask for
directions and they were invariably helpful, as agreeable as they were in a
hurry. Traders taking a pint outside the Lamb Tavern talked with
colleagues while watching other suits go up and down the side of the
Lloyd's building in mesmerizing glass elevators. When the international
insurance giant built this headquarters in 1986 it was a sensation, with
what look like stacks of gigantic silver cans and exposed pipes and
ducts, a structure straight out of The Matrix.
None of these new buildings existed when I lived in London,
and they take some getting used to. When I asked a security guard about
the Lloyd's phenomenon, he said confidentially, "Some like it, and some
think it's bloody hideous." The City's most controversial new
building was the 40-story 30 St Mary Axe. Designed by Foster &
Partners, one of Britain's star architectural firms, it's known locally
as the "Gherkin" (Londoners love their culinary nicknames), but to me it
looked more like an upended black blimp encased in steel bands.
Its double-skinned exterior is designed for maximum insulation, London's most environmentally sound skyscraper.
Nestled between Lloyd's and 30 St Mary Axe is a
modest little 16th-century church, St. Andrew Undershaft, a reference to
the maypole that once stood out front. St. Andrew draws the eye away
from the looming giants around it with its economy of scale and textural
contrast of weathered stone. Part of the genius of The City's
preeminence as one of the world's foremost financial centers has been
the preservation of older buildings that soften the new and offer a
historic complement. St. Andrew, like the more than 40 other churches
here, two of them at least 1,000 years old, minimizes the discordant
qualities of competing contemporary styles and reminds us of the
aesthetics of an earlier age.
Postman's Park provides an unexpected, grassy
conduit to King Edward Street. I took Little Britain behind St.
Bartholomew's Hospital until I found myself before the magnificence of
the oldest extant parish church in England, St. Bartholomew the Great.
Founded in 1123 as an Augustinian priory, it's intact, as is the little
cemetery shaded by ancient trees and bordered by the Cloth Fair, a
moribund fabric market. Inside the church, the dark timbered ceiling,
massive stone arches, and clustered pillars support one of the two
remaining Norman churches,
redolent of incense and the mysteries of medieval faith.
I was slightly nervous walking over the stone floor in the presence of the ghost of William Hogarth, the 18th century artist who was baptized in the preReformation fount. Gordon Furry, the verger at St. Bartholomew and a former Benedictine novitiate, told me the church was "one of the best-kept secrets in London. We have lots of weddings, and the annual service for the Worshipful Company of Butchers." Once a year the Worshipful Company of Butchers carries its flag past the Butcher's Hook & Cleaver pub and across St. Bartholomew's Square to the Smithfield Market, where fresh meat of all sorts - whole pigs, most manifestations of cow, venison, ox tails, ducks, grouse, partridge has been sold for the past eight centuries.
I decided to try out some of those imaginative meat renditions at St. John Bar and Restaurant, a former smokehouse with long tables, just around the corner from the market. I sprang for roast bone marrow with parsley salad, ox tongue, and a fig tart with Jersey cream. I wasn't' the only one enjoying the spectacle of three roast suckling pigs marched out to groups of diners: Bette Midler sat with friends behind me, and on my way out I passed another actor, Liam Neeson, discussing his bill with a waiter.
I was slightly nervous walking over the stone floor in the presence of the ghost of William Hogarth, the 18th century artist who was baptized in the preReformation fount. Gordon Furry, the verger at St. Bartholomew and a former Benedictine novitiate, told me the church was "one of the best-kept secrets in London. We have lots of weddings, and the annual service for the Worshipful Company of Butchers." Once a year the Worshipful Company of Butchers carries its flag past the Butcher's Hook & Cleaver pub and across St. Bartholomew's Square to the Smithfield Market, where fresh meat of all sorts - whole pigs, most manifestations of cow, venison, ox tails, ducks, grouse, partridge has been sold for the past eight centuries.
I decided to try out some of those imaginative meat renditions at St. John Bar and Restaurant, a former smokehouse with long tables, just around the corner from the market. I sprang for roast bone marrow with parsley salad, ox tongue, and a fig tart with Jersey cream. I wasn't' the only one enjoying the spectacle of three roast suckling pigs marched out to groups of diners: Bette Midler sat with friends behind me, and on my way out I passed another actor, Liam Neeson, discussing his bill with a waiter.
The butchers of Smithfield Market represent just one of London's
liveries, organizations of tradesmen that over the centuries have
become almost sacrosanct. On Upper Thames Street, I stopped to admire the
Vintners' Company (see http://cjonwine.blogspot.com/2012/11/so-you-think-you-have-wine-club.html).
(Not my cover)
When I lived in London I was writing my first novel, The Big Easy, set in a place about as far from the City of London as one could get. The story's set in the seamier side of New Orleans. I was the first to use the name, which was later borrowed for the movie with Dennis Quaid et al (titles can't be copyrighted), but more about that later.
For days I had been looking, from a distance, at the dome of St. Paul's. Now I was standing next to Wren's masterpiece, one of the world's most famous cathedrals. It shares Paternoster Square with postmodern office buildings, and the eastern horizon with the Gherkin. I joined a group exploring the vast interior, which was lit by light from Wren's celebrated dome. The ceiling of the long nave is an intricate curvilinear blend of gold and predominantly blue and green mosaic tiles; the towering stained glass behind the altar is richly illuminated. Here's a structure, I thought, that can compete with any new one, not in height, maybe, but in the moderating effect on the sights and sounds around it- a sort of architectural tranquilizer.
When I lived in London I was writing my first novel, The Big Easy, set in a place about as far from the City of London as one could get. The story's set in the seamier side of New Orleans. I was the first to use the name, which was later borrowed for the movie with Dennis Quaid et al (titles can't be copyrighted), but more about that later.
For days I had been looking, from a distance, at the dome of St. Paul's. Now I was standing next to Wren's masterpiece, one of the world's most famous cathedrals. It shares Paternoster Square with postmodern office buildings, and the eastern horizon with the Gherkin. I joined a group exploring the vast interior, which was lit by light from Wren's celebrated dome. The ceiling of the long nave is an intricate curvilinear blend of gold and predominantly blue and green mosaic tiles; the towering stained glass behind the altar is richly illuminated. Here's a structure, I thought, that can compete with any new one, not in height, maybe, but in the moderating effect on the sights and sounds around it- a sort of architectural tranquilizer.
The wind was blowing, but the rhythm of untold
hydraulic tools was louder. A small army of proverbial ants labored far
below in bright yellow vests and hard hats. I felt the full visual force
of 30 St. Mary Axe and its competitors, and the dwindling of the
romantic associations of the past. All those historic churches, pubs,
mercantile exchanges, parks, and shops I had visited seemed to have been
swallowed by the accumulation of the new, to accommodate numbers of
people a Dr. Johnson or even a Dickens could not have imagined.
But cities are best appreciated close-up, from
the pavement, not from this nosebleed perspective. Down there, the past
and present coexist admirably, I've found. The City's new architecture
may be brilliant and imposing, but we also need those old buildings and
open spaces, to ease the mind and make urban intensity tolerable.
Without them, we can't begin to understand the present.
To see my bio, click on: http://cjonwine.blogspot.com/2013/02/heres-concise-bio-for-those-who-have.html
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