We had one full day in London, 4 May, and we planned to make the most of it. I had an overambitious list of things to see. We’d obviously never get through half of them, but we set out full of hope and tiny tingles of excitement. Our first train of the day would take us on the District line to Monument. After that, I planned to walk as much as possible and avoid the underground. On the way to Putney Bridge station, I stopped to look at the bookshop I’d noticed the day before. Never has a bookshop looked so packed or so inviting. The only thing stopping me from filling my bag with all the tomes I spotted was the thought of lugging them around London all day. If I’d gone inside, I may never have left.
The train was delayed for some reason. It kept coming up on the board and then disappearing. I worried that the signal gremlins had got to us again. The extra wait turned out to be a blessing in disguise. As we paced the platform, wondering what was going on, I noticed a peculiar structure on the other side of the rails. It looked very much like a WW2 pillbox, a fortified lookout post with embrasures to shoot from. Like most UK cities, London was once awash with pillboxes. They were built in 1940 as a last line of defence should the Germans invade. Thankfully, they were never needed, and most have since been demolished. Of the 28,000 in London, around 6,500 remain. I thought this might be one of them.
Later, I discovered I was right. This particular pillbox was multi-sided and had two stories, with one door at the bottom and another leading to the upper story, accessed via a ladder. It had six embrasures, although we could only see three from the platform. London’s line of defence was a series of concentric circles. The Outer London Ring, Central London Ring and Inner London Ring. Had the Germans invaded, they might have stopped them for a while.
Eventually, the train arrived, and in no time at all, we were at Monument Station. The first thing we noticed was the monument the station was named after. Simply called Monument, it was built between 1671 and 1677 to celebrate the rebuilding of the city after the Great Fire of London. The design, a doric column with a viewing platform surmounted by a drum and a copper urn from which flames emerge, was a collaboration between Sir Christopher Wren and Dr Robert Hooke. In the circumstances, I’m not sure if the flames were a good idea.
There were a lot of people about, it was London after all, so taking photos wasn’t easy. I did manage to capture the frieze on the side and the inscription. This frieze is a basso-relievo by Caius Gabriel Cibber and represents the King giving protection to the ruined city. Through a door on the opposite side of the column are 311 steps leading to a viewing platform. As the monument is 202 feet high, the views must be astonishing, but we had no time to climb to the top. I will put it on my list of things to do on another visit.
The column’s height is the exact distance between the base and the site of the fire. As we walked towards Pudding Lane, we stopped to admire a set of stone seats inscribed with the words of the old nursery rhyme, London’s Burning. The story of the fire will be familiar to everyone. Shortly after midnight on Sunday 2 September 1666, a fire began on Pudding Lane in the house of a baker, Thomas Faryner. The Lord Mayor, Sir Thomas Bloodworth, dithered over whether to demolish nearby buildings to create a firebreak. By the time he decided, it was too late, and the fire was raging out of control. The wind had fanned it into a firestorm. By Monday, it had pushed north into the heart of the city, and by Tuesday, it had crossed the river. The wind dropped on Tuesday night, and on Wednesday, firebreaks, created with gunpowder by the Tower of London garrison, stopped the spread eastwards. Finally, the fire was contained. The Great Fire was over, but several small fires kept burning throughout the city for two months.
In those days, about 350,000 people lived in London. The buildings were mainly wooden, covered in pitch, and thatched. They were tightly packed together, often arched over the narrow streets, almost touching each other. Many people kept animals in their backyards and had sheds filled with hay and straw. The summer of 1666 was long and dry, and water was scarce. London had no organised fire brigade, so people used what they could to contain the blaze. This mainly consisted of leather buckets and water squirts, which had little effect. Surprisingly, there was little loss of life. Some say as few as six people died; others put the figure at eight. In fact, no one really knows. Given the scale of the devastation, it is likely that many deaths went unrecorded. Many may also have died from smoke inhalation or in the refugee camps that sprung up afterwards.
Obviously, nothing remains of the baker’s house in Pudding Lane or anything else that was once there. The street is still there, though, and we stopped for a moment to look at the historic street sign. Of course, London is bristling with history, but this narrow street must be one of the most memorable.
At the bottom of Monument Street, we saw Billingsgate Fish Market, the largest inland fish market in the UK and another famous London landmark. It began life as Billingsgate Wharf and became a fish market in the sixteenth century. In 1699, an act of parliament formally established it, although it was only an open space on the dock with a few sheds and booths. In 1850, a new market, designed by the city architect, J B Bunning, was built. By 1872, it was clear it wasn’t big enough. City architect, Sir Horace Jones, drew up new plans. The new market opened on 20 July 1877. It is rather beautiful, Italianate, with a pedimented centre, including some fabulous decorations.
Until the nineteenth century, fish came up the Thames by boat and were unloaded on the dock. Later the railways took over as the main fish transporter. In 1982, the fish market relocated to a new complex on the Isle of Dogs. The old Grade II listed market building is now used for events, dinners, weddings, and conferences. We stood for a while, trying to imagine it full of noise and the smell of fish, not to mention the shouts of the famous fishwives who made the word Billingsgate synonymous with crude language.
Right opposite the market was a pub called the Walrus and the Carpenter. I was tempted to go in for a drink because Lewis Carroll’s Alice stories were some of my favourites when I was a child. The Walrus and the Carpenter is a poem recited to Alice by Tweedledum and Tweedledee in Through the Looking Glass. We walked past, though, because it was only half-past eleven. Besides, we had far too much to see to stop just then.
Our next objective was a church. Google Maps told me it was on a side street a short way ahead. The street was steep, narrow and cobbled. Near the top, I saw a spire, but it didn’t look like the one from the church I wanted to visit. I could also see the Toaster Building, or the Walkie-Talkie, depending on who you listen to. It isn’t one of my favourite London landmarks. Then we came to a sign saying ‘church entrance through iron gate,’ so we kept walking.
What I hadn’t done was notice the name of the church. Interesting as St Mary at Hill was, it wasn’t the church I’d come to see. Even so, I’ll tell you a little about it. It is grade II listed, was founded in the twelfth century, and was badly damaged during the Great Fire. After the fire, Sir Christopher Wren rebuilt the interior and east end of the church, keeping the other medieval walls and the tower. Somehow, it survived the blitz but was damaged again by a fire in 1988, after which the roof was rebuilt. One feature of the church is a large double-faced clock overhanging the street. It is driven by a long rod linked to the tower at the western end of the church.
Huffing and puffing in the humid heat and struggling with the hard cobbles under our feet, we carried on climbing the hill. The giant toaster loomed over us. It mesmerised me, but not in a good way, no offence intended to Rafael Viñoly, the Uruguayan architect who designed it in 2004. Some modern architecture is inspiring and interesting, but I don’t like the way it dwarfs all the historic buildings. In my opinion, it feels as if it’s there to be controversial and shocking rather than impressive and beautiful. Even so, the views of the city are supposed to be astounding, as are the lush gardens and observation decks at the top that give it its official name, the Sky Garden. There is no charge to go inside, but there is a three-week waiting list which has to be booked in advance, so these were more views we were not going to see.
When we finally reached the gate marked ‘entrance to the church,’ I realised my mistake. Historic as St Mary at Hill was, it was not the church we had come to see. We had walked to the top of the hill for nothing. Commando was not impressed when I looked at Google Maps and realised we should have turned onto a narrow alley at the bottom of the hill. It was time to walk back the way we had come. At least it was downhill.
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