Squashed gothic churches, beheaded saints, mysterious alleyways and a preponderance of dustbins. Brooke’s Market came at me out of nowhere. Not from behind with a cudgel, but as a subject. I’d been there before, passed through before, though I’d never stopped to take it in. This small, shadowy, grey concrete square was simply a useful…
I wonder what the collective noun for nature-writers would be? An ‘ambiguity’, a ‘concern’, a ‘disappearance’, or an ‘observance’ perhaps. Last weekend I was lucky enough to attend several events at the inaugural Balham Literary Festival, held at the Bedford Arms. The festival’s title – ‘A Way of Being in the World’ comes from a…
This post began as a kind of experiment. At one point it looked as though it might not end well, but we’ll come to that. It started with a question I find myself pondering quite often: just how differently do other people (than me) see the same places. Crystal Palace Park, for instance. When I…
Is it possible to be haunted by a place? I don’t mean in the way a human ghost might; a sudden drop in temperature accompanied by an uncanny sensation that something else is there, followed perhaps by a fractured glimpse of a movement or a shape. Neither do I have in mind a supernatural materialisation…
There is a new sub-genre in literary circles, or to be more exact, in literary natural history criticism writing circles: it is called Mac-stabbing. This chiefly involves critics and other writers taking to task either, or both of Robert Macfarlane and Helen Macdonald for being successful. This is done by way of questioning and reevaluating…
During a recent spot of tidying at home, I came across a box containing my childhood collection of bookmarks. When I was growing up my parents were second-hand booksellers in Bristol. One exciting perk, or by-product of this for me as a kid, was finding all kinds of bookmarks that previous readers had left behind in many…
SFX: A gentle thud, as one door closes. Rubber soled trainers hitting concrete, mix with general South East London ambience (heard throughout alongside all other sounds below) Creak of metal gate swinging open, gentle snick of iron on wooden post Goldfinches’ mewing/tinkling unexpectedly in ash trees on railway embankment Bus engine idles Before white…
I recently went in search for an ‘anonymous suburb’. It is one of those hackneyed terms that makes a kind of sense in print – we probably all have an idea of what an ‘anonymous suburb’ is, yet – I suspect – in practise, on the ground, doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. So I went…
No one should mourn a coffee shop. We have enough. Round my way, in West Norwood and uphill in Crystal Palace, news of another one turning up can be greeted with suspicion – another chain killing off the locals, more gentrification, another pointless hipsterish place in which to consume frothy beverages, whilst staring meaningfully out of the window in…
It’s dark. It’s raining. January is upon us and the season of reflection, projection and resolve is underway. For voracious readers, this means that the perennial question: what to read next will be nagging at their shoulders more urgently than ever. This matter doesn’t simply concern the next book, but the next year of books.…
Let’s say I was there. For work. In a hotel near three reservoirs for Wigan. Let’s say I slipped out back on an unexpected walk, on a circular path, all I saw were three men – two old, one young (ish) Walking widdershins counter to my clockwise, just them and the grey heron, winging twice, some ducks, some…
As the lights change a silver Audi guns its engine, switching lanes in order to speed past a 432 bus, determined to be first out of the traps, past St Luke’s, under the railway bridge and away along Norwood High Street. On the other side of the church – a rocky mid-river island between traffic…
