Hartham road

Hartham road is a right angle. It is neither perpendicular nor parallel to the almost straight Hillmarton road, which joins Caledonian and Camden road to be the south side of a triangle. Same as Hartham road joins the beginning of Hillmarton road and the end of Hungerford road, which flows into Hillmarton road again forming this time an imperfect quadrangle, only cut in two by a cul-de-sac called Freegrove road.

Hartham road at its beginning from Hilmarton road.

London planes and cherry trees crown the pavements and get dressed and undressed as time goes by. Some of the trunks have eaten the bricks on the fences; they look like gigantic swollen gums breaking through the bricks. Some owners have decided to rebuild the fences a step forward, so you can see - in inverse proportion - the aging of the bricks and the movement of the trees. Some trees even have a private altar so they can preach to the pedestrians walking by. Acacias or black locusts can be seen at some front yards, even an exotic loquat at the upper part of the road. You could also find some palm trees, avocados and olive trees – I have even seen a kentia and a Swiss cheese plant or two, all the latest, of course, through the bay windows of the Victorian Houses, trying to reach out for fresh air. Interesting people, that try to grow tropical plants inside their homes, live at Hartham road. The English always dreaming overseas, beyond the cloud. Imagine their back yards, the secret gardens that could be found at the other side of the gates of moss and screech; the glass ponds, the liquid willows, the stone benches. But let’s go back to the street.

Not much happens at Hartham road apart from the spring and the autumn, bringing both seasonal colors to the dun-bricked street. Time in Hartham road hangs like dried clothes from the line. I remember once having breakfast on a Saturday early morning in front of the kitchen window, the sun already shaving the top leaves of the trees, when I saw a man dressed in night, walking up the street with a severe drunk pace but still maneuvering his mobile phone with one hand. When he got to the house opposite my position, he felt that he needed to urinate – he hesitated around ten seconds and then started to look for his fly with the other hand. When he got to find his penis, he pulled it out to the cold, then opened the fence to the yard without taking his eyes from the little screen, stepped into it and next to the cherry tree, he peed until he was satisfied. It took him the time it took me to finish half of my warm coffee and a bite of my toast, his phone kept him busy all the time. When he finished the piss, he forgot to put back his willy, stepped out of the yard and, leaving the gate opened, continued his walk at the same pace up the street.

I should not skip telling you about the golden light that coats the air in the afternoon from the month of February until early November. The sun rays get lower than the clouds before the sun sets, and transforms the shriveled branches into Chinese silhouettes in the winter, and filters through the green leaves creating a bit of fresh air in the long summer afternoons. And that is a great moment for contemplation.

Islington to the Tate Modern (Part 1)

In the easrly morning Essex road runs down from the north of the city with all the noise and suddeness of the Colarado river. It is a sea of voices and action - the bus hurtling towards the kerb, the sirens screaming and falling, earphoned pedestrians shouting or stepping into the road without warning.

I allow myself to be dragged along as far as the Sainsburys local and then turn off to follow a quieter tributory that flows alongside the main road. There is a small canal-way here that has been fenced in or 'museumed' by the local council.

If I remember correctly, it was once part of larger network of canals that once brought fresh water into the city. Now, no longer in use, it has become a pond; a tiny bucolic corner where ducks bob through green water, overhanging trees throw pools of shade, and tramps sink quietly into long afternoons of drunkenness.

This morning I have chosen to weave my way through the small side streets down to Angel, ticking off the private landmarks of my neighbourhood, or what I perceive to be my neighbourhood, as I go. There is the old 16th century Manor House with its garden full of pink roses, the square; exploding with palm trees as suddenly as a desert oasis, the building where George Orwell once lived, the Italian art gallery, the huge church with a queue of homeless men trailing from its back door, the plaque noting the spot where a German bomb had landed destroying a terrace of houses, the small flower shop hidden beneath large overhanging trees, and then, at the end of the high street, the buildings that were once the old Angel Inn and stood like a gateway to the city; marking the end of one world and the beginning of another.

From here, Goswell road is a confusion of design stores, old warehouses, and brutalist apartment buildings. It is scruffy and dog eared and seems to have been largely spared, or overlooked, by modern developers. On one building a sign boasts of video to video editing services, others carry faded adverts for cleaning products and things that are no longer available. But despite this there are still signs of early gentrification. A coffee shop with brightly coloured neon lights and kitchy decor sits at one corner overlooked by empty office buildings.

A moment later, set back from the main road, is a leafy-green square shadowed by buildings that seem to have closed in on it while it's back was turned. Like so many corners of the city, it looks like a tiny pocket of forgotten village life. At the centre of the square is an ancient wooden band stand.

Back on the main road is the office and showroom of architect Zaha Hadid. This isn't so unexpected; from here the road runs quickly down to the Barbican whose towers can be seen looming high on the horizon, giving the neighbourhood an air of design-world authority. There is no obvious way in to the Barbican. Steps appear an unexpected moments, leading up to walkways, empty squares, and dead ends. Balconies are given street names and open out to reveal that they are not balconies at all, but forgotten streets criss-crossing above the traffic below. Sometimes a path will weave around a building before plunging suddenly into a darkened tunnel, only to appear moments later at an open square; full of benches and fountains, but empty. Some tunnels reveal secrets. One, for example, hides the work of ceramic artist Dorothy Annan. A full wall is dedicated to a tiled mural that once covered the front of a building on Fleet street. (to be Continued..)