I left Milton Keynes early. I would probably have left earlier, but the prospect of trying to check out of the hotel and get to the station for the 04:35 wasn't pleasant. Even at a little before 07:00 the broad boulevards were empty, this part of the town apparently barely awake. In an act of defiance, I strode across the wide streets rather than using the underpasses, a hollow gesture since there were no cars around anyway, and almost no-one to witness my rebellion. However, the station was showing some signs of life, and I soon found myself heading for London on a Southern service. I dozed fitfully for much of the journey, having had little sleep and confusing dreams. I wasn't sorry to leave Milton Keynes at all, and whether it was the place, the odd situation I found myself in this weekend or a combination of the two I'm not sure - but I'm certain I don't look forward to revisiting. With the Wolverton Works Open Day cancelled, the issue of what to do this weekend had been pushed to the side of my mind by stranger events elsewhere. Given a booked trip home on the 19:00 from Paddington, a day in London seemed sensible - and given a chance to listen to the latest Hackney Podcast I was keen to head east again. So, managed to wake up enough to disembark at a deserted and chilly Kensington Olympia, and waited for what seemed like an age for a train to Willesden Junction whilst stamping my feet to wake up my legs from the crushing they'd received in the unit. At Willesden I was tantalisingly close to my first good coffee of the day from the platform kiosk, but with the next train due in a couple of minutes, decided against it. Onboard, and mercifully failure free given the recent record on this line, headed east towards Hackney Wick.

The loose plan was to get a much required and decent coffee at one of the cafes mentioned in the podcast, then to make a general progress west, through South Hackney and onwards towards Stoke Newington. I'd not planned this, and without walking boots I realised that I'd soon be experiencing some pain. However, I set out first for a quick circuit of Hackney Wick, a place in many ways in thrall of the Olympic development. The Hackney Pearl wasn't open yet and The Wick was teeming with builders, so I flagged them both feeling disconnect and unwilling to engage too much with people. Still no sign of coffee then, as I pressed on over the Eastway and briefly into Tower Hamlets, the borough which is responsible for the entirety of Victoria Park. I'd wanted to visit the park for some time - it's history appealed to me, and it is credited with some significance in the mythology of the East End too. There is however, a less formal strand of history based around the people who live near and use the park, and I hoped to get a sense of that. Things started well, and in the somewhat neglected eastern section of the park I passed a number of people who voluntarily wished me good morning in a multiplicity of accents and dialects. However, as I zigzagged roughly west, the tone of the space changed. Joggers replaced walkers, some running in packs and gossiping breathlessly while they padded the tidy, well-kept tracks in expensive sportswear. Organised exercise groups poured in through the park gates, and military orders were barked at them - I noted a perfectly pretty but rather plump young woman apparently blinking back tears at the ferocity of the verbal she'd received. I felt pity until I remembered she'd probably paid for this privilege - maybe even recommended by a friend? Pressing on, I stopped briefly at a kiosk which appeared to have been enterprisingly turned into a fully-fledged cafe offering a range of food. However, the thought of a fat man reclining with a coffee whilst around him the pretty people of East London toiled and sweated away wasn't appealing. I'd either be lynched or laughed at. So once again, I passed on the coffee.

My feet were hurting a little in my tight work shoes, and I wondered if I should really be doing this? However, I wanted to sleep tonight - and being physically tired seemed like a good way to combat the insomnia which has stalked me lately. Thinking of an uninterrupted night of sleep brought on by gentle exercise and deep lungfuls of Olympic dust was appealing, so I pressed on out of the park, and towards thundering and steaming Mare Street. A brief diversion here took me to Broadway Market. I'd not visited at a weekend before, and I wasn't quite prepared for the assault on the senses! Rich, exotic food smells mingled with expensive perfume, and hosts of young, clever and well-dressed people snaked in and out of stalls selling artisan breads, ripe cheeses and obscure dishes. The cafes spilled out onto the pavement, and an accordian was playing woozily. I caught snippets of conversations - ill-advised sexual liaisons, stealing from work, amateur art criticism, how hammered we'd be getting later - all topics for the cafe queue. Having seen this well-kept street with its row of time-burnished yellow bricks and low garrett-above-the-shop accommodation on a non-market day, this just seemed to exploit the idea of a market. Like one of the strange touring Christmas markets which are popular nowadays, but this destined to run and run as long as people wanted to browse these wares and take "time out on a weekend morning". I wanted purposeful, grubby Ridley Road, not this.

With my badly chosen shoes beginning to hurt my feet, I hopped on a bus here. The 106 was cool and quiet, and sped me through the confused jumble of Hackney Central. I'd hoped to walk this part, but given my wish to get away from Broadway Market swiftly the bus seemed like a compromise. The route meandered, along Amhurst Road to the station, then into Clapton and over the Lea Bridge Roundabout with it's deserted nightclubs and bus depot. I was on uncharted territory here, and enjoyed watching unfamiliar streets pass by. Hopped off just before the bus reached Stoke Newington High Street - it's always important to enter a new street on foot at least on the first occasion I think - and made for the first coffee shop I could find. I got lucky here, the establishment was cool, quiet and run by an open-faced and smiling waitress who chatted happily to everyone who came in. The coffee was great and cheap, and made me feel guilt for my open support for the brand leaders in the market. I wish I felt more communicative and could have struck up a talk about the area, but with the mornings exertions preying on my feet and rather turbulent and confused thoughts I wanted to get down on paper, I was content to sit and write. I was also considering my next move.

I'm ashamed I'd never visited Abney Park Cemetery. I'd read lots about it, and understood it's origins and importance - but it was on a list of 'get there eventually' locations. Today though, was the day - and as I walked north on the High Street, I was surprised by the sudden opening out of a small courtyard, with the famous egyptian pillars set back a few yards from the busy road. There is always the awkward moment when entering a burial yard - particularly a closed one - is it seemly to take pictures? Should one browse like at an art gallery? My approach is to wander aimlessly and see where I end up - and in fairness this has worked from Bunhill Fields to the Glasgow Necropolis, so I aimed for the same. Oddly though, Abney Park is strangely informal. Small groups of people enjoying a short burst of sunshine on the otherwise dull morning sat chatting, people used the space to walk, exercise - a dedicated woman using the hidden war memorial as a venue for circuit training. There was a sense that the community and the cemetery were at peace - mutually appreciative. Unlike many such places, Abney Park felt safe - it was patrolled, used well and despite its warren-like density of routes, it was impossible to be wholly alone here. I passed a mum and her young child, who begged her to only use the "big paths" and assured her that they "wouldn't see any deads". I saw his point, the tangle of tiny paths between the jumbled, leaning graves must have seemed impossibly horrible to him! I took one, to reassure myself, and found a strange, quiet and cool world under the trees. There was no traffic noise, despite the site being surrounded on three sides by busy London thoroughfares. Just warm, green silence and cold marble memorials.

I spent a little longer than planned at Abney Park, because it was a welcoming and open place where wandering was the norm and not a strange or suspicious activity. The natural environment seemed like a fitting burial place - more so than the ordered and crimped cemeteries which are the norm nowadays. I pondered this back to Liverpool Street on the train, and sat for a while in yet another a coffee shop - this time one which has recently opened in an impressively panelled room in the former Great Eastern Railway station buildings. I also thought I should do this more often - these walks lift my spirits, even the gloom which Milton Keynes seemingly dispelled. I also planned a lazy circuit back west - firstly heading east into familiar territory, then south of the river. The plan was to walk to the new Shoreditch High Street station on the East London Line. I accomplished this via a fraught crossing of Bishopsgate, then a dash down Brushfield Street. The familiar outline of awe-inspiring Christ Church loomed over a range of new boutiques and stalls in the revitalised but partially-destroy Spitalfields Market. Then, along Hanbury Street and into Brick Lane, the sudden pulse of life coinciding with a brief shower of rain. I didn't let it worry me, and watched people scurrying into shops and under the new railway bridge as I pressed on. The walk here is always so inspiring and diverting I barely noticed how wet I was as I turned into Sclater Street - the remnants of the market now a couple of rough stalls on a car park and some remarkably well-stock vintage clothes shops tucked into the old railway arches. The sign for the old Spitalfields Station still in the condition I found it two years ago, bent back on its pole and pointing the wrong way to a long-deleted terminus. The new station, a concrete and glass box - but with some impressive views over the former goods yard, was cool and pleasant to wait in despite the rather narrow platforms!

And so, via Brunel's tunnel under the Thames and a change of trains at the ever impressive Crystal Palace station, I made my way back to Victoria with a little time to spare. Parking myself in a convenient coffee shop I jotted notes about my strange weekend and watched the comings and goings around the station. It had been a frustrating and surprising weekend in equal measure. Now I had to deal with more immediate issues, and rather unusally spirits beckoned! A visit to London is never wise for helping one be objective.

Movebook Entry

I have a strange and troubled time with London east of the city. Inspired by Iain Sinclair I've wandered some fairly strange paths, and visited places I'd never dreamed of heading for in search of the curious corners of the city. But more than anywhere, wandering here makes me feel something separate from the City - an outcast, albeit quite often in a sea of other temporary citizens. Here, especially, authenticity is brought into sharp focus. With so much written and spoken about the legends of the territory, from ancient plague-grounds to modern murder myths, its hard not to feel like a tourist. The grim reality is that the Hoxton art student posing his way along the queue at the Beigel Bake, or the carefully designed media type lurking around 93 Feet East is more at home here than I will ever be. For someone who tries hard to read the City unconditionally and walks with a degree of perhaps pathetic reverence, this is a crushing defeat of style over content.

A bit of recent reading though has reassured me that this area is far from out-of-bounds to the outsider, and reminded me that these boundary lands have been contested spaces and seen multitudes of populations share the streets and alleyways over centuries of change and redefinition. So today's walk, tagged onto a trip further east into incongruous rural Essex, was an attempt to reclaim my little bit of Spitalfields and Shoreditch and to walk shoulder to shoulder with everyone else who didn't really belong but had gravitated here for sometimes unfathomable reasons.

I started at Aldgate Station, turning east into Whitechapel High Street and falling into step with the low pulse of the market and the throb of deep music from passing BMWs with shaded windscreen glass, before swinging left into Osborn Street - ostensibly the southern entrance to Brick Lane. There is a boarded-up, closed-for-business feel here, almost an attempt to turn back the casual tourist - this is not what you thought it was. A friend of mine who I sometimes travel with would call it "a dump" for certain. But peering through the cracked hoardings into a deep excavation, the old foundations can be seen. Encouraged northwards, I press on into Banglatown. A bewildering but not unwelcoming combination of scents assault the senses - diesel, curry, hot coffee, bad drains. Quiet, alien sounding music pours from a nearby restaurant - one of hundreds all imploring the passer-by to enter, even at this early hour. Onward, passing the entrance to Flower and Dean Walk, sanitised and erased except for the archway which gave entrance to the model dwellings which replaced the seething rookery a century ago. I try to get a haircut, but I'm refused in a case of embarassed but good-humoured racism by the proprietor - and I respond with equal good humour and a handshake. A little solidarity, and a moment of awareness of how alien we both are here. I press on, Christ Church School with it's tiny Star of David emblem hidden on a downpipe betrays the last great wave to sweep the area - where church became Synagogue, and in turn has become a great Mosque.

Beyond Fournier Street, with its painstaking heritage treatment measured by balooning property prices, Brick Lane changes. The curry houses dwindle and the former Black Eagle Brewery begins to dominate both sides of the street in a warm glow of yellow brick and shadow. Here in Dray Walk are the painfully hip bars and shops which are perhaps where I am most truly out of place. I slip apologetically into Rough Trade East in the hope of finding a fairly obscure American release I've been looking for. It's hard to understand the store - all space, pastries and sofas - not like the happy clutter of their West End locations. I slip out, negotiating the crowds of in some instances genuinely beautiful people, and regain the main line of the lane. Here, where the railway crossed before the bridge was dismantled, I head into Pedley Street to find the remains of Shoreditch Station. On my previous foray, this is where I bailed out, not fully grasping my bearings. Closed for a year or more, the station is decaying. Beside it, a glimpse over the wall allows sight of the ancient and long abandoned Bishopsgate Station platforms deep below, and which my train into Liverpool Street had passed just a little while before. The cutting in which the East London Line ran now accommodates a sweeping concrete bridge taking the gradually forming extension high over the Great Eastern Lines. I pass under this, through a narrow tunnel in the scaffolding and hoardings which divides the two sections of the lane almost perfectly. Tiny, expensive shops full of intricate, innovative and artistic goods sit comfortably beside the Beigel Bake. Young professional families stroll by, making the most of a cold, bright winter morning. What little of the market is out today straggles along to the Cheshire Street junction before petering out entirely as I turn west into Bethnal Green Road. The sign for Shoreditch Station twisted back on itself, perhaps not accidentally pointing to the vast concrete box bordering Sclater Street which will eventually be part of the new Shoreditch High Street station.

I head into familiar territory, Commerical Street with its grime, traffic and gleefully down-at-heel edge. Self-aware rich kids jostle me on their way into pubs, thankfully devoid of Ripper Tours today. I'm aware that I'm ill - the cold I've been nursing for nearly a week has finally overtaken me. I'm light-headed with hunger but not particularly wanting to eat. I lean against a railing, not realising until I reorient myself that I'm beneath the awesome frontage of Christ Church. A private function prevents entry today. I cross and re-cross the road, looking for inspiration for an ending to the walk. Eventually, after more false starts, I return to Brick Lane via Fournier Street and walk south - this time feeling more at peace with my surroundings. Via a staggered route through the abandoned metal stall frames of Petticoat Lane market I stumble back to Liverpool Street and gulp welcome hot coffee. I've made sense of much I've read during today's walk - and beyond the photographable landmarks which remain, almost everything has changed. I belong here as much or as little as the over-polite restaurant tout, the cheerfully racist barber or the studied self-aware art student.

Perhaps we are all shadows?

Movebook Entry

The strange pattern of streets between Grays Inn Road and Mabledon Place has always intrigued me. Having based myself in Bloomsbury on many of my visits, this strange hinterland bordered by Euston Road to the north and Bernard Street to the south has been frequently explored. Little corner pubs and newsagents have become strangely amplified landmarks in this corner of St Pancras which has almost become home. Not quite West End and not quite city, it seems that the waves of commerce and redevelopment never quite reach the centre of this quiet corner of London.

Visiting for the first time in a long time, I found myself staying in the northern corner of the territory, not far from Kings Cross. I'm nervous about my accommodation, but needlessly - it's basic, clean and secure which is all I need for the purposes of my stay. Wandering out to Brunswick Square to shop, I take a long circuit through busy Marchmont Street. Freshman students, not yet quite formed and still wide-eyed in the tumult of post-Office drinkers pass me. They're new here and still apologise quietly for brushing past me. I find Brunswick Square transformed - the strangest of Camden's housing development once sat atop a tired shopping arcade, mostly vacant except for a supermarket and an excellent used book store. Now, the supermarket is an upmarket Waitrose and the square is filled with evening life - the bookstore pushed underground on the fringe of the development. Restaurants and bars fill the once empty shopfronts. Things are changing, Bloomsbury is buzzing again.

Heading back into the dense net of streets north of Coram's fields, all is quiet. The largely residential area is dark, and only the tree-lined and paved Cromer Street with its closed and shuttered shops indicates the strange village I stumbled across a few years back on a walk out to Kings Cross from my Bloomsbury base. Swinging north, the great tower of St Pancras Station looms, scaffolded and ominous above the glassy new station. I want to understand this curious corner - a space that is folded into the map by passing tourists, not seen, it's dimensions not sensed from passing by on the high road. However, I think to understand this quarter one needs to live here in the shadow of the city and it's western neighbour.

Movebook Entry

I was determined to get to the LAMAS Local History Conference this year, after dropping out at the last minute a year ago due to being unwell. Today's trip presented it's own challenges, being the first day of the line closure which will dog the next month (and which I seem to mention in every post here lately!). Up early and onto the replacement bus which actually arrived as planned and got us to Taunton station quickly and on time. I suspect it all worked well because it was 06:01 and there wasn't much that can go wrong with the first bus of the day on relatively quiet roads. Onto the 07:10 to Paddington which was surprisingly busy. Had a sleepy journey up to London, and amazingly my fairly tight schedule once I'd arrived all worked out. I was in my chosen spot in the Museum of London lecture theatre a little before 10am, ready for the day's events.

As ever I was one of the younger audience members, and chatting to a few of the very active local historians it became clear that this was very much an interest which grew after retirement. They tend to have very specific interests in their own immediate environs, and seem to view any discussion of space and our relationship with it as 'post-modern bollocks' as one spirited old chap told me! After the introductions Jeremy Ashbee from English Heritage gave an interesting insight into the daily life of a Royal palace, in particular The Tower of London. His research indicates that many monarchs spent incredibly short periods at the palace, with Henry III managing only 38 weeks in 52 years. Outside these periods (for which the accounts indicate the household were often embarrassingly unprepared) the Tower enjoyed a multitude of uses and records indicate that even the King's own chambers were subject to alteration to confine a particularly slippery prisoner. Detailed, and sympathetically presented research is always a pleasure to listen to, and Jeremy clearly knew his topic.

From the sphere of Royalty we moved to the Ecclesiastical with Dr Vanessa Harding's quick sweep across the lost landscape of religious houses in London. In order to set the scene she gave a quick and useful run-down of the orders and sects operating in the City and their lineage. I confess a degree of bewilderment at the range of twists and turns Christianity appears to have taken during the Middle Ages, but suffice to say it appears you couldn't move for monks! Dr Harding linked her discussion of lost places back the the modern city which brought to life a complex and informative paper. I was amused by the 'Da Vinci Code' inspired gasps when the Knights Templar entered the discussion!

Next up was Hermione Hobhouse standing in at short notice for a speaker who couldn't attend. I'm not familiar with her Lost London (1971) but via a wide variety of slides, some much missed buildings and scenes were revisited. A quick reappraisal of the literature of lost London also failed to take into account William Kent's post-war catalogue 'The Lost Treasures of London' and the London Topographical Society's major publication of the LCC Bomb Damage Maps. Overall, I was disappointed by the conservative vision of a London lost because of immigration or diversification. It is a grave error to omit the huge influence this has had on London's growth and development from any account of the city. Looking backwards doesn't need to mean thinking backwards.

A swift lunch break in surprising sunshine, then back to see Nicholas Barton, author of Lost Rivers of London which is perhaps the book which turned my interest in the city from one purely relating to transport history into something rather more all-encompassing. A fascinating work which even nods towards the modern exploration of the 'sick city' in its brief acknowledgment of the epidemiology of the buried rivers. The talk ran through the book as published, with a few updated anecdotes - but it remained as fresh and engaging as the first read.

So, a hard act to follow - and for me another winner with Jim Connor on Disused Underground Stations. I had the feeling that Jim could have continued for hours, with engaging discussion and some informative pictorial evidence of the former stations. Jim ran out of time purely because of his encyclopaedic knowledge of the folklore and urban mythology of the Underground, which he delighted in sharing. Again, amazed at the fairly low level of awareness as evidenced by some of the gasps of surprise emitted by the audience. To finish things off, a brave choice - Kelvin MacDonald of the Royal Town Planning Institute on the Abercrombie Plan for London. As local historians and planners are almost always at odds, this was an interesting occasion. Kelvin's talk was intriguing. His take on Abercrombie's work was critical but he clearly admired the vision and bravery of the plan. His time ran out just around the point he was discussing the plan's legacy. I'd like to have seen him speak more on the remains of the halfhearted attempt to construct the Motorway Box, and it's effect on communities - particularly around the M11 interchange in Hackney for example. Kelvin's paper reminded us all that London moves onward - and you can either sit with the disgruntled country dwellers up for the weekend to hear some talks, or engage in the movement. The key is never to act surprised if you end up somewhere unexpected.

Once again, left partly inspired and partly dejected by the LAMAS experience. A swift dash across the city to Paddington, and an oddly convoluted route back to Taunton.

Movebook Entry

Up early, a quick but fairly sizable breakfast, and out into the cool clear morning. This is the first time for a long time that I'd been in London purely with the purpose of walking. Being much less fit that before, and having very little energy after the last few weeks, I was a little apprehensive. I hadn't planned a great deal at all, but with books and such loaded into my bag I planned to see where things took me.

The first target was New River Head where Myddleton's artificial watercourse reached its goal, not far from the mythical Penton Mound. Started with a gentle walk along Doughty Street and skirted two sides of Mount Pleasant - one of which I'd not passed along before, a tumbledown street of properties commandeered by the Post Office to store vehicles and trolleys or just simply buldozed for car parking. The street was called Phoenix Place, but was clearly not in any way in the ascendent. Along Exmouth Market, watching the street wake up and the bleary-eyed post-coital couples looking for excuses to part in the coffee shops. Soon found myself on Amwell Street, named for the springs at the other end of the river.

It appeared someone had forgotten to tell Thames Water that they'd be taking part in the event, because nothing much was 'open' at New River Head. Found my way into a small commemorative garden at the rear of the site where a number of other disappointed visitors were milling around. A resident from nearby flats involved herself, and gave a shaky and fairly inaccurate history lecture to all present. Throughout this she referred to the river sneeringly as 'it', like there was some personal grudge. I left to explore the rest of the area, and to attempt entry to the main office. As I dithered on the steps, the same native appeared and urged me to go in. I did, if only to escape this increasingly sinister presence. Directed to the Oak Room, I spent a few moments examining its impressive but somehow incongruous opulence before leaving. As I passed the security desk, the native was leaning over, giving the security guard a good dressing down. I slunk by, and out into the street.

My next location was the Grand Priory Church of the Order of St. John in St John Square. I made good speed through Clerkenwell and arrived just in time for opening. Again, the staff didn't. Waited with an increasing crowd of Open House guide toting people in various degrees of leisurewear. There was much talk of 'doing' this building or 'ticking off' that. The whole event was starting to sour for me. It was now a game of architectural bingo which didn't sit well with my mythologising of the city at all. Almost left, but the doors finally opened, and I'm pleased because otherwise I'd have missed an interesting and calming oasis, with an ancient crypt. Most interesting discovery though was the line of housing declaring 'ancient lights' rights to unimpeded window views which overlooked the cloister.

Here I took a coffee break. My plan had been to head south and into the City, checking out whichever churches and Livery Halls crossed my path. I'd likely find myself in some old haunts, but this only added to the fun. However, my little elitist hissy-fit at the Grand Priory Church was still with me. A change of plan was in order. So I set off, via Smithfield and through the gatehouse of St Bartholomew the Great - oldest of the city churches in many respects, dating from 1123 or thereabouts. The interior was quiet, reeking of fresh flowers and the dust of replacement floorboards.

I soon left, passing Betjemans home in Cloth Fair before skirting the City via Aldersgate and London Wall. Admired the ruins of the wall near the museum before pressing on to Liverpool Street. Noted the huge queue for access to the Great Eastern Hotel as in the past two years, and realised that for many Londoners this was just a means of seeing into the corridors of power and wealth. Whether it was a brief glimpse of a top-class hotel, a masonic temple or the Foreign Office, it all led back to the snubbed Cockney entering the sphere of the cultured and refined. I've no doubt there were many wandering the City with a genuine interest in interior design, architecture or history - but I continually bumped into people who seemed more concerned with quantity of visits than quality of buildings. I couldn't continue with any sort of plan now.

So I didn't. Having taken on board refreshments I struck out east. Over Bishopsgate and along beloved Brushfield Street with Christ Church, Spitalfields towering over more recent monstrosities. I thanked it's cold white stone for still being there, year after year. Now into Fournier Street, and then Princelet Street. No need to join the queue to visit No.19 again, but I paid my respects to Rodinsky, the mysterious walker of London pathways who had lived above. I'm certain his legend still brings these crowds, who are just as disappointed as I that the room is not open. But for me, the starry ceiling of the hidden synagogue was enough to astound and startle. Further east, deeper into Spitalfields. Over Brick Lane and into Greatorex Street. Sudden calm. Happy family groups walking to the market, to pray or just to be out on a fine warm day. The streets radiate heat back at me, and I realise for the first time that my feet hurt.

Rather unexpectedly I'm cast into the roaring tide of Whitechapel Road. Buffetted around the pavement at first, before I find the rhythm of the crowd and dodge my way further east. I'm tempted by Durward Street, just because I'm sure I once read of its association with the Ripper myth - perhaps as the only street not to be renamed after the events? I'm not a great student of the Ripper cases, but the idea of continuity and resistance in the street name not being changed appeals to me. In any case, Durward Street is now a featureless minor road skirting a new housing scheme and with a huge fitness centre along much of it's length. The entire opposite side is taken up by the Underground lines heading into Whitechapel Station. Back in the melee I moved fairly freely between market stalls and street furniture, desperate to cross to examine the rather bland edifice of the Royal London Hospital. Having recently read Iain Sinclair's 'Radon Daughters' I was curious. Clearly it is vast, labyrinthine and disconcertingly old and tumbledown. Its also a hospital, which for me creates its own difficult resonance - I used to suffer a terrible phobia of the places, and only a career on the very fringes of the NHS freed me from it. I don't quite manage to link into Sinclair's more sinister or political views, despite the crowd of Special Brew connoisseurs populating the steps. The site of the mound or of the original White Chapel now hosts a tangle of undergrowth and several portakabins, none of which appear to be in regular use. I swing south again into New Road. More hospital, it's straggling departments and impedimentia reaching far along this rather dull and menacing street.

I'm out on a limb now, geographically and culturally isolated. I continue south knowing that once over the grim crossing of Commercial Road I'll soon find the twin eastward ways of Cable Street and Ratcliff Highway - both have their shameful pasts and billboard mounted futures. On the corner of Commercial Road, an elderly man with his Open House guide is being directed east by a local. I'm pleased to see people heading out here to the forlorn churches and industrial heritage of the east. I head part by instinct and part by compulsion to St George-in-the-East. I've not been here since 2004, despite a walk almost getting me here once. The church stands white and imposing in a deteriorating scene of chaos. Monuments decked in graffiti, where angels have acquired felt-tip genitalia. The entire place teems with litter and drowsy wasps. I make a phonecall from here, because at least it's quiet and isolated. I feel almost comfortable, and its hard to move on when the time comes. Onto the Highway, and a brief detour through singularly unimpressive Swedenborg Gardens - again a misread literary location. I turn north again onto Cable Street and Royal Mint Street, watching the Docklands Light Railway get swallowed by the earth before plunging back into the swell of the City.

At The Monument I once again pause to regroup. My feet are disintegrating and its a fair way back, even by train. I develop a strange urge to complete my proposed St George-in-the-East to St George Bloomsbury walk, which didn't quite make it. So, now hobbling on a blister I strike out - Cornhill, Holborn - passing the more traditional sights as quickly as my legs can now work. Beside me, pensioners dawdle and eye their guidebooks. Soon enough I find myself at the southern end of Southampton Row. Now barely lifting my feet to walk, I make a frenzied skirt of the Museum area. I can't find St George Bloomsbury. More accurate, I know where to find it, but I'd underestimated how hard it would be to get there. Dejected, but still exhilarated from my 'walking off the map' I drag my bleeding stumps home rather than trying to find a disappearing church, coincidentally passing the Swedenborg Society on route. Food, beer and sleep beckon - but a pair of new feet would do nicely. Despite my hunger, thirst and pain I'm secretly very happy with my wander away from the Open Sites. Perhaps the occasion means that prying eyes and CCTV are looking elsewhere, so Open House really does provide me with the freedom to wander the city? In which case, I'll see you next year...

Once again I've come away from Literary London feeling energised and enthusiastic about the City and it's stories. A strange conference in some ways this year - the theme of 'The River' was so appropriate, given that the Thames flowed sluggishly just feet from where we discussed its representation. Many more of the contributors spoke on the conference theme than ever before, and there were far fewer papers on Iain Sinclair and such like.

Personal favourites this year were Finn Jensen's paper on 'The New River and the Regents Canal' and Professor David Skilton's 'Sweet Thames Run Softly - Constructing a Clean River'. Both drew on topography, history and literature in describing places I've walked and wondered many times. Perhaps the most challenging paper was Alex Murray's paper on 'Gentrification and the New East End'. I think I found it challenging because in a sense, I stood accused. Was I one of the chattering class gawpers who staked a claim to the East End on the basis of some alternative take on tourism? The paper also posed the question about where London writing goes from here, post-Thatcher and somewhat bitterly for Murray, post-Sinclair and Moorcock?

The demonstration of Christian Nold's 'Biomapping', which combined GPS, Galvanic Skin Response and Google Earth, was interesting but perhaps unsuccessful. It was clear that to Nold, London was a city - a complex and changing environment no different to any other city. In a room full of people who give it priviledged consideration, this seemed to fall flat. It was also clear that Nold found his results interesting and diverting, but was not prepared to read any conclusion into them - either scientific or otherwise. Still a fascinating talk however.

It was quite incredible, between papers, to step out into the formal spaces of the Royal Naval College and sit in the sun, still strong at four in the afternoon, staring across at the Millenium Dome or the shiny towers of Docklands. I started each morning with breakfast near the Cutty Sark, watching crowds of naval officers and besuited dignitaries heading for a ship moored nearby. Each evening was spent wandering the small town centre - enjoying the atmosphere of London outside London, and trying in vain to find a pub which could serve a decent pint - finally settling on The Plume of Feathers on Park Vista. I liked Greenwich most particularly because it managed to be a small, bustling and down-to-earth place despite the monumental historical backdrop which is always present on the skyline - in the masts of the Cutty Sark or the tower of the Observatory.

This morning, having sat near to Greenwich Pier every day and watched the commuters dashing for their ferry to work, curiosity overcame me and despite a fair cargo of luggage I found myself heading for the pier to enquire about times. Several companies serve the pier, and something of the old Thames watermen survives in the way they compete for business. A Thames Clippers representative was canny enough to claim to some tourists that the next boat to Westminster was one of theirs, despite it only going to Savoy Pier. Admiring his approach I boarded. I haven't been on the Thames for 25 years - almost to the week I think - so this was special. Making a fair pace we scudded over the murky waves to Canary Wharf, St Katherine's and Bankside. Finally I got to see the rather unimpressive grating under Blackfriars Bridge where my beloved Fleet River empties into the Thames in it's new guise as a sewer. Finally, we reached Savoy and after negotiating a charity fun-run I found myself beside the York Water Gate - subject of David Skilton's opening paper. I'd come full circle, so it was clearly time to head home. Every year I think this conference is beyond my grasp, but somehow I make some sort of sense of it. I'm already looking forward to next year.

Movebook Entry