Went for another walk.
I walked townward from Coolbawn, taking my time. Historically, this was one of the richer portions of the city, being on the southern side, and near the river. Historical wealth means old limestone walls obscuring fine but neglected houses, but more importantly it means an abundance of trees and huge plots of overgrowth. Meanwhile, dockborne industry had crawled out of the sullen Lee, and had eventually amounted to the same thing: flats of concrete growing moss, fringed with marsh. The two zones should be at odds, but the the shared overgrowth makes the transition inconspicuous.
leaves
I’d always loved the docklands for this reason: the stacks and warehouses have turned inoffensive in their dilapidated old age, skirted with trees and held in by the old quay. From the train tracks across the river, it seems a serene example of urban decay tempered by victorian foresight (the trees, its mainly the trees.). I thought the warehouses had been largely abandoned, and fancied exploring the vacant lots, silent pieces of an older city. I thought about that quite a lot.
dilapidated
I never imagined there would be such a volume of traffic passing down here, showing up my ignorance. The Marina is some sort of forgotten organ. Despite the tired weeping concrete and dilapidation, there are cars everywhere; articulated lorries thrum past me with care, like workmen in the library. Actual workmen drive in casual columns up the avenue – oh the Avenue.
I kick the endless drift of leaves, think of it like wading through cornflakes.
leaf kicker 1
leaf kicker 2
leaf kicker 3
Ben Frost tells me this whole area will turn the bright orange of shocking plant biology very soon, and then this place will be even more beautiful. Nothing holds a city together like age tempered with grown trees. Cities also rely on neglected amenities such as these for activities; rowing clubs, walkers and their dogs, the permissible, unavoidable crimes. Where would you prefer the prostitutes and the drugs and the racing circuits? A friend once saw a couple having the sex, lying in the middle of the mile-long night-time avenue. I take my hat off to them.
Those trees roof the length of the avenue, then when the avenue becomes the waterfront, extend in both directions, covering the gravel and walkers and those dogs. Tended grass stretches out from under the trees, down to those old blackened limestone blocks which cap the quay wall, fenced by ancient eroded railing from those old foresightful victorians.
nside
High on Greenwich Park, there is a small stone and railing enclosure, no more than perhaps two metres across. Inside, tussocky grass grows around a small stone which is, apparently, all that remains of a small Roman temple. Another friend says the temple stone cursed him for leaning his bicycle against it, making him crash.
There’s a similar enclosure on a similar hillock on the Marina: being reasonably sure it wasn’t a Lee-side temple, I’d always wondered what it was from the far side of the river. Erected in 1854, it was a 140 ft mast that took 180 years to grow, a gift to the city.
At the very end of the Marina, a similar mound. Sitting on an enormous block, what remains of some old waterbath, surrounded by four small wrought iron pillars. The neck of the waterbath has little lizards on each face, poking their heads out from moulded leaves. In the ruined dish, some fine repeating pattern has disappeared. The pillars and the dish have rusted so that the grain of the iron is visible, and piles of rust accumulate at their feet.
dish
The mound the dish sits upon has been partially removed for a hundred-foot steel pylon, it’s four feet enshrined in smooth concrete and barbed wire.
pylon
I rub those rusted shards that remain into my palm, and think of tetanus.
