A Sense of Place

Apologies to those who like their transitions short and efficient, but I’ve been delving back into my favourite philosophical topic of this “between time” when we live neither in London nor Somerset: what it is that makes the country life so appealing, especially to us when for years it was the last thing we wanted?

We spent 20 odd years of our London lives (following spells in Ealing, Leytonstone and Ilford) living in and around Twickenham. Before you all start writing in, you’re right, many people wouldn’t call it London; but since Middlesex was officially abolished and Greater London became a thing, London it is - it even has planes coming into land overhead. And also, Twickenham is actually grimly urban. It has its iconic bits - the rugby ground, and the Thames of course, featuring Eel Pie Island, crucible of the early 60s British Blues scene; and at a push Alexander Pope’s house. But the centre of Twickenham was decimated (don’t write in, I know that’s not what it means, but I’ve abandoned my pedantry and joined the herd) by the opening of Kingston shopping centre. Walk through Twickenham now and it’s all charity shops, bars and takeways. And if you want the full urban experience, walk through at 1130 on a Friday night and watch staggering people vomiting in alleyways and young men squaring up to each other with wobbly menace while their girlfriends squawk threateningly.

"Thus didde Quintin de Coverly, of Twicca's River Bend Land, winne ye Dronken Brawle,
while the ladyes didde crye, 'He is muggynge thee offe, baybe!'"

Forgive me, despite appearances to the contrary I am working my way up to making a point here. It’s that Twickenham today has no centre, no real sense of place. You live in Twickenham by virtue only of your TW1 postcode. So people who live in Twickenham tend to tell you they live in Strawberry Hill or St Margarets (which is code for “we live in an urban village”) or East Twickenham, (which is code for “We could say we lived in Richmond if only there wasn’t a sodding river in the way”). Indeed, at the time we would have told you we lived in St Margarets, which has a villagey sort of vibe, with a butchers and cafes and a park and still near the river. Small wonder we felt no tug to live in the country, when we had all the benefits of a village plus 25 minutes on the train to central London. So what changed? 

We moved to Putney.

We moved to Putney because we wanted to be closer to the centre of London. And indeed we are: five years later and I’m still shocked at how quickly I can find myself in Leicester Square from a standing start. But Putney, it turns out, is a bit of a Twickenham. It has its iconic bits: errr, well the Thames, and by extension the Boat Race. It has genuinely rich history: the Tudors would catch the ferry over from Fulham to play sports; the world’s first fireproof house was built on Putney Heath; Thomas Cromwell was overtaken on his way to prison, on Putney Hill near the end of our road, by a messenger from the King assuring him of the King’s affection. But walk down Putney High Street now and you will see it decimated (hah) by the opening of Westfield Shopping Centre. It’s taking a long slow slide into the world of charity shops, amusement arcades and that harbinger of terminal retail illness, W H Smiths (actually, in an even greater death knell, a shut down branch of W H Smiths).

Putney then and now

And it throngs with queuing traffic. So many cars! Trying to get across Putney bridge by car is one of the most bile accumulating ways to spend an afternoon. I can easily believe it was strolling down Putney High Street in the fumes of stacked up buses that first gave me the idea of moving out. Because there’s nowhere to feel at home here, no sense of place, no sign you are in the centre of something. Carry on strolling and eventually you reach the chichi furniture shops of Parson’s Green. Turn round and stroll the other way and you’ll find yourself in Wimbledon Village (the clue is in the name). But here, all is featureless urban tangle.

I don’t know if I’m making much sense here (as I intimated, this is a kind of circular philosophical ramble that I go on most days). I do know that standing on our roof terrace is a different experience from when we first moved here, when I would gaze towards central London and feel my heart lift at the epic skyline. Now I gaze out and get irritated by the fact nothing matches architecturally, by the endless apartment blocks staring back at me. Am I turning into Prince Charles? No, I’m merely looking for somewhere to belong. I’m looking for a sense of place.

And the city sings back at me the words of Bob Dylan, from a song that is one of the greatest shunting togethers of sentiment and pragmatism, “It ain’t me babe, no no no, it ain’t me babe; it ain’t me you’re looking for.”