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| philomel |
Tags: East London (E)
I need to get my writing mitts back on and thought some gentle stream of consciousness blogging would help.
Hackney Wick feels like it is in another country, Berlin or some Eastern Bloc city. I walked back from there last night in the early hours, under the Eastway and along Wick Road.
Great warehouses with heavy iron doors and blank windows. A barrel fire by the canal glowing brighter than the streetlights. Sightless structures peeling paint like fungus. Concrete and brick and steel supports crumbling and rusting. A tree nursery with a host of waist-high plastic-wrapped saplings. The constant rumble of traffic from the flyover and the echo of bass and chattering from the bowels of converted buildings. Everything completely deserted and the clop of my heels beating my journey home.
Back on Wick Road the looming tower blocks rise up on either side like cliffs. Some of the balconies were lit but the bulk of houses were in darkness. There was no-one around and I drifted ghost-like through the deserted streets. Around and above, surrounded by the collected breath of sleeping men and women and children.
The area feels like it's waiting for something, sighing, expectant. From the bridge you can see across to the wire fences and Olympic site. There is so much space.
I like walking through London alone at night. Everything is strange, anything is possible.
