Realm of the Peripheral Beings

I was drawn along the path down the back-side of Asda, past the Beehive Pub. The pub sign depicted a smiling woman with a beehive (actual, not hairdo) on her head, reminiscent of a mythical being. Her visage was slightly unworldly and enigmatic.

I reached the river soon after, emerging opposite the impressive green iron railway bridge and across the river from a terminal Pylon jutting out from behind the trees that only partially hid the patch inner city liminality beyond. An area usually devoid of activity other than the barely audible hum of the electricity sub station or the scuttling of a rat under a refuse bin, but currently operating as a temporary fairground.

After observing the scene for a short while I decided to double back. As I did so, glancing down I noticed unusual 'footprints' set into the tarmac. One looked freakishly large, the others freakishly shaped. I imagined what sort of being might be responsible. A deformed Black Shuck maybe. Or some mysterious creature from across the river. A liminal beast rarely seen by human eyes.

I left the scene and followed part of the depressingly named 'Workhouse' cycle route along a stretch between another back-side of Asda and some riverside flats. Following the encounter with Beehive Woman and the footprints of the Liminal Beast my walk had developed a different atmosphere and pace. Before I had been walking swiftly, thinking about lunch and getting back to work. Such trivialities had slipped away as if I'd shifted into a slightly different dimension. Things were slower, calmer and weirder.

Emerging from Rivergate Arcade, I was drawn along Bridge Street and sucked into the main drag leading to the centre. Just beyond the pelican crossing, a man, probably in his 60s,  hunched in a mobility scooter with a sound system attached on a trailer. Out of this pumped loud reggae. The man, sporting a policeman's cap, glasses and stubble, resembled a crumpled and more rough around the edges Blakey from On the Buses. As I passed, a jobsworth shop manager emerged from one of the retail outlets lining the street. 'Reggae Blakey' grudgingly turned down the volume, which was probably loud enough to be drowning out whatever 'musack' the shop was broadcasting inside in an attempt to soften the brains of potential customers. The shop manager was polite and non-agressive. But his rebuke of the man felt like an attack on eccentricity and the imposition of the bland at the expense of the interesting.

As I continued next I passed two buskers, an older man and a girl who may have been his daughter, playing a sort of 60s American hippie folk sound. This complemented the already off-kilter atmosphere of my slow drift.

Near the end of the stretch sitting among the  anonymous faces of resting shoppers was a clown. Full make up, red curly wig, clown clothes. Slightly frayed at the edges: fag on the go, sad resigned face. Like redundant Ronald MacDonald. I'd seen him before. Always sitting and smoking. Never performing.

I headed back to work leaving behind the realm of the Beehive Woman, The Liminal Beast, Reggae Blakey and The Clown. The Realm of the peripheral beings.

Letchworth Garden City: Prisoner of London

In Letchworth, The First Garden City, I found myself at a crossroads. I'd walked a short stretch along the supposedly ancient and prehistoric route of The Icknield way before arriving at the intersection with Norton Road. A point where two different psychogeographies crossed paths.

The Icknield Way is the territory of archaeologists, earth mystery types, ramblers and 'nature writers'. It is said to be one of four ancient trading routes across England, the others being  Watling Street, Ermine Street and Fosse Way.  The notable published guide being that of Edward Thomas, whose steps Robert Macfarlane retraced in 'The Old Ways'.  

Norton, the prisoner of London, is the avatar of Iain Sinclair. Sinclair has attempted to escape London, at least to stop writing about it. The Last Of London marked a sort of winding up, liquidation or retirement. Coincidentally, the British Motorcycle Manufacturer Norton was reported as going into administration the morning I set off for Letchworth. Sinclair, though, will always be associated with London and his spectre will never leave. Even if in Hastings or elsewhere (probably not Letchworth) he  will remain the the Prisoner of London.

The intersection of these rural (Macfarlane) and urban (Sinclair) forms is pertinent. Letchworth was (is) the First Garden City. The first realisation of the vision of Ebeneezer Howard and his Garden City movement, which attempted to create a Utopian settlement combining the best if both worlds where people could live and work.

Letchworth had something of the atmosphere of places like Silver Village, which shared similar self contained Utopian values. All that was required for living: jobs, housing, leisure and municipal facilities  were provided in a tranquil setting independent from the outside.

But at a human level, the place felt more like a suburb.  A distorted Metroland. Their were few people around at nine in the morning. Those occupying an otherwise modern, faux hipster coffee establishment were mainly retirees, discussing Alan Brazil on Sky Sports. Most of the working population appeared to have shipped out to London for the day. I had encountered a crowd of them earlier, trying to burst through the train doors as I alighted and struggled to squeeze through against the tide. An updated scene from Dawn of the Dead . Smart phone zombies with blue faces caused by the reflective glow of their mobile devices. They are transported to the City for the day (every day) to return to a semi-dormitory town to eat and sleep. A semi-dormant place. The original vision of Howard had been disrupted at some point along the way by London, sucking the life out of it.

On my way back to the Rail Station I was a bit disappointed, but by that stage not surprised, to find The Garden City Brewery along with several cafes and shops closed until later in the week (it was Tuesday). While it's physical form has been preserved by heritage bureaucrats, Letchworth has become an outpost dormitory on the outer orbit of the Home Counties commuter belt. The town itself  and it's mobile device  fixated zombie 'dormers' are, like Norton, prisoners of London.

The Walker of 'The Worst'.

Recently, Peterborough won the dubious accolade of  'worst place to live' in the UK, as voted for by readers of the website 'Ilivehere.co.uk'. Thus the city beat Huddersfield and Rochdale (2nd and 3rd place respectively) to be named most 'crap town' in Britain. The news quickly spread and was replicated in The Cambridge News, The Sun and The Daily Mail. Lazy list journalism with pop up ads.

The concept of 'crap towns' was brought to the fore a few years ago in the publication 'The Idler', along with 'crap jobs'. Books followed on both, handily sized for the toilet library. Around the same time I remember borrowing a book from the official library, title and author long forgotten, in which the protagonist visited various provincial towns and gave them similar reviews to the sort found in 'Crap Towns' before returning to London and vowing never to visit the provinces again. On the back of the book was a cartoon of a map of the UK with a weatherman pointing his stick. The 'outlook' was steaming turds at various intervals, replacing the usual suns, clouds and occluded fronts.

'Ilivehere.co.uk' is, dare I say it, a more crap version of the original 'crap towns' stuff produced by The Idler. If you can bear to wade through the advert ridden pages and constant pop up requests to 'like' them on Facebook, you will find readers scathing reviews of towns and cities they have lived in or visited. The Idler and the forgotten crap map writer did it better. But there was always something a bit mocking patronising and smug about the concept.

'No Town is a crap town if you learn to look at it without faecally tinted spectacles', wrote Jonathan Meades. I think he's got a point. To the eye of the urban wanderer, or architectural observers like Meades or Nairn, all towns and cities have things worth 'noticing' and and have interesting things to offer, as well as things they would be better off without. Although, to be fair, Jonathan Meades and most urban wanderers are transitory and do not have to stay. For those stuck in the crappest circumstances the perspective is no doubt different. Crap circumstances - shit housing, lack of employment opportunities and poor amenities - exist in all towns and cities (and villages) to some degree, some just have less of them or are better at hiding them than others.

This brings me back to Peterborough. The city has been much maligned over the years. It can't be denied it has elements of the stereotypical crap town aplenty.  A profusion of chain stores in the centre  and particularly in the monolithic 1980s Queensgate Shopping Centre. Street drinkers congregate and argue at the abandoned statue plinth at the Rec before leaving behind offerings of crushed Superbock tins and fag ends. The intermittent (in the centre at least) cycle lanes/paths are ridden on badly by iffy looking blokes in hoods on crap mountain bikes. People don't smile much. But these phenomena are hardly unique to Peterborough.

In the early 80s there was an air of optimism surrounding Peterborough.  Designated a New Town in the late 1960s, the city  was still expanding. The Queensgate had just been opened, by Queen Beatrix of The Netherlands no less. The actor Roy Kinnear beamed cheerfully  into the camera whilst dressed as a Roman Soldier during a TV ad campaign promoting the city. And in 1984 sculptor Antony Gormley was commissioned by the Peterborough Development Corporation to produce a work entitled 'Places to Be'. The title seemingly reflecting a vision of the city as a place at the cutting edge, a city of the future where life would be exemplary.

Gormleys offering to the city consisted of three human figures. One has it's arms outstretched to the sky as if praising some unseen deity (Peterborough Development Council perhaps?). The second with its hand shielding the sun from its eyes gazes into the distance, possibly towards the future (or maybe these days towards a lost future of Newtown utopia). The third, and possibly the most interesting is a walker.

The optimistic visions of The Peterborough Development Corporation, Gormley and Roy Kinnear did not quite turn out as planned. Perhaps symbolic of this was the vandalism of Gormley's three figures in 2006 when they were sited in the City's Thorpe Meadow. They were subsequently relocated out of reach on top of three buildings in Cathedral Square.

The Walker strides across the roof of Queensgate, free from the bustle inside. Heading toward and beyond the Cathedral. Maybe striding out of the city in disappointment that the Utopian New Town vision didn't quite come off and seeking to avoid further encounters with vandals. Or alternatively, a symbol of the possibilities of walking the city beyond the obvious, centrally and beyond to the outer reaches of the borders marked by the 'parkways' and cycle Green Ring. I hadn't been aware of The Walker until now, about a year after I became a commuter to Peterborough and vowed (and failed) to spend most of my lunchtimes exploring the area within  a thirty minute radius of work. I'd quickly lost momentum on the project. The sight the sculpture provided a renewed optimism. There were still things unexplored and to be 'noticed'. I needed to get back out there, making the most my limited workers lunchtime. Underneath the Walker I made a New Year's resolution to get back on track.  From this perspective Peterborough didn't seem such a crap town but one that requires deeper explorations.