Tudor Judo

A couple of people have been asking me recently if I know any quirky stuff about Shooters Hill. To be honest, it's not my manor, but I always keep an eye out, and yesterday, whilst looking for something totally different, I found this tiny snippet.

Pretty much everything I read about the area tends to be about people travelling through it - it was the main road to Dover (immortalised in the opening of A Tale of Two Cities, as the Dover mail coach lumbers over the hill.) It often turns up as a notorious haunt of highwaymen and footpads, but in the past I've really only read about 18th and 19th Century villains.

But yesterday, whilst looking up the history of Britain's penal system (it's a long story) I found a strange little (uncredited) paragraph that describes a much earlier attack - and one where some weird sort of martial art seems to have been applied for the purpose of relieving an Elizabethan gentleman of his cash...

"Faith, I have had a foolish, odd mischance that angers me. Coming over Shooter's Hill, there came a fellow to me like a sailor and asked me for money. Whilst I stayed my horse to draw out my purse, he takes advantage of a little bank and leaps behind me, whips my horse away and - with a sudden jerk, I know not how - threw me at least three yards out of my saddle. I never was so robbed in all my life."

Sadly I know no more about the incident - the book in question does not tell us where the quote comes from and after that just goes on to talk about 'eight idle wandering poor' who stole a cartload of cheese, which, if there was ever a woodcut of the event, would just invite a caption competition.

But the idea of some weird technique that the 'sailor' used is curious. Perhaps a move he picked up on his travels? Who knows...

A Use For The Rotunda?

Rather slow off the mark this morning, folks, thanks to a tedious hacking incident with Twitter. Apologies to anyone who discovered rather more than they needed to about "The Phantom's" love life...

All fixed now, I hope - thanks to everyone who let me know about the security breach.

But onto happier things. You may remember Robbie, who plays with local band The Mores. Well, he's getting married to his 'Amazonian photographer' (what an image that conjures up...) and wants to have the wedding somewhere around Woolwich.

I don't normally cover wedding-venue questions on the main blog any more, since they got so frequently asked that they've got their own page these days, but something he's been saying intrigues me.

He says " I have been dealing with Major Gleeson on the matter of hiring the Rotunda for our party. All was going well, we went to have a look at it, he seemed fairly excited by the idea, saying nobody had ever done anything like that before (that's what I like to hear!), and thought it could be done.

He came back with a fairly stiff figure for the hire charge, but we managed to swallow it, until today when he called to say that the fire regs guy had just had a look, and would only allow us to have 60 guests in there! No good. So I am currently trying to negotiate some sort of fire safety situation with the army, possibly hiring a fire engine to sit outside for the day, but it is looking like it might be a shade too pricey for us."

Before I get onto Robbie's next question, which of course, is about alternative venues, let's just think about this.

A few months ago, I was very worried about the Rotunda, and I continue to be concerned about what will happen to it - when we discussed it before, we wondered if it could be done up and used for dignitaries during the Olympics - but using it as a wedding venue afterwards would bring in money to pay for its upkeep and give us that all important 'legacy' that everyone's talking about. I know it's not an obvious area for the type of people who can afford such places, but I suspect that word might get around and it could be a newly trendy spot (not least from Household Cavlary people...)

The reason why the fire safety guy must be concerned about it is, I presume, the somewhat fragile condition the place is in - but it it was given proper upgrades and facilities, it's surely big enough to take more than 60 people - not least because of the space around it, now that the big guns are gone. It has a wonderful green area around it, it's not that hard to travel to and it could make some serious cash for the Army, who own it.

I truly hope that Robbie manages to work something out with the Major - the guy's a good bloke, charged with an impossible task of protecting a truly unique building with no cash. If it works as a wedding venue once, perhaps he could be persuaded to petition for money as a long-term investment.

In the meanwhile, though, we have to assume that Robbie and his Amazonian Beauty (don't you just long for them to have a Midsummer Night's Dream-themed wedding - with the pair of them dressed as Theseus and Hippolyta, her being given away by Oberon, Titania being head bridesmaid and the Rude Mechanicals as the ushers? I'd pay good money to hear Bottom's best-man speech...) have to make alternative arrangements.

I've already directed him towards the Phantom Shindigs page, but there may be a bit more thinking-cap required. He says:

"We are really desperate to have our wedding party somewhere in Woolwich, we think it is a fantastic area with so much potential, and we have a brilliant opportunity to get a large number of people to come and see the place.

I am really running out of ideas for suitably quirky places for us to have our party, we'll be expecting around 200 people or so, and we don't have too much time left, especially if the Rotunda isn't possible.

We really don't want to do anything that is too traditional, we have been trying to do something that shows how amazing an area this could be if people just use a bit of imagination, and realize it's potential. If you can think of anywhere, however weird, indoors, outdoors, derelict, someone's house, it doesn't matter, I would hugely appreciate your thoughts."

My first thought would be Peggy Middleton House - I don't actually know what state it's in just now I haven't been to that area for ages - but if it's a shell, it would be a great bow-out for the place - very grungy (good luck persuading the Council...)

Another, slightly left-field idea would be to contact the Council Film Unit and ask them what they have on their books - I bet they have abandoned warehouses etc.

Woolwich isn't quite my area - but it definitely IS some Phantophiles' manor - so - any ideas, guys?

Deptford And The Founding Of The National Trust

I don't normally put two Old-Photo Days so close to each other, but I was reading in bed last night and was astonished to see this picture of Sayes Court in a book from the 1920s.

I'd always assumed that John Evelyn's house was demolished in antiquity, but here was a photo of it, in glorious Sepia-Vision. To be honest it wasn't what I'd imagined, but hey - Wonderful London told me it was his old gaff, and who was I to disagree?

Turns out that it's only part of the place Czar Peter the Great trashed on his gap-year visit to Deptford. The main mansion where Evelyn wrote his diary, tended his beloved garden and entertained Sir Christopher Wren and Sam Pepys was demolished in 1728 for no good reason that I can see. What was left suffered the ignoble fate of being turned into St Nicholas Parish Workhouse.

Things got worse - by 1852 it was an emigration depot, by 1853 a clothing factory and by 1856 just part of a bundle of land sold to the Admiralty, who promptly started demolishing it under the Metropolitan Building Act. They can't have got very far. The picture above is undated but there is no mention in the book that it's an old photo of something that's been demolished.

Things started to look up for the old place in 1869, when William John Evelyn, a descendant of the diarist, bought back as much of the old estate as he could. He made a nice park for the Deptford people, and brought plants for it from Wotton in Surrey, Evelyn's other house, which was, presumably, still in the family. He turned the house itself into almshouses - a bit nicer than a workhouse, n'est ce pas?

It all sounds rather charming - the 10-acre park had a bandstand, and a neo-classical building that had once been the dockyard's model-house, which would be a museum and library.

It was all going rather well. In 1884 Evelyn had a brainwave. Chatting to Octavia Hill, a well-known preservationist, he suggested that Sayes Court, with its eminent connections both from an intellectual and (slightly dodgy) royal standpoint should be saved for the nation in perpetuity. Trouble was, there was no organisation that could do it legally.

Nevertheless, Hill contacted her friend Robert Hunter ( a localish boy, from Camberwell), to try to thrash out a way it could be done. Several suggestions were made for a new Commons and Gardens Trust that could take stewardship of important buildings.

It took ten years of wrangling for the new, snappily re-named National Trust to emerge, far too late for poor old Sayes Court. Like the doomed Euston Arch, which died whilst the modern preservation movement built up a head of steam (read about the plans to rebuild it using the stones found whilst dredging the waterways for the Olympic site here,) it was to be a sacrificial lamb on the altar of Progress.

By 1886 only six acres remained, and Evelyn could only afford to dedicate an acre and a half to the public without the help of the fledgling NT.

I'm still having a few problems working out exactly when the house keeled over. I've found records of hits to the Victorian terrace nearby during WWII, but nothing to the house. I'm sure someone can put me right.

Whatever, by the 50s it wasn't there any more. A 'modern' park was built, and Convoys Wharf sprawled across the rest. Heaven only knows what will happen to it next...

Walking Back To Happiness

Tony asks:

"For reasons best known to myself I'm planning to use a free day coming up to walk from Greenwich into the West End, something I've wanted to for a long time. However, I'm stuck on which is the best route.

Taking the Thames Path on the north side of the Thames seems the most obvious route. It takes in a number of classic sites - Canary Wharf, Wapping, The Prospect of Whitby etc. However, my loyalty to South London makes me wonder about the mysteries of the southern route - I know far less about the areas I'll be going through.

Can anyone recommend one path over the other (I won't have time to do both, alas)? Or is there perhaps a third way - Evelyn St, Jamaica Road? I'm looking for history, sights I haven't seen before, a chance to experience a different side of London."

The Phantom rubs spectral hands with glee. This is the sort of question I live for...

At first sight, yes, the Thames Path to the north does seem to offer delights - and I'm not pretending for a moment that it's not an extremely pleasant affair, especially if you're into the ancient pubs of Wapping. A walk through Canary Wharf will yield all kinds of hidden joys - I love the new glass city, but the history and old architecture isn't completely gone - in fact its hidden nature makes it even more fun to find. And short deviations later in the route take you to wonders such as Wiltons Music Hall and St Georges in the East (who have got our cast-off church tower...) not to mention St Katherine's Dock and the Tower.

But the path isn't always distinct, and while I can't claim perfection on the southern route either, let me be a cheerleader for the south in this post (as opposed to all the others, ahem) and tell you a few of the highlights I enjoy most about the walk between Greenwich and Tower Bridge (after that I'm guessing you're already familiar with the South Bank, though maybe it would be worth another post sometime to deal with that. I'm a Greenwich-oholic but I'm not beyond spending far too much time wandering round the rest of the capital...)

The first thing I would recommend is the Thames Path National Trail Guide, by David Sharp. I got mine from the Visitors Centre in Greenwich but I'm sure Waterstones have it too. If memory serves it's about twelve quid - but it may have been updated to include the new bit east of the barrier. I like it because it covers both sides of the river on the same page when it gets to London, and it tells you good things to look out for along the way.

I can't put my hands on it at the moment, so I'll have to talk about the Southern side from memory - I'm sure other people will chip in with things you shouldn't miss too.

At the moment the start is a bit inauspicious, as it involves a trudge across the bridge on Creek Road, but hopefully when the building work is done(fingers crossed) we'll have a nice footbridge connecting Millennium Quay with Greenwich. Don't miss the slightly creepy statue of Czar Peter the Great and his even creepier dwarf...
You can walk up past, on one side, new build flats, on the other side some old piers, then fiddle your way up a small cobbled street behind old warehouses. Planning permissions currently being haggled over for the site, so see it now before it all changes (again.)

Continue until you get to Watergate Street, where the walls for the old wharves get in the way of the path. Still - it will give you a good excuse to see the wartime stretcher railings around the flats there.

If you get the opportunity to divert and pop to St Nicholas Church, it's a fantastic sight inside, with a famous wood carving by local-ish boy Grinling Gibbons, but even if it's not open, it's worth the detour just for the gateposts with the sinister skull and crossbones. Legend has it they were the models for pirate flags; I don't know if it's true, but I don't really care. It's a good story. Just round from there is the Dog & Bell pub, a bit of a Mecca for real ale enthusiasts round here.

Cut through what's left of poor old John Evelyn's estate, Sayes Court (I'm convinced the mulberry bush in the park there is a remnant of his garden) and through the more modern estate to get back onto the Thames Path. It will lead you up past the groovy ex-council block that was turned private and became the subject of the TV docco last year. It has good 'head' sculptures round it.

The bits all around Surrey Docks are fascinating - in that there are still little pockets of history nestled among the 1980s reworking. Just be aware that if you start walking round the docks, it's lovely - but a loooooong way round.

From now on, it gets really interesting - and frustrating - in equal measures. I keep meaning to log all the gates onto bits of path by the Thames that have been gated and locked outside new-build flats to find out whether or not it's been done illegally. I'm willing to bet developers have been forced to create access, but when no one's looking they've just locked the gates - there seem to be an awful lot of restricted access places in builds that are too young not to have had a Section 106 access order stamped on them. A project for the future - and perhaps one for the Ramblers Association.

Even with the annoying detours around modern flats, there's still much to see. The City Farm, for example, which always manages to be closed whenever I'm there, but which advertises random produce available if you don't mind carting a leg of organic pork around with you on your walk.

Hmm. What else? Oh, yes. The old Custom Houses are fun, and further on, I take great delight in arrogantly marching straight through the Hilton Hotel which has annoyingly plonked itself in the way of the Thames Path (though I've never had the gall to traipse the bike through too.)

By now, you'll be coming up towards Rotherhithe, which, frankly, is worth a trip in itself. The ventilator houses for the Rotherthithe tunnel are curious, one each side - at least I'm assuming that's what they are.

Just before you get to the villagey part of Rotherhithe, don't miss one of the saddest sculptures in town, Dr Salter's Dream, depicting Doctor Alfred Salter, who stayed in Bermondsey at a time of serious contagious illness to tend the sick at the cost of his own family - his daughter died, aged 8, from scarlet fever. Dr Salter now sits on a bench in perpetuity, fondly watching his daughter play with a pet cat by the river wall.

Moving onto Rotherhithe, if you have an opportunity to nip into the Brunel Engine House Museum, it's worth it. It will take about 20 minutes to see the exhibits and another hour and a half to talk to the passionate curator there. They do nice cake.

The Sands Film Studios almost certainly won't be open to the public on your visit, but they occasionally have guided tours and I would highly recommend joining one if you can. The also have a very eccentric film club, where you can see extremely obscure movies for free - just put a donation in the film cannister at the end.

Also in Rotherhithe, the Mayflower pub (the esteemed Dame was unimpressed with the fare last time she visited, but a pal visited the other night and reckons it's improved. On the plus side you can fulfil your US postage stamp requirements at the bar...

Oh - and look out for the Charity Children on St Mary's, a classic riverside church.

Right. Where are we... Ah, yes. More sundry Bermondsey new-builds with the odd bit of Tudor ruins and curious stuff (that's where the guide comes in handy, telling you what the hell it all is - and where to go when the path runs out) before reaching the area around Shad Thames street/ Butler's Wharf, Tower Bridge etc.

I could go on, but I'm really out of the blog's area now. Besides, this post is indecently long. Tony - whichever path you choose, you'll get a great view of the other bank of the river as you walk. And let's face it - unless you're planning emigrating to Mars anytime soon, presumably you'll have other days off when you can explore different routes. Take the Clipper home afterwards to see yet another view of the Thames.

Ahhh. I almost wish I was coming with you. But I think I'll leave the weather to warm up first...

Greenwich Bird

"Thou art an arrante whore and came from Greenwiche!"

In early 17th Century Petworth, it would seem, that was about the worst thing you could say to anyone. In fact, it was so offensive in the fair Sussex town to imply that a woman came from Greenwich that it was considered worth going to court over.

I don't know. First it was Greenwich geese, then barbers, and now, thanks to the marvellous Julian Watson and his friend Peter Jerrome from the Petworth Society, I have a new insult to add to the Greenwich cannon of execrable terms - "Greenwich Bird."

The court case 0f 1603 centres around an innkeeper's wife, Margaret Goodman, (presumably quite used to some choice language in her line of work) who was so offended by one Thomas Westdeane accusing her, in the open streets of Petworth, of coming from Greenwich that she took the trouble to gussy up a case against the bounder.

Actually, as Jerrome points out, this would have been a church court, and it was, in those days a bit of a case of 'accuse or be accused' - if you didn't do something public about a slur on your character, it was not only assumed that the remark was apt, but it might mean a case against you from the very bishop to whom you should have gone to complain in the first case.

Goodman prepared for the case, by lining herself up three stellar witnesses who had heard Westdeane call her a "Greenwich Birde" outside the mercer John Bywimble's shop.

Before we go any further I guess I should explain the insult - though I doubt it takes much imagination to work it out. Greenwich at the time was a busy port, full of sailors - and ladies who enjoyed entertaining them. Margaret had been accused of whoring.

Joanna Curtyes was inside the shop at the time, "buying of wares," and heard the plaintiff and the accused coming along the street. They were clearly having a right old ding-dong, and Joanna heard "angrie words betwixt them."

Westdeane told Goodman that she was not honest. "Oh yeah?" she said (or words to that effect.) "How's that then?" He replied she was a whore.

The storm in this particular teacup getting splashier by the moment, Margaret Goodman called over the good mercer, Joanna and William Mose, a yeoman who just happened to be around at the time, and dared Westdeane to repeat what he'd just said. Which he did. "Thou art an arrante whore and came from Greenwiche."

A bit later on Westdeane made things worse for himself when he asked Joanna if she was going to bear witness at the court and what she would say. She told him she'd tell what she heard, and he replied that he would teach a whore to spit in a man's face. Joanna reckoned that, in her view, the slander would mean that Margaret "amongste grave men within the parishe of Petworth...is of lesse estimacon than before she was."

William Mose agreed that the barney between the accuser and accused took place, and he thought the original argument had been about Margaret's brother, but he know hear any more details. He also heard Westdeane call Margaret a whore and a Greenwich bird, and what's more, John Bywimble had heard it too.

Bywimble himself (don't you just love that name?) didn't appear, but a tailor, Mark Upfield, confirmed that the pair had been "walkinge togeather verye discontentedlye and brawlinge one with another."

Oddly, there doesn't seem to be an outcome recorded from this suit, though given the weight of witness evidence and the lack of anything coming from Westdeane himself, it's probable that Margaret won her case and he would have faced a fine or possibly paid public penance in white sheets for his "incontinence".

So there we go - an example of someone else's local history having a direct message about our own. The image, by the way, is part of the testimony of William Mose. In the middle of the fourth line down, if you're sharp-eyed, you'll see the insult that started it all, still, outrageous today in some parts of Sussex, I understand...

And Then There Was One

Continuing from our transport-related discussions yesterday, Roger asked a question I've often wondered about (and then told me the answer - the best kind of ask) - where's the third boat on the Woolwich Ferry just now?

Hull.

That's right. Hull, where the third boat is undergoing a major refit - not really a surprise given they're all 46 years old. What puzzles me is how it got there - there's no way it would ever fit on even the lowest of low-loaders. So presumably it arrived either by chugging around the coast under its own steam (well, diesel) or majestically travelling by tug. That would have been a sight.

I must find some more out about the Woolwich Ferry. I know there's a book by the splendid Julian Watson (with Wendy Gregory, I believe) called Free For All; must seek it out. West London may have more bridges than us, but I think travelling by boat is so much more romantic. Yes, even with all those fumes and queues. And only two boats.

John Julius Angerstein - Monster Hunter

What do we remember John Julius Angerstein for? A railway? A pub? A grubby industrial estate on Greenwich Peninsula? Starting the National Gallery? Some curious theories on interior ventilation? A faux-naive 'accidental' encroachment on Blackheath? As Catherine the Great's illegitimate son? Being a Lloyds Name? Abolitionist slave owner?

I'm willing to bet that whichever of the above - or the many other curious things about his life stick in the mind, the one that hasn't occurred to you so far, but will do forever more is as The Man Who Wrote The Monster Hunter's Handbook.

Of course it didn't have a title anywhere near as snappy as that. He named it An Authentic Account of the Barbarities lately Practised by the Monsters! Being an Unprecedented and Unnatural Species of Cruelty, Exercised by a Set of Men Upon Defenceless and Generally Handsome Women.

Now, those last three words will be important, as will the plural on the word 'monster' - but I think I'm getting ahead of myself. "Monsters, Phantom? What the bloomin' hell are you talking about?"

Well, THE Monster, actually. The London Monster, to be completely accurate (which the rest of this post almost certainly won't be...) A chillingly bizarre 18th Century precursor to all the other perverts, murderers and bugaboos that have stalked the streets of the capital ever since - and a direct link with Jack the Ripper a century later.

But more than that, he was a phenomenon - a classic example of mass hysteria that created its own monster between 1788 and 1790 - and, like all such things, with results that were ridiculous, comic and, ultimately rather tragic.

And in the middle of all this, John Julius Angerstein, a successful merchant living, at the time, in the heart of London's fashionable St James, who volunteered to be the Van Helsing of the story and, in doing so, probably fanned the flames of panic rather than saving the world.

The Monster's speciality was in stabbing women in the thigh or buttocks (naturally the papers and cartoonists of the day seized upon the buttocks-part) as they walked along the street. He'd follow them, muttering obscenities, then quickly plunge his knife into their skirts and disappear.

Sometimes he changed his tactics and carried a nosegay that he would invite girls to sniff. It contained a knife that would cut their faces. Personally I find it a bit odd that any girl would sniff a stranger's posy (and that sounds much ruder than I intended) when all the town talked about was of a monster who got his kicks through such an act but hey - we're not talking sense here, we're talking the Mob.

The newspapers and coffee houses were full of it. Poems were written, ballads sung and lurid caricatures scribbled. Some women became so panicky about walking the same streets as the Monster that they started wearing specially-fashioned copper petticoats. Those who couldn't afford armour contented themselves with cork-rumps (no, I'm not entirely sure what one of those is either) or even giant porridge pots placed over their posteriors - thankfully the fashion for massive skirts meant that the porridge pots probably didn't show much.

Monster Mania only began to take crazy proportions, however, when John Julius Angerstein took it upon himself to start collating all the evidence (despite the handful of John Fielding's Bow Street Runners, the police force was still a bumbling mixture of elderly beadles, useless night watchmen and part time constables, though apparently the Chelsea Pensioners weren't to be crossed...) and create a reward for the capture of the Monster.

The grand sum of one hundred pounds was offered for the capture of the monster, and Angerstein created a series of posters declaring the reward.

Suddenly everyone went berserk. People were accused left, right and centre and it only took someone to point a finger for a mob to form out of nowhere and attack some poor guy for no reason whatsoever.

This had the unfortunate side effect that pickpockets who had been caught by their quarry, merely shouted "Ooh - look! There's the Monster! Quick! He's getting away!" and the poor gent would be chased and beaten up by a crowd of mad people while the pickpocket got away with the loot.

It got to a point where some doughty fellows formed their own group called The No Monster Club and wore badges to prove they weren't the Big Bad, which of course worked really, really well and was completely unfakeable.

Angerstein did his own 'investigations,' which involved him interviewing each of the 'victims' (not all turned out to be - some lied or even cut themselves, for various sordid reasons, the most common being that the monster was only supposed to attack beautiful women, so being attacked by the Monster was a declaration that you were a gorgeous creature...) and making notes, much of which seemed to focus around how attractive he found each one.

His notes got more detailed the prettier the girl, but the annoying thing was that no real picture of the Monster appeared. He was tall, short, thin, fat, big-nosed, small-featured - in short, he could be anyone.

Eventually, just as Angerstein was creating his Monster Handbook, a guy was arrested, and charges (very probably) trumped up. Enough of the women agreed that artificial-flower maker Rhynwick Williams was their man to get him convicted. Despite his cast-iron alibis for several of the attacks and good character witness statements, in the eyes of the mob, he was the Monster.

Williams wasn't actually hanged, which was what I was fearing as I read Jan Bondeson's The London Monster - Terror on the Streets in 1790, (heartily recommended.) He was imprisoned, and people used to go to gawp at him in gaol - using the excuse that they were going to buy his fake flowers - and commented on how weedy and insignificant the Monster looked, unsurprising, since he probably wasn't the Monster.

Reading Bondeson's book, it occurs to me that the Monster was probably many-headed - that the hysteria provoked copycat attacks and there wasn't actually any one Monster but a whole bunch of weirdos who got their kicks from poking women with sharp objects. Angerstein says as much in the title of his pamphlet. The attacks lessened when Williams was banged up, but they didn't stop entirely.

For me this is as much the product of the times as one guy in particular. There was revolution and mass hysteria oing on in Europe; we had our own, almost Carry-On panic. And John Julius Angerstein, however well-intentioned, probably didn't really help matters with his posters, leaflets -and that massive reward...

Quiet Shame

Back in September, during Open House weekend, I went to visit the Royal Artillery Barracks in Woolwich - a curious building with a curious history. But I'm not talking about that today, I'm more concerned with something I learned that morning which has been troubling me ever since.

Our group was shown round the barracks by the man in charge - always good to get the head honcho - and I took the opportunity to ask about the fate of the Rotunda.

For those of you who aren't aware of this very, very odd building, tucked away behind a screen of trees and a fence of barbed wire (the photos here are the best I could do back in the summer - there's just no way of really seeing it any more...), it's a weird tent-like structure, which started out as exactly that - a tent.

John Nash built it in 1814, in the grounds around Carlton House Gardens. It was the centrepiece of six tents created to celebrate the defeat of Napoleon (so what if it was all a bit previous...)

Everyone liked the tent so much that Nash decided that it was too good just to take down again, so he hit upon the idea of surrounding the tent walls with brick, and covering the canvas roof with a rather splendid, sweeping lead version to protect the original. I guess the equivalent would be if someone put a giant metal dome over the top of the O2.

The whole thing was moved to Woolwich in 1820, to become the Museum of Artillery - which it was for about 180 years. It even got a revamp in 1975.

When the Woolwich Arsenal was turned into what it is now, it was decided to create Firepower, and all the stuff was moved from the Rotunda to the new museum. They're still moving the last cannons, I understand. Here's one:

What one makes of Firepower is an individual matter. But the question of what happens to the Rotunda next is one that I'd never fully got to the bottom of.

It's completely closed, with high fences and the aforementioned trees, though it would have once had fantastic views - for miles around. I knew that the place had reverted to the MOD so I took the opportunity of asking our guide what would be happening.

Frankly, after he told me (he was completely, and typically militarily up-front about it) the rest of the weekend was a bit of a downer for me and I've been trying to get my head around it ever since.

When the final cannons go (and they may have gone by now, though I doubt it - they're big buggers) the place will 'have the lights turned off.' That, to you and me, means it will just be left, to moulder away. No access, no views, just a quiet rotting into the earth.

It's economics, of course, that dictate this. The guy told me it takes sixty-odd grand a year just to stop the place collapsing (it faces special architectural problems due to its 'unusual' construction) and he has other drains on his finances - not least huge amounts of military memorabilia that finds its way into his hands which he's supposed to lovingly curate.

I expressed my distress at this news, trying hard to lower my voice from the strangulated squeak it had become. He said that he would be interested in talking to anyone that could make a financial go of leasing it - after all - it's a liability - sixty grand a year before you do anything to it (and I'm not sure if they're even going to spend that when they finally go...)

I would SO love to see something happen to this - but what - and with what kind of cash? The place is listed (of course) but there's no real stick to beat the MOD with if they just let it moulder. It's out of the way - I can't even see what it could be used for - but hell - this is a John Nash building that is at the very least 'exotic.' Surely there's something...

Michael Faraday's Shed

Well - not actually his real shed - but a teeny-tiny installation/museum that's been set up inside the old shipyard's clerk's 'office' (looks exactly like a bog-standard B&Q garden shed to me) at Trinity Buoy Wharf.

Being such an artistic crew, the guys at TBW couldn't just leave a boring old shed on the site, so Ana Ospina has decorated it, using antiques, found objects and things 'of the sea' such as fishing nets and those lovely glass weights that I only seem to see decorating the homes of friends who live by the sea, rather than actually at the seaside itself, to create some sort of imaginary 'study' for Victorian science-hero Michael Faraday.

If that sounds a bit random, there is a reason for putting it there - Faraday worked out of Trinity Buoy Wharf for some years, helping to develop lighthouses, in between inventing the Faraday Cage - a structure based on Benjamin Franklin's somewhat risky studies in storm-management (using kites) ensuring that lightning or other electromagnetic charges strike round something rather than through it, and discovering the Faraday Effect, which is something to do with the polarisation of light in relation to magnetic fields, the details of which, frankly, evade me.

Faraday's work on the Trinity Buoy Wharf lighthouses (my favourite mental image is definitely of how they were tested - some poor sod used to be sent up to Shooters Hill of dark winter's night to see if they could spot it...) is being celebrated in this minute work of art - with the usual sound effects, words, images and atmosphere - and it's really rather fun. The artist has a beautiful (but tricky to navigate) website here

When I first saw The Faraday Effect (the shed is named after the phenomenon I don't understand above), it was tucked round the back, next to Fat Boy's Diner, but I went back the other day and noticed it was gone.

Slightly worried, I had a poke around and realised it's been moved to the wharf-front, much closer to the lighthouse itself, not far from the entrance to Jem Finer's Longplayer, which I'll get onto another day. It's open every weekend (as is Longplayer) between 11am and 5pm

Tudor Barn Bar & Brasserie

I've been meaning to get over to test out the new cafe at the Tudor Barn for a long time - and my failing to get into Blackheath Golf Club on Open Day (all down to v. narrow slot of entry which, of course, I missed - but I thought I'd chance my arm anyway by having lunch at the restaurant, which I'll SWEAR used to be open to the public - I'm SURE I saw it advertised in one of the free mags, though I guess that was when I used to actually get free mags...) gave me the perfect excuse .

I've been looking forward to it - it's a fantastic building and it just needs that little something to make it really special.

I'm delighted that the little balcony that overlooks the (rather duckweedy) moat has been reopened after the refurb, and we leaped at the opportunity to sit outside - a little cooler than I'd expected but still a lovely day.

Service is friendly and I was pleased that not too many things appear on the menu - trying to do too much often leads to nothing being much cop. The basic choices are filled baguettes, jacket potatoes and hand-made burgers. The bar is new, but apart from that, all I can really see is different from the old cafe are the chairs and tables. All good so far.

I thought the prices for the food were a little optimistic - an average of £5.50 for a sandwich, a fiver for the spuds and £8 for the burgers, but the alcohol seemed quite reasonable - £3.00 and under for a (bottled) beer and a rather staggeringly cheap £2.60 per glass for the wine (one choice each of red, white and rose.)The wine, I have to say, tasted like it cost £2.60, though, of course, bottled beer is bottled beer.

I have to say that despite the lovely setting, I found this meal disappointing. When I saw how much food was piled on my plate, I thought 'oh, that's what I'm paying for...' But size really isn't everything.

My jacket potato was the size of a large hamster - the biggest spud I'd ever-bloomin'-seen, but it was largely hard as nails inside, and although it had clearly been done in the oven rather than the microwave, the skin was light brown, rather than the crispy loveliness that's my personal favourite.

I'll give them there was plenty of filling - tuna mayo and sweetcorn (from a choice of eleven usual-suspect toppings), and the small salad that came with it was really rather tasty, but by the time I'd removed all the hard bits from the potato I had decided that I'd have rather had a regular sized one that was properly done.

My companion's 100% "Tudor barn" Beef Burger, on first bite, seemed much better. It was even quite nice on the second. It was clearly home-made and again, it was a good size. But it was very fatty and the bun and accompanying (again, very good) salad just didn't make up for the grease.

In a couple of weeks' time, a new evening venue, 1568 @ Tudor Barn will be opened. Open between 6.00pm and 10.30pm, it will be 'serving gastro food including a daily three course specials menu.' I'll be testing this out, of course, but IMHO the Tudor Barn is going to have to raise its game to become a destination restaurant...

Thames Barrier Park

Pontoon Dock

I haven't been on a local 'excursion' for ages - but yesterday was sunny and bright and I wanted something different.

I'd noticed the strange lines of undulating hedges of the Thames Barrier Park from the DLR; I thought it would be fun to walk among them. After all, we can't be sure how many warm, sunny Sundays we have left.

I entred via those hedges - a living scuplture called Green Dock by Alain Cousseran and Alain Provost - who I could have sworn was a racing driver ;-) - past some fountains which, I'm happy to say, were playing at 11.00 on a Sunday morning (so many features like that get quietly turned off after the grand opening.)

I wandered up and down beautiful - and slightly unsettling, not sure why - lines of alternating hedges (a bit on the fluffy side just now, they could do with a haircut) planted with good late-summer flowers, towards what I assumed was a viewing point at the end.

It's a surreal walk once you get down amongst those hedges, which are much higher than they look from above - with an almost Alice In Wonderland feel to it. It wouldn't surprise me to see the White Rabbit run out, looking at his pocket watch, or to look down another row and see the Mad Hatter having a tea party. Under the hedge, a caterpiller on a mushroom would be puffing away at a dodgy-looking concoction in a hookah. Of course, if I looked again, they'd be gone...

The weird Green Dock is my favourite bit, but I was staggered when I got to the top and realised that the weird hedges are just a tiny bit of this modern park. Yes, there are dramatic views of the barrier:

but there are also wide spaces, a little wilderness area, places for organised sport or a kickabout, and a kiddie's playground.

I had a coffee on the decking outside the cafe - I'm savouring each outdoor coffee I can get these days. I suspect it will be cosy behind those giant plate-glass walls in in the crisp Autumn mornings to come.

This is not a 'day out' in itself, but it's a nice thing to do for different - a goal on a Thames Path walk, perhaps, or a quick trip along the DLR.

Opening hours are here.

Bella Vista

Montpelier Vale, Blackheath

I hadn't been to Bella Vista since the refurb, but, being a cheapskate, thought I'd go for the early evening cheapo deal. Once I got inside, of course, there were things on the a la carte I couldn't resist so I was back to spending cash again...

The refurb has worked well. I'm pleased to say that they've avoided anything so ultra modern that it's going to date within seconds of the place reopening, but, now it's done, I guess it was a little tired before, though I can't say I'd noticed.

Things are always going to be snug in a restaurant that size, so they haven't even tried to make it look spacious, instead emphasising the cosiness. I like the mirrors, the high cupboards with the nicknacks and the colour scheme, though the cushions, whilst looking sumptuous, get in the way.

The menu is part new, part old. Francesco said that if he tries to change anything his regulars moan, so he has to quietly slide things on and off the menu and hope no one notices. If you see BVC after anything on the menu, it means "Bella Vista Classic" and it's a dish he doesn't dare remove.

I had the Apulian ‘burrata’ cheese with smoked aubergine, partially because I can't resist aubergine and partly because I'd never had Apulian burrata cheese before. It was fab. My companion had the cold cuts. I was so busy chomping my smoked aubergine I forgot to note down what the cold cuts were actually like (I'll never make a proper restaurant critic...) but the plate was cleared so I'm guessing it was good.

There are some times when only lasagne will do, and for my sturdy companion, this was one of those times. It was perfectly acceptable, but not an exciting dish, only going half-way to satisfying the lasagne-urge. Probably not a recipe that will make it to BVC menu-stardom...

I resisted the urge to have aubergine in a second dish in the same meal and instead tried the cod in ‘guazzetto Livornese’ which is, according to the handy menu translator, a Tuscan fish and tomato sauce - tangy and pungent, and really rather tasty, even if it is a wise idea to brush your teeth immediately afterwards, if you're going to be within 10 feet of anyone else...
I can't remember what the hell the wine was - only that I enjoyed it and its label had a comedy picture involving a donkey on it, which we each guessed the story behind, then asked the waiter if he knew what it was about. He didn't but was happy to supply an alternative unlikely, shaggy-dog-alike yarn. He got his mate over who told a fourth, equally nonsense, tale behind the picture.

Actually, it might not have been our first bottle.

Bella Vista's been around for over 20 years now. Deservedly.

Pet Semetery

Not even people who visit Hornfair Park regularly necessarily know about this place. Sadly some people know it all too well.

Charlton Pet Cemetery seems to have been at its zenith in the 1930s - when, I'm guessing, so was the Lido. Memorials carved with all the sincerity as for human loved ones, noteable as being of the furry variety only because in the 1920s and 30s there weren't too many people in Charlton called Chu-Chu, Ickety Man and Ming Zee.


It must have been a charming corner of the park, and I'm guessing that - what - about 10-15 years ago, someone thought it could be charming again. What I'm assuming were by that point badly-overgrown graves were ripped up and a little patio made from the headstones, with a couple of (cherry?) trees overhanging some rather sinister-looking low concrete benches.

These days, sadly, a good half of said benches have been knocked over. Around the edge, other headstones line beds with a few shrubs dotted around them, now also populated with ground elder and brambles. Oh - and something else...

I found it an intensely depressing experience, wandering round, looking at memorials to much-loved pets - Mike, Rex, Floss, Roy, Mickey, Buntie - and a couple of names that would be, ahem, less acceptable these days - cracked and forgotten, broken and left to moulder.

In human cemeteries, like Nunhead and yes, even areas of Charlton's own, decay is a natural and beautiful part of Life. Plants growing out of graves are to be ooh-ed and ahh-ed at with an indulgent sense of the bucolic.

This, with its municipal, concrete paving, grim, flower-less railings and dusty, empty beds, is just downright sad. Bizarrely, it's actually very photogenic, though. The photo above makes it look quite cute. It isn't. I get no feeling that this is visited for any kind of happy reason. At my feet I saw smashed memorials and signs of a fire. Around the edges was another kind of litter. Take a look at this memorial to Susan:

Now take another look - at the bottom left. Click on it if you can't see properly.

This place could be lovely again - but whoever designed it - I'm guessing in the 1980s - has made it a hard area to love. There's just so much concrete. And I'm guessing that most of the Council's cash goes on looking after that superb area in front of the lido that, admittedly, looks wonderful just now.

I don't think it would take very much to keep this area looked-after - after all, it's 90% hard-paving - but if it was made a little more inviting, perhaps it would be used by someone other than drug addicts...

Old Horses Home

Another from my hideously-large pile of unanswered questions today, from the darkest section of all, labelled 'Hard Stuff...'

Jo (who admits she may have had one or two when she saw this...) asks:

"I took a cab from Greenwich through Deptford and somewhere along the way (think it was only 5 minutes from Greenwich) the cab drove past a stables which seemed to house shire horses – I assumed an old people’s home equivalent for London’s rag and bone horses where they can see out their final days and avoid the glue factory. Do you know anything about it? Google doesn’t throw anything up but another cab driver did know where it was but I’d had a few too many drinks to remember the answer…. "

This has so far defied any attempts to find an answer, Jo - I tried various places and got nothing in the way of answers. I found this list of horse and donkey sanctuaries, none of which appear to be in South East London.

Then I tried looking for heavy horses that might still be working - perhaps drawing those old-fashioned funeral carriages or wedding coaches - but the closest I could find was in Hampton Court.

I understand that Youngs Brewery still uses shire horses, but again - they're in Wandsworth. Lewisham Police Station has horses, but that's one strange journey you would have taken home.

I found an article in the Independent (sadly from 1994) about rag & bone men still using horses, which, being fifteen years old can only be vaguely useful, but is a great read - beautifully and engagingly written. I'm not in the business of reinventing the wheel, so I won't rehash it here, but in brief it talks about Corky, a Deptford totter, and his horse Sarah, who seem to be based somewhere around Broomill Road, though when I was down there a couple of weeks ago I didn't see any likely candidates. Another character, 'the Major', deals in old cookers round the corner, and Billy and John, got out of the totting trade years ago, but kept the horses on as a hobby.

Sadly I can't for a moment hope Corky's still doing the rounds, given the article's entitled The End of the Road for the Rag & Bone Man...

Is it possible you saw a Traveller site, Jo? They often have horses. There's a list of Deptford-local Traveller sites here - recognise your journey at all?

But I have to say - Deptford isn't my manor. Might be worth asking the Dame...

Dastardly-Do By The Charlton Cad

Odd, isn't it, what you end up reading when you're sick. As I started to get better, I found myself reading a history of Hampstead, mainly because I didn't have to move off the poorly-sofa to pick up the book. I discovered that the North-South divide of London is nothing new.

Mention the name Maryon Wilson to someone from Charlton and they'll probably smile as they think of a nice piece of open parkland, available to all to wander and play. Say the same name to anyone from Hampstead and a dastardly villain of the twirling moustache variety pops into their head...

Actually, once I started reading further about London's first great preservationist war, I began to realise that the good burghers of Charlton didn't have much to thank the Maryon Wilsons for either, until well after the sandpits there had been exhausted and the family had no further need for the land they so generously gave to the people.

They inherited Charlton House in 1767 through the Maryon side - and the fact that they chose South East London over their other giant chunk of land - er, Hampstead - is somehow satisfying - inexplicably so, of course, given their less than charming nature. They owned all of Hanging Wood (some of which is now Maryon and Maryon Wilson Parks) and much of the surrounding land; what they didn't own they took anyway.

The family, headed by the darkest individual of them all, the eighth baronet Sir Thomas Maryon Wilson (boo, hiss) enclosed the ancient village green in front of their gaff and called it their front garden. The centuries-old Horn Fair was booted out to a field near Fairfield Grove until they finally got rid of it altogether in 1874.

But if the fairgoers of Charlton thought themselves hard done-by, the Hampstead people were spitting tacks. Hampstead Heath, just part of the enormous North London estate he owned as absentee Lord of the Manor, was, in Thomas Maryon Wilson's avaricious eyes, just another bit of land upon which he could build a whole slew of new housing.

All he needed to do was get himself an Act of Parliament - a mere formality at the time - landowners everywhere were getting Acts granted willy-nilly in the early to mid 19thC.

Where Maryon Wilson went wrong though, was in not doing his homework and working out that several MPs lived within spitting distance of the Heath. They might not have cared about the grazing rights of the peasants but they certainly didn't want a sink estate on their doorstep. The Heath Protection Committee was formed, and over the years, every single one of Maryon Wilson's applications was rejected.

The eighth baronet wasn't going to take that lying down. He decided to go underground (pretty much literally) and use guerilla tactics. He started digging, and selling off 'Heath Sand' to anyone who would buy, deliberately undermining its beauty (though now they've healed over, the pits make rather pretty 'dells.') He tore up all the native gorse bushes and planted ornamental trees ready to line, eventually, his streets of houses (ever wondered where 'Willow Tree Road' comes from..?)

A protest meeting was held in 1856, one of the fiercest, apparently, ever. I keep reading that the curses hurled at Maryon Wilson were 'bloodcurdling' at the meeting but I can't find any examples, which is a shame. I'd have enjoyed them hugely. I daresay the words 'bounder' and 'cad' were two of them but maybe you folks can supply me with some more splendid Victorian insults to savour.

I guess the lesson learned is never to try to take posh people on their own ground. Maryon Wilson perpetually failed in his applications and in 1870, when he died, his son gave in and sold the heath to the Metropolitan Board of works - at full face value, of course.

Of course the board was too mean to rectify the damage done to the heath, their only concession to regeneration was to give the groundsmen gorse seed to scatter as they walked around. The willows are rather loved these days.

His brother, Sir John Maryon Wilson, btw, didn't have to rely on Acts of Parliament to build on his bit of the estate, which is why Finchley Road looks like it does today.

But back to Charlton.

It seems that later generations of Maryon Wilsons were pretty fed up with the whole landowning business and once one piece of land (the sandpits) was given to the people in 1891, it was only a few decades later that they sold Charlton House itself to the council and gave the rest of Hanging Wood to public parkland.

I have no idea what became of the family. I can find virtually nothing about them anywhere, and certainly no pictures, though just-for-random, here is a rather ugly settee, and here a slightly less ugly table that they once owned.

The really odd thing I discovered about the panto-villainous Sir Thomas is that he is, apparently, the subject of the first poem in English by an Icelander living in Iceland.

The Dream, by one Larus Sigurdsson, is a 170-line, cod-medieval-Gothic fantasy praising, alongside Sir Joseph Banks, the rather less-likely hero-figure of Sir Thomas Maryon Wilson - who, presumably, made some sort of trip to Iceland and impressed the poet with his grandeur.

"The living love him and the dead esteem
Poverty blesses him in every clime
To aid the poor, 'tis business of his mind
That always is to God and virtue join'd
Thus has the nature (to uncertain aim)
But good and noble grace'd with Wilson's name.

Andrew Wawn, the author of The Vikings and the Victorians, tells us that, at that moment "the narrator wakes from his dream and, perhaps not a moment too soon, the poem comes to an end."

And so should this post. Nurse, my medication, please...

Make Do And Mend

Okay. World War II's ended, the bunting's been taken down, the street parties packed up and the cost is finally being counted.

Top of the list of jobs to do is to build housing for all the people displaced by the Blitz. Thing is, the stuff you have in your warehouses isn't always quite right for the job...

For example - you're really short on railings to go round these new homes for heroes. All you've got in the stores are thousands of old stretchers hurriedly fashioned from tubular metal and wire mesh as standard issue for ARP wardens. They'd always been bloody uncomfortable if you had the misfortune to have to lie on one, but they did the job - and it seems a shame to throw them away. Waste not, want not...

I first read about Wartime Stretcher Railings in Peter Ashley's fascinating More London Peculiars (English Heritage, 2007) but he was only talking about them as being around one block of flats - just outside Oval cricket ground. I actually made a pilgrimage to see them - and they are fab.

You honestly wouldn't know they weren't actually built as railings if it weren't for the four little kinks - one in each corner - bent into the supporter bars to keep the stretcher off the ambulance floor, and the weld-marks every six feet or so where the handles have been bonded together.

Thing is - the picture above isn't from the Oval.

I actually took this picture in Watergate Street in Deptford. I hadn't noticed the railings - I was too busy looking at the ancient piece of wood embedded in the giant dock wall opposite and they had to be pointed out to me - but there's no doubt about it - these are wartime stretcher railings.

Which begs the question - how many more are there? I was under the impression that the ones at Oval were unique - it would seem not. South and East London copped most of the bombs - so presumably they also had most stretchers. I'm beginning to think there must be more of these recycled pieces of Home Guardery - anyone know any?

Next time you happen to be walking down Watergate Street (if nothing else, to see the watergate itself, slid in between that poor old Borthwick warehouse that only has its facade left and doesn't appear to have been touched for years, and the giant dock wall, down a nasty scaffolding passage) take a moment to look at those railings and allow yourself to be transported to the Blitz.

To the rubble and smoke, fires and blood - and the poor sods who were carried to hospital on a set of garden railings...

Charlton Lido

Toby asks:

"I wondered whether you knew what was happening to Charlton Lido. We spent a lovely day there on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in 2007 (perhaps 2006) and have been keen to return. Last year, I discovered that it was closed but the Greenwich Council website reported that it was being developed as a Diving Centre.

Looking again to see whether it had re-opened, I discover that, 1984-style, it seems to have been excised from history. The relevant pages on both Greenwich Council and Greenwich Leisure's website lead nowhere. There are some oblique references in Council minutes in 2008 - including a spirited defence by the Council for not running a public consultation on its future - but otherwise it seems to have disappeared. It all makes me rather suspicious."

The Phantom replies:

You're right, Toby, in that it's hard to find out information about the chequered fortunes of the 1939 lido - the council page is broken - but, happily, wrong that the place is dead. It took a bit of snaffling out, but a lease has been signed between the council and a private company, Open Waters (who don't seem to have a website, which seems a bit odd in this day and age.)

There is an article about it here but the gist is that

"when complete, the four-storey dive centre will have a 22m-deep, 25m-dive pool, a gym, treatment rooms, exercise studios and a crèche. It will also include a restaurant, bar, conference facilities, and a sports retail area with a dive shop that will link with the lido. The lido will be refurbished and will retain all its current facilities."

My one thought, looking at that list, then looking at the picture, is - how on earth will they fit all that into that area? But hey - I'm sure the council have it all in hand and they won't be encroaching on the park...

It looks as though it will be open all year, so get larded-up for those chilly Christmas Morning swims - Serpentine eat your heart out...

Slightly worried that the article was written last year, and that when I went there to check the place was locked up with some scary-looking modern razor-wire stuff all round it (apparently the vandalism around there is punishing) I sent out some emails.

I understand from someone who doesn't want to be named that the lease has been signed, an understanding has been reached and that they will be on site soon. Because it will be a bit late in the season, they've decided not to open it this year.

So - cautiously optimistic, and not entirely mothballing my stripey one-piece, armbands and rubber ring, I'll be keeping an eye on this...

Khan's

It was such a lovely evening - a walk across the heath was just - well - it had to happen really. I didn't know where I'd end up - I just knew I wanted to go somewhere I'd not been to before.

The odd thing about Khan's for me is that I love curry, this must be one of the most established Indian/Nepalese restaurants in the area and I've always been curious about the building, yet I'd never been there.

First things first. The great thing about Blackheath as opposed to Greenwich is that its buildings have been meticulously researched and written about, in some cases by street number; something Greenwich can only dream of (and no - I'm not volunteering - I'd leave all sorts of gaps and anomalies and go off into flights of fancy - it'd just be rubbish.)

Neil Rhind's superb three-parter, Blackheath Village and Environs Pt 1&2 and The Heath, is hard to get in its entirety these days - only Part One is readily available, which is a real pain. Happily I've managed to snout-out copies of all three (though my copy of The Heath is the original - I understand the update is the better version...)

All of which means that I was able to look up the curious building that houses Khan's. Neil Rhind tells us that for most of its life, Number 28 Montpelier Vale was, in various guises and under sundry owners, a dentist/druggist. "Teeth stopped, sealed and extracted. Artificial teeth from 5/- a tooth..."

It remained a quaint old mid-Victorian store with original fittings until the 1970s when, as Rhind says, "despite protest," the place was gutted and turned into a restaurant.

I have to say that Khan's decor is nothing to write home about. They've saved the cute windows, but everything else has gone, replaced by the now-almost-but-not-quite- retro-cool in itself flock wallpaper, dodgy chandeliers and gilded mirrors. The music is of the Indian pan-pipe variety, and walking in felt like stepping back in time - albeit 30 years rather than 130.

It was going to go one of two ways - it was either going to be an undiscovered (okay - for me) gem - or a huge disappointment (and I've had one of them already recently.) But hey - I was in there, the waiters were keen to sit me down and - well - I love curry.

I don't stick to the Phantom Control Meal when out. I like to have a range of stuff, including chef's specials, so I dodged around the menu, picking out various things that took my fancy. Jalfrezis, Dansaks, Dopiazas, Aloos - a real mix.

The food is like the decor - retro in feel. But that's no bad thing in my book. I like modern Indian food - but there's definitely a comfort-factor in Indian food that has 30 years of Britain ingrained in it. It's middle-of-the-road food - even the Jalfrezi wasn't particularly hot (despite the warning on the menu) and most of it has seen quite a bit of the sugar bowl, but that, for me, is no real problem.

It was tasty, fun and nostalgic. Not gourmet food, not nouvelle cuisine - but that's not what Khan's does. The service is charmingly old-fashioned too, though the prices seem to have kept up with the times. I enjoyed it a lot, and if I felt ever so slightly guilty looking at my expanding waistline later, hey - it's a good way to go...

A Lady's Captivity Among Chinese Pirates

Fanny Loviot, 1858/ 2008, NMM Publishing £8.99

So - I was just about to review Paul and suddenly realised I had no book to read. A cardinal sin, that needed immediate rectification.

The volume I chose has only the slenderest connection with Greenwich - its only link is that it was discovered among the archives of the Caird Library and republished by the NMM, but it's fun and I liked it. So shoot me.

I confess I only bought it for the cover. Production values are a big thing for me, shallow Phantom as I am, and I really liked its small sized, heavy papered, hardback-with-dustjacket presence. Oh - and it fitted in my pocket for the walk home...

Our heroine Fanny Loviot, the far-too-brief introduction tells us, was, despite the book's title, no lady. Sadly the annoyingly short intro is too coy to tell us what she actually was, but she 'won' her passage to America in the French Lottery set up to rid the country of 'undesirables' and made her way to California in the 1850s.

It's a surprisingly easy read, considering the stilted 19th Century style, and full of swashbuckling fun. The introduction, as I've mentioned is fine - but far too flimsy - it poses more questions than it answers - not least how Fanny actually got into her adventures in the first place, and what happened to her in the long run.

Half the book is a description of Gold Rush San Francisco and her exploits there with her 'sister,' who may or may not have existed (it's suggested the publisher made her invent a female companion for chaperoneage-purposes.)

Gunfights and fistfights, arson and greed, Fanny describes it all in high-falutin' Victorian prose, including descriptions of her own life, disguised as a man and travelling for her business - never actually spelled out.

When her lodgings and business were razed by fire, she decided to go to Hong Kong, and it was on her journey back that her ship was captured by junkfuls of Chinese pirates, straight out of Central Casting. The Pirate Captain is in the Chow Yun Fat mode, complete with shaved-head-and-ponytail ensemble and his crew are enjoyably dastardly. The adventures of Fanny and her companions really are just waiting to be made into a Hollywood movie.

All that's needed is to innocent-her up, have her fall in love with the captain of the ship that's captured and make the French Vice Consul of Hong Kong corrupt instead of nice and, bish-bosh - you got a script.

You read it here first, folks. A Lady's Captivity Among Chinese Pirates has just GOT to be turned into a blockbuster - it needs so little to be done to it to make it classic Joseph Campbell stuff.

Of course, one of the very few things it does need is a name change. Not nearly lurid enough for today's tastes...

Jemima Ayley

Today, folks, I bring you a mystery. Or at least part of one.

While, it seems, virtually the whole of South London was visiting Nunhead Cemetery's Open Day last week, I was trudging in the opposite direction.

That's not to say I don't want to visit Nunhead - I really, really do, but the Magnificent Seven Cemeteries of London need, for me, at least, to be visited in relative silence and solitude, sans book stalls, tea-urns and face-painters and, according the the Friends of Nunhead Cemetery the graveyard is open every day of the week. So I'll go, alone, another day, but at two quid a head to join the Friends I may sign up anyway. It's not a case of being antisocial - just of seeing something at its most atmospheric...

But back to my own trip. I went to Charlton Cemetery. It's not one of the "great" cemeteries of London, and as far as I can see it doesn't have any organised 'Friends' but it had plenty that both fascinated and moved me. I turned left and walked clockwise - and some day I'll get onto some of the quirkier graves and memorials, but today I want to concentrate on the very last tomb I enjoyed that day (though of course it would have been the first if I'd turned right...)

A large Classical canopy, complete with columns and capitals covering a sleeping young woman's effigy, dressed in a flowing stone gown, covered with a carved shroud, ivy and sadness, peacefully mouldering away under years of dirt and acid rain, it's a monument worthy of any of the great cemeteries, and the only true 'mausoleum' tomb in the place. As far as I can see, it's also the only one that covers a family vault.

The mystery is that, frankly, I can't read the inscription. Pollution and not a few accidents have seen the stone worn or broken away from its brick base then clumsily repaired. Perhaps stories of buried treasure circulated among the local youth, or something, and it was broken into.

Certainly, in the place where it feels like the entrance is supposed to be there's just grass now, though I suspect there were once stone steps leading down under the tomb - there's a grassy bit just in front of it. Against one of the sides, leans a stone slab - though again, whether it was an entrance or is just a bit of monument that fell off is difficult to tell.

At the back, I can just about make out words that look something like "family vault," and, perhaps, "Willian Mayley." I noted it down and thought "Oh - that will be easy to look up when I get home..."

Absolutely nothing. I tried books, papers and, of course, the Internet. Besides, this was very definitely a young woman. She didn't look like a William...

After a LOT of faffery, I finally found London Necropolis , a photography site that explores all of London's cemeteries, and also includes a handy glossary of tombstone symbolism . Mrs Necropolis (I believe her name is actually Polly) names our sad stone girl as Jemima Ayley, a fact discovered by checking out Hugh Meller's London Cemeteries - a book I clearly need to get...

According to Hugh Meller, the vault below is twenty-two feet deep and houses a table and chair, for use by mourning relatives - or, presumably, friends of Nobody Owens.

Meller also says that the precise minute of Jemima's death in 1860 is recorded in the faded inscription on the side and he tells us that her sister died on the very same day in Norfolk. Sadly, since the book was published in 1981, pollution has hit hard - I can hardly make out a single word of the carvings.

In fact that's all I know about Jemima Ayley. In vain have I searched for the family - to be able to afford a tomb like this they must have had a fair amount of cash - and therefore, one might have thought, been prominent in Greenwich/Charlton/Woolwich Society, but I have found nothing.

Does anyone know anything about this family or young Jemima Ayley?

Tudor Feasts

Eltham's Tudor Barn has just had a facelift courtesy of the council, who have been looking for someone suitable to run it. The mantle has fallen upon Suzie Bailey's events company Staar, and she will be holding a special open day on Sunday 24th May where, she tells me, there will be a "community consultation/display of the works which we intend to do to the building."

After some searching, (I was sent a powerpoint presentation that looked lovely and used lots of buzz words but didn't actually say what the reworking was actually going to include...) I found a website for the project.

I have to say, at first look, it appears impressive (even if the concept of 'servicing' visitors made me giggle in a childishly Phantomy sort of way...) None of the links on the page work yet; perhaps that will happen after the 24th - but hey - if this lives up to the promises it's making here, it could be very exciting indeed.

I'm slightly bothered by the inclusion of wedding marquees - if you stick a marquee outside somewhere lovely like the Tudor Barn (and in my experience these 'temporary' tents tend to go up on the 1st May and come down on the 31st October...) the only people that enjoy the 'historic' view are those inside the marquee itself.

But hey. That's small gripes. This looks like it could be a very nice idea indeed. Let me know what you think if you go along...

Funny Ha Ha

Ha Ha Road SE18

You know it never occurred to me that there would actually be a ha-ha in Ha Ha Road. I always assumed that it was a leftover from the grounds of Charlton House and it would be long gone.

Nevertheless I was walking along it the other day (hands up - it was first time I had ever walked along there, normally I'm driving) and was absolutely amazed to see that the ha-ha not only exists but is in damn fine condition.

It appears to be nothing to do with Charlton House; everything to do with Woolwich's military presence.

I confess I'm surprised - I tend to associate ha-has (holding-walls with a ditch or sharp drop one side, usually erected as invisible barriers between formal gardens and the rest of the landscape, preventing animals from chomping the flowers, but without nasty fences - hugely popular in Capability Brown's day) with grand old country piles, rather than army security. I guess it must just come from less hisk-risk times.

It flanks the Barrack Field of Woolwich Garrison, and the brick gateposts of what must have been a rather splendid entrance are still there, as are some curved stone curbs. I can't tell whether the ditch that leads into Charlton Park Lane is a continuation of the ha ha that's not been so well looked after, but I am absolutely delighted to see that the bit along Ha Ha Road is in such good nick.

There's a story that goes round that ha has are called that because when unsuspecting people failed to look where they were going and fell down the ditch everyone else found it hilarious. A nagging doubt about this is going through my mind - I have a feeling there's a much duller reason for the name - a corruption of the French word for it or something equally prosaic. Maybe Capability Bowes can help me out here?

Bluebells

No - not another band slot. Just a suggestion from Charlotte for something to do today, if you're stuck for ideas.

The bluebells at Oxleas Woods are stunning just now - as seems to be most of the greenery around here - presumably a combination of a long wet Winter and a warm sunny Spring.

If you take a trip up there, don't forget the Oxleas Wood Cafe where you can get all the egg & chips you can eat, and if you haven't already visited the a-bit-poorly-just-now Severndroog Castle you should take a peek - though it won't actually be open for a snoot around until Open House Weekend. The Preservation Trust has grand plans for it, though, so fingers crossed.

Everest Inn

41, Montpelier Vale, SE3. Tel. 020 8852 7872

Here in Britain we're never really going to get 'authentic' curry. We just don't have the fresh ingredients or the chefs. But that doesn't mean that the subcontinental food we get here can't be extremely enjoyable - and the stuff I like best is where a place has taken, perhaps, the place they come from, some general favourite all-purpose Indian dishes and sundry British interpretations and created their own blend.

Everest Inn claims to be Nepalese but there were definitely some influences from central and South India, as well as a British-y twist in the food I ate here at the weekend. And I have absolutely no problem with that.

I never visited the old restaurant in Tranquil Vale - for no real reason other than 'so many eateries, so little time...'

It always slightly bothered me that they advertise so much though. Every local magazine and paper seems to carry an ad for the place and it seems to be a stalwart candidate for the aforesaid mags' 'independent reviews,' where, of course, everything is always marvellous and the reviewer has always been so well-fed by the previous courses that they felt they couldn't possibly stuff away a pud as well, but it was all so delicious they just had to have one anyway. I mean, - who, other than restaurant reviewers, ever manages a pudding after a curry?

But I'm digressing again. Walking across the heath, the old Laughing Buddha site seemed worth a test-out (maybe that's why Everest Inn moved - they're certainly more visible from further off on Montpelier Vale than tucked away on Tranquil.)

It's all very modern and smart. It reminded me distinctly of next-door at Chapters, with all that bare brick and downlighters, and for a second I wondered if I'd gone in the right door.

Do I miss the flock wallpaper, fringed lampshades and cheesy music of old Indian restaurants? Not really - but I do like places to have a bit of individuality and this, lovely, smart and clean as it is, has nothing other than the restaurant's name tastefully squirled in silvered perspex on the wall down the stairs to tell it apart from any other restaurant.

Having said that, it's very comfortable and clean - right to the loos - which, of course, instills confidence in the quality of the cooking.

The menu, as with so many 'regional' restaurants, is a tad schizophrenic. But I already said I like that. Every so often, they point out which are the most popular dishes - handy, I guess, if you can't decide what to have.

We had a general mixture. Onion Bhaji - rather flat but tasting okay, Lamb Bhutuwa, which was tasty and well flavoured, Malabar Prawn - again, delicately-flavoured if a bit sweet (all that coconut...) and some Brinjal Bhaji, which was absolutely divine. It was nicely done, but at the Blackheath prices they charge, it ought to be. I thought the rice portion that came with the prawns was, frankly, a bit stingy, something that always surprises me in places like this since it's the cheapest part of the meal for them to provide, though the individual portion of rice ordered as a side dish made it up.

All this sounds as though I didn't enjoy it and that's absolutely not the case. I really did like it - especially the aubergine - and I will eat here again (and judging from the overheard conversations between the staff and customers, they rely a lot on repeat custom.) This is enjoyable food. But I still haven't found my ultimate curry. The search continues....

Everest Inn, btw, is not a standalone restaurant. They have branches in Hythe, Old Kent Road and, er, Grantham.

The Viceroy

10, The Village, Charlton SE7 8UD

020 8319 3439

I have been trying to cut down on the number of takeaways I've been having - the Christmas pounds have taken their toll in both senses of the word. In fact this is only my second of the year (the first I have temporarily refrained writing about, as it's an old establishment that I once enjoyed and it scored its second strike in the Phantom's Black Book. One more and it's out...)

I've had so many of you recommend the Viceroy in Charlton that it just had to be the next on the list.

First things first, the ordering. The phone was answered quickly, and the guy got me to spell the address and repeated it. He took the order, then repeated that. He didn't give me the overall price without prompting, but had it ready when I asked.

It arrived within the time specified, and I was somewhat surprised to have a free bottle of Coke forced upon me. Nice - but unnecessary. The calories were already going to take me way over budget for the current quarter.

They are obviously keen to court custom in a shrinking market. We got several other little freebies too - mainly of the salad-variety - in a vain attempt to counteract the naughty main event, I guess.

The Viceroy serves what I call 'retro-comfort curry.' While many takeaways these days make a big deal about using vegetables you can actually recognise in the mix, no artificial flavours or colours and the odd show of herbs, (I've even seen organic ones) there was none of that wussy stuff here (though in a concession to quality they say they use 'chicken breast only.' I'm guessing it's not organic breast meat...)

All the dishes in the Phantom Control Meal were bright neon orange and swimming in oil. So much so that we poured the run-off into a separate bowl for hygienic disposal, then soaked up the worst of the rest with kitchen towels before serving. The pilau part of the rice was like hundreds-and-thousands on a fairy cake, and, apart from some odd bits of spud, there wasn't a recognisable item in the melange of dishes.

And it was bloody wonderful. Even as I ate it, I could feel my arteries furring-up, any antibodies I had left squaring-up for a punch-up with the E-numbers and my waist losing its battle to fit in my jeans. But what a way to go.

This is British curry of the 1980 and early 90s - exactly how I remember my first Indian food. It takes me back to times of carefree abandon, when I didn't have to worry about what I put in my mouth.

I can't eat this stuff every day - it's for nostalgia purposes only. But as a trip down Memory Lane, as happy-food for cold winter nights, this is - what did they used to say in the playground then? Oh yes. Ace...