May Morris Morning

Greenwich Morris Men have sent me a link to photos of their May Dawn Dance on the heath this morning. While we were all tucked up in our beds, these stout fellows were jingling bells, bashing sticks and waving hankies to see-in May Day in the traditional fashion.

Ged tells me it was cold but not actually raining at the time and the sunrise was glorious. Apparently the dance straddles the sunrise by about 15 minutes each side. Dawn was at 5.32 this morning - so these guys started around 5.17am. I hope they all had a nice cup 'a tea at the 'ut afterwards.

I don't know - it makes me feel all rustic. A little bit of the countryside in London. I have no idea what the donkeys made of it...

Two Museum Stores

Whatever's on display in any museum is only ever going to be a fraction of the stuff it holds. There just isn't the space.

Sometimes they can get round the problem by having rolling displays - the Fan Museum does it, for example - the ground floor stays the same, but upstairs the displays change, so it's always worth coming back.

Other places that don't have the portability of folding fans have to keep their collections much more static. I guess it's hard to move a rather moth-eaten stuffed walrus too often. So museums have stores - and not always in the most obvious places. Take the Horniman, for example. The actual building is in Forest Hill (and well-worth a day trip, especially if you like stuffed walruses) but their "Study Collection Centre" is actually that rather sinister-looking ex-school on Greenwich Peninsula. I used to look and wonder at that place for years before I found out what it was - all manner of nefarious goings-on, most of them along the lines of The Long Good Friday danced through my imagination, but I guess I'm rather glad that it has a much sweeter purpose.

Behind those metal-grilled windows and steel fences, I imagine rows and rows; a whole host, indeed, of stuffed walruses, all waiting their turn to be allowed a spot in the limelight. I once tried to get a visit there, but with no luck whatsoever. You have to be a bona fide stuffed walrus expert - or at least someone who's studying them.

Funnily enough, the museum that I might have assumed it was a store for, The National Maritime Museum, has its stores scattered around all over the place. They are very cagey about it, admitting only to "a number of storage outstations in South East London."

They have to admit to the two they own the freehold on - an old RAF store in Kidbrooke, at the end of Nelson Mandela Road, and the "architecturally interesting" Brass Foundry, possibly designed by John Vanbrugh, in Woolwich Arsenal (curiously, they don't actually own the freehold on either the main building of the NMM or the Royal Observatory, which as their men in grey suits noted "had no realisable value to the museum." Thank God. Maybe they didn't mean it to come out quite as though they were going to flog off some of the space for apartments or a shopping mall, but don't you think that that phrase looks as though someone had actually thought about it?)

Ploughing through a load of extremely dull financial reports, I read that they had intended to get rid of the store in Kidbrooke in 2006, but the 2007 report seemed to imply they hadn't done that yet. Maybe they changed their minds. My problem is that that kind of document boggles my eyes and I may well have missed something - so any further info would be gratefully accepted. And of course with that massive donation they've just had, things may change again.

I did find a somewhat ominous phrase in the report, which I would be grateful if someone who knows about museum policy and strategy or is familiar with the mysterious "1934 Act of Parliament" could reassure me upon:

"A disposal programme is now also underway in parallel with discussions within the UKMCS (United Kingdom Maritime Collection Strategy) which includes work on collection interface revision and the Secretary of State has recently approved the first set of collection disposals all in accordance with the 1934 Act of Parliament."

Now, I really don't want to turn into Conspiracy Theory Phantom. Can anyone help me here? What does "a disposal programme" consist of? What are they selling off? And why did I have to find it buried in a 60-page document?

The Best Shed in Greenwich...

...has to be this one at Ballast Quay. I've written about this fabulous little garden before - mainly the very odd little memorial to the animal victims of foot & mouth dying "not of the disease, but of the cure..."

If I'm honest I know virtually nothing about this lovely little rural corner of the city riverside, but there is something wonderfully bucolic about the simple tree, the ivy-covered memorial, those terracotta jars, crumbling stone steps - and, of course that shed. I love the fact that it has city railings one side, the river Thames the other, yet its low-lying black-shiplap walls and lichen-covered roof are straight out of deepest Dorset.

I imagine the inside, neat rows of ancient terracotta pots, regimented in musty wooden seed trays; the slightly musty, earthy odour mingling with faint reminders of creosote and linseed oil.

In the corner, I see a battered leather armchair, moulded to a half-century's worth of backsides, aged stuffing bursting from cat-clawed arms.

There are, of course, a couple of chipped mugs, a much-used Thermos and a packet of Rich Teas, nestled in a rusty biscuit tin behind a propped-up spade and a pile of seed catalogues. By the window in the roof, a few small seedlings enjoy what little watery warmth the March sun can afford.

I have never seen anyone in this garden, not even perched on the little green-painted cast-iron seat outside my dream shed enjoying a cup of PG Tipps in the setting sun. Someone told me that it's looked after by a lady who lives opposite - presumably in those cute brick houses with the little lattice arches, but anything more - well - my imagination has to fill in the rest.

You know what? Just like that roof garden on the peninsula, I don't want to know what's really in that shed. I could only be disappointed. But I will always stop a moment as I pass that place, poke my nose through the railings and wonder...

Trident Hall

Park Row, SE10

Unbusy Ben asks:

Trident Hall at the beginning/end of Crane Street, what goes on in there ( I thought it was where sailors did their Christmas panto's) and who owns it?

The Phantom replies:

It's easy to walk straight past this unassuming 20th century building, its being sandwiched between Trafalgar Quarters and The Trafalgar Tavern and not being as 'pretty' as either of them. It's a secretive sort of place - not something that is talked about much, and as far as I'm aware not much at all goes on there now, but in its early days it was a veritable hive of activity.

It was built as a lecture theatre for the Naval College - and used heavily for that purpose, especially during the heady days after the introduction of the Department of Nuclear Science and Technology (ohhh, yes. I'll get onto that another day...) and all that Cold War stuff.

On a jollier note, yes, Ben - it was used as a theatre for entertainment purposes, so it's not beyond imagination that off-duty sailors donned the tights and wigs, slapping their thighs in the name of panto.

Malcolm Godfrey, who has written several books about Greenwich Ghosts, tells a creepy story about the place, when it was hired out to a local am-dram group in the late 80s. Eltham Opera were busy rehearsing for Oliver! when a couple of cast members were puzzled to see a gentleman in full costume, who was most definitely a bit old to be in Fagin's gang. He wandered through the auditorium and out through the back - except there is no rear exit...

When they mentioned the fellow's 'costume' - complete with tunic, breeches and a tricorn hat, it was noted that they had just described the old 18th Century uniform worn by the pensioners. Malcolm Godfrey points out that the hall is built on the site of the old maintenance yard and hospital workshops. Shiver.

And the owner? I can't be completely certain, but I have heard rumour of the worst. That it has been bought by Greenwich Inc for a hotel. In its current form it would be difficult to do much with it for that purpose, so I have a horrid suspicion that it will go the usual route of being razed...

Trinity Hospital

Paul asks

What's happening to Trinity Hospital?

I know there were redeveloping the back of the hospital, but yesterday we walked past the main (front) entrance, it looked dilapidated: piles of leaves blown up against the front door and gate, the pathway to the front door (through which you could often see that gorgeous internal courtyard) all sad and neglected, with two-foot high weeds growing in-between the kerbstones.

Do we know what's happening? Even if they've changed the main entrance to the back, why are they allowing this gorgeous facade to become so neglected?

The Phantom replies:

I noticed this the other day when I was taking my American friends for a lightning tour of Greenwich's highlights and those leaves made it quite clear that the door hadn't been opened since Autumn. I confess I'm not really worried yet though. If memory serves, they never open that door during the winter months. Presumably it's such a wind tunnel that, given the choice between that and a side door or the back entrance, they can hardly be blamed for denying us a lovely view. It was a shame for my visitors as the 'secret' glimpse through the railings is one of the loveliest sights in Greenwich, but I'm not going to panic until those leaves are still there in the Spring.

While we're on the subject though, I guess now is as good as any to take a closer look at this dear little almshouse. Of course Greenwich is hardly short of them - we have at least four - but this has to be the prettiest.

It was founded, despite the date on the front (1616) in 1613 by Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton, and comes with a curious caveat. On the outside, by the door that's presently covered in leaves, a sign says that it is home to "21 retired gentlemen of Greenwich." So far so good. But not completely accurate. Only 12 of the "decayed" pensioners, "become poor by casual means and not through his own dissolute life" were to be from the local area. Eight more decrepits (the other one must have been added at a later date) were to come from Shottesham in Norfolk - a left-field concept at the very least.

If the last decayed gentleman in Shottesham happened to be a "common beggar, drunkard, whorehunter, haunter of taverns or alehouses" or if he was an "unclean person infected with any foul disease, blind or so impotent as he is not able;" even worse if he were "an idiot" or unable to say the Lord's Prayer, the Ten Commandments and the Creed "without book," he was out. But that still didn't mean to say that any more Greenwich decayed gentlemen got a look in. The net was just widened to include the Norfolk village next door, Bungay.

Simple enough reason - it was Howard's birthplace. It was his party and he decided who was invited...

The bit you can see from the river walk (the cute bit) isn't as old as it looks - it was rebuilt in 1812 in Strawberry Hill Gothique style. And very gorgeous it is too. But if you're looking for old, you're going to have to hope they open that centre gate in the summer, where the 17th Century Courtyard is just lovely. It's a cloister-style, with an ancient wisteria growing around the columns. In the middle is a twinkling fountain and usually some geraniums dotted around. Very Mediterranean, but somehow also very British. The pic's a bit dark - click on it to make it a bit sharper.

Under the cloisters are some wonderful old notices telling "The Poor Men" what they were expected to do - and, of course, what they were not expected to do. Carousing around town was definitely OUT. Presumably the retired inhabitants are allowed out after 6.00pm nowadays.

Until 1946, everyone had to wear a fancy uniform - they just wear it for special occasions now, mainly for the annual Visitation from the Mercers Company who took over running the hospital in 1621. The gardens at the back are ancient and leafy, though only the bit closest to the buildings has (very splendid) borders - the rest is very old trees, including a mulberry (James I again, with his bloomin' silly English Silk Trade idea) and a medlar.

They used to be much more extensive though. The thoughts of the pensioners when their principal source of income, their market garden and orchard, was grubbed up to make room for the gigantic power station 100 years ago are unrecorded, perhaps because they would violate at least one of the hospital's myriad regulations...


I visited on one of their special open-house days - they have fund-raising events from time to time - and I had a chat with some of the pensioners. (They don't include decayed Norfolk people any more - they got their own Trinity Almshouse in Victorian times - a Phantom day-out for the future, perhaps...)

It was just before the new buildings at the end of the garden had been started and they were excited. The current rooms were small, dark, cramped and damp, however picturesque they were on the outside. The new build (on land that was, frankly, the compost heap) meant that the same number of people could have a more comfortable retirement. I think they've done pretty well with the new build, but I haven't seen inside.

You know what, I won't talk about the chapel inside today. It warrants a post of its own.

Nelson's Secret Room...

The Painted Hall

Back in 1805, The nation was in mourning, just as they should have been celebrating. Trafalgar was won - but at the cost of their blue-eyed boy.

Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson deserves several posts - Heaven knows, he's inspired hundreds of books and a fan club that exists to this day (I must go to a Trafalgar Dinner one day. A friend of mine belongs to the 1805 Society and it sounds an extraordinary experience...) I want to spend much more time on Our Horatio over the coming months but for now, I'd like to look through the keyhole of one of Greenwich's little secrets - hidden right under the noses of the thousands of tourists who visit the Painted Hall.

But back to 1805. Nelson's body was brought back to England, pickled, as legend has it, in a barrel of brandy, from which his men snuck the odd tipple along the way (drinking to his memory, I'm sure...) He was brought to the Painted Hall, where the morticians were given the uphill task of getting him into a fit condition to lie in state before he was buried with full military honours in St Pauls Cathedral.

It wasn't going to be easy. For starters, the brandy had been "refreshed" in Gibraltar with even stronger stuff, and by the time he'd arrived back in Chatham, he'd been dead for, ahem, some time, bundled into a recycled coffin made out of his old bed. They couldn't just dump him in the middle of the Painted Hall like that. He must have smelled like a distilllery for starters...



It was decided the best thing they could do was to use a little room at the side of the hall, which was currently used as a dumping ground for the sort of old tat that we all have knocking around some nasty cupboard somewhere. They had a Life Laundry moment, decluttering the old Archive, finding 'somewhere else' for the piles of books and ledgers; chucking out the shelving. The body, having arrived inconveniently on Christmas Eve, was taken inside, and put under armed guard, while everyone else enjoyed the festive season. I have such images of the poor sods standing outside that room over Christmas.

"Leg or breast, Private Jones?"
"Funny, Sir, I seem to have lost my appetite."
"A sip of brandy, then? It is Christmas, after all, man.."
"Ho, Ho, Ho, Sir."
(Nelson turns in his barrel)
"Did you hear that knocking sound, Jones..?"

With the holiday period over and 1806 rung-in, the rest of the place became a flurry of jet-black ostrich plumes, satin, coats of arms, gilding and escutcheons. Elsewhere, the undertaker, ironically, one Mr France, built a fabulous coffin, decorated with ten thousand brass nails, and took the opportunity of displaying it in his shop window.

The Hall was draped in extravagant sobriety - plumes, feathers and regalia, dominated by a great catafalque, heavy with symbolism, where the great man's body lay, but Nelson himself, dead for well over two months by now, was easily the star of the show.

For three days, lit by sconced candles, England's hero lay in state. No one knows exactly how many people strained against the crash barriers outside to file past, but even the measliest estimate is 15,000. Many reckon it was double that. They came by boat, by cart, by foot (no railway then.)

The funeral flotilla that accompanied the national hero along the Thames up to the City was recreated back in 2005 (they bodged the date a bit, making it, for some strange reason, happen on neither Trafalgar Day nor Nelson's real funeral anniversary) and although it was spectacular, it was also perishing cold, and, as with the original funeral, horribly held up whilst they waited for sundry bigwigs to arrive. The school party I was standing next to waited for hours in the freezing cold and then had to go home without seeing anything. I waited to the bitter end and it was worth it, even if I did begin to wonder whether the whole thing had been cooked up to get people to visit the cafe to warm up afterwards.


But one very good thing that came out of the bicentenery was the restoration of that little side room. Despite its illustrious fifteen minutes (or days) of fame, the Nelson Room went back to being a store cupboard and became largely forgotten. The fabulous little annex, part of the original design of the Painted Hall, was spruced-up with tasteful shades of paint, it's elegant little domed roof restored to perfection. In an original niche, which had always been empty, a giant (modern) statue of Nelson was placed, along with paintings and memorabilia, and as the centrepiece, a model of the Painted Hall as it looked for those heady three days in 1806 was added for good measure.

It was open to all during 2005 (or was it 2006? No matter - it's not now...) but for some strange, extremely arcane reason that was explained to me once by a tour guide, the only way to see it today is to go on one of the guided tours of the Old Royal Naval College. (The ORNC would like to open it for free, but, due to some charity/tax/obscure financial-type reason, they have to charge for something...) The tours are by the way, well worth it - they also include the skittle alley and crypt.

The guide will point out all the good bits, but there's one thing visible from the window, that you shouldn't miss. For this is also the very best way to see the Nelson Pediment, which - and you'll be used to this by now - I will write about another day.

I leave you with one last thought. Stevie sent me an intriguing picture this morning, which could throw an interesting light on the whole affair. Take a look at this plaque. A close look.



Just what was in that barrel again?

Echoes of Forgotten Gardens - Or Nature's Reclamation Yard?

Something I love about the Peninsula as it stands is the fallow land waiting to be developed. Where once was marsh, then was life and industry, now is a tapestry of brown and green, with flashes of pinks and yellows as the grasses and sedges cover the soil, dappled from time to time with the odd iris or mallow flower.

All this will go soon, the backdrop of the aggregates yard carefully hidden behind, I presume, the 'affordable'-end of the sundry housing schemes, but for now it's a little breath of countryside behind the chainlink Fence Of Doom, guarded by men in dayglo vests and the odd scary dog.

Dotted around, though, flourishing in the poor soil, defiantly waving cream, fluffy heads above tattered newspapers and discarded plastic cups, clumps of what looks remarkably like Pampas Grass still stand as proud as though it were 1976.

A native of the South American Plains and suburban gardens of the 1970s, pampas grass (Cortaderia Selloana if you're being picky) is tough as old boots, which is probably why it survives where no no other domestic plant does. Because it's so inextricably linked with the Margot Leadbetter end of the 70s, it's generally thought a bit naff these days, but somehow it manages to look not just elegant, but even native on that Peninsula.

Is it what's left of the various 'dirty' businesses that once inhabited the area? Perhaps long-lost handkerchiefs of green outside the boss's office of some dead factory - once manicured to high heaven; now left to take off its corsets and spread out. The entire ex-contents of some relocated worker's front garden? To be honest it's so long ago now, I can't quite remember what was where any more.

Of course the other explanation for the sudden clumps of giant sedges is less fanciful, but no less romantic. That this is Nature reclaiming what's hers and seeding once-contaminated land with her own native species; thumbing a disdainful nose at Progress.

Just outside the entrance to the Eco Park, right in among the carefully-planted, tastefully-planned landscape, one of these plants lurks, triffid-like, hoping no one will notice it. I don't know whether it was allowed to stay there, whether it seeded itself or just whether no one else actually ever marked it, but every time I catch sight of it, I rejoice that a little bit of unconventionality still festers just below ground level...


Let's hope that nothing else under the ground there ever surfaces...

Westcombe Park's Crap...

...has to go somewhere. To be honest, it's not really something I'd paid much thought to until I paid a visit to Crossness Pumping Station, but after that trip it played on my mind rather more than is healthy. You haven't been there yet? Shame on you. The place is a veritable Palace of Poo, a cathedral to sewage. It is also extraordinarily beautiful.

But back to Westcombe Park. Whilst in the little museum part of the pumping station, I saw a map of Joseph Bazelgette's sewer mains, criss-crossing through South East London, gradually making their way downhill, gravity drawing their contents towards the euphemistically romantic Southern Outfall at Thamesmead which was, at the time, way beyond the end of Civilisation (no cheap gags, now...)

I spent a long time looking at that map, with particular interest in the parts that flow underneath Greenwich's streets (I just can't get away from underground tunnels, can I...) and one bit in particular started to bother me. It continued to bother me as I came home.

A sewer ran along from South Greenwich, along to Westcombe Park and then came down towards the Woolwich Road end of things. That seemed perfectly reasonable. Using London's natural topography was one of Bazalgette's triumphs. But the bit that bothered me was what happens to it when it crosses the railway line?

That line is cut so deep into the hill that it would be pointless to run a sewer underground at that point - all kinds of nasty backups could ensue. So it must go over it. But where?

I am going to say something really sad now. This kept me awake nights. There was nothing for it. I had to go and find Bazalgette's sewer. I knew more or less where it was as it was marked on the map in the museum; I just had to find it. I donned my phantasmagorcial anorak, grabbed my spectral Thermos and set off.

In the event, sturdy walking boots, a change of socks and tins of pemmican weren't strictly necessary. Take a look at this picture, folks. A close look. Click on it to get a bigger image.

If my calculations are correct, it's been under the noses (well, above them, if you want to get technical) of the people who use Westcombe Park Station all the time. Walking over the punishingly steep bridge between Halstow and Humber Roads, and looking down over the station-side, coming straight out from under the alleyway to Jools Holland's studio, I saw an enormous, rusting Victorian pipe. It has to be several feet in diameter and I cannot think what it can be if it isn't part of the original sewer network, carrying all Westcombe Park's ordure down to East Greenwich (so now I know why house prices are cheaper the 'wrong' side of the tracks...)
I popped onto the station platform to get a closer look - and there it was - a little piece of London's most unsung but perhaps most vital heritage. I am sure I'll be smacked down if I'm wrong - but if that pipe isn't carrying tons of effluent downhill, I want to know what it is doing.

I'm guessing you're not as excited as me over this discovery - I mean - it's hardly on the same scale as the giant conduit carrying the charming river Westbourne over the heads of It-Girls at posh Sloane Square tube. I guess it's a personal thing - a little mystery solved - it troubled me; I dealt with it. If only I could do that about the stuff that actually matters...

Oh well, at least now, every time you use Westcombe Park station and you look at that sewage pipe, you'll think of me. Ahhh.

I know. I should get out more. Trouble is, it's precisely that sort of thing that got me into this in the first place...

Underground Greenwich (5) The Stock Well

I am probably disproportionally excited today, folks, as one particular Very Long Search has ended for me. A tiny pamphlet has just arrived by registered mail, from an obscure bookshop in god-knows-where, stiffened by a piece of broken board from some long-dead hardback, and it has quickened my heart.

Perhaps one or two of you will already have this slim volume, but judging from the fun and games I had trying to get hold of a copy, the chances are it won't be on many people's bookshelves.

The Underground Passages, Caverns &c., of Greenwich and Blackheath, is the lecture notes from a talk given by John M Stone, MA, before The Greenwich Antiquarian Society on the 26th February 1914." No prizes for guessing the content.

I'm only a few pages in but already I'm learning fabulous new stuff. Not least that it was more or less a jolly jaunt for people to ramble in and around the various conduits of Crooms Hill, Greenwich Park and pretty much everywhere else in Edwardian times - albeit coupled with an "unpleasant feeling of going down into a grave as you descend through a hole in the grass" where "many ladies visiting the place for the first time have to repress an inclination to scream..."

Oooooerrr.

I'm learning about all kinds of underground places in the area I didn't even know about but the most pressing so far ( just 7 pages in), given the imminent development in the area, is the old Stock Well. It was, of course, given the name, at the bottom of Crooms Hill, around the end of Nevada St, where it becomes Stockwell St.

This ancient well was already established in Duke Humphrey's time. Humph had to get a Royal Licence in 1434 to run a conduit from there to his new gaff in the park because it would cross under the King's Highway and there weren't any statutory rights for utilities companies to dig up roads whenever they liked in those days.

The well was, by all accounts, the principle source of water for Greenwich - it seems The Point was honeycombed with little springs which filtered down towards the river. The water was helped on its way by a conduit which twists and turns underground - but which, if you lay a plan of it on top of an Ordnance Survey map, makes sense - it follows the ancient road. (It's not, apparently, the oldest conduit in Greenwich, but I haven't read that bit properly yet. I'm like a kid in Mr Humbug's shop right now...)

There exists a rather indistinct map from 1777 that implies the position "within a foot" of a pump which was probably the Stock Well, and what John Stone says next is, I think, quite pertinent to the major development to come. He writes:

"I trust that should opportunity occur it may some day be opened up. Think what archaeological treasures may there be reposing at the bottom of the well, dropped down from the earliest days of Greenwich in the daily and hourly user of the inhabitants through many centuries, and what chapters of local history might be opened up, could they be recovered."

Now, I don't know. Nearly 100 years have elapsed since this was written - and it's possible that this has already been done. If so I haven't heard of it. Maybe someone can set me right. But if it hasn't, surely the new building around there that's just about to come would provide an excellent excuse for a dig? And I'm sure, given the amount of times Thames Water have dug and re dug that bloomin' road recently, could there be a little extra excavation next time there's a suitable hole? A Section 106 project for the new developers, perhaps?

Actually, reading on, it's possible that the pump is underneath the theatre (called The Hippodrome in 1914.) I can't quite tell. That would make it next to the old Rose & Crown and almost opposite the Spread Eagle, slightly away from where the development is due to take place. But even so, it would be worth the developers being made aware that there is a possible ancient tunnel, maybe paved and walled in brick to look out for. Since this is such an old, old part of Greenwich, perhaps they should be employing an archaeologist on site anyway.

But I digress. I am a giddy Phantom today, hardly able to concentrate for all the goodies to discover in this floppy little pamphlet.

I'm reading on with a greedy eye. Some of this stuff is eye-popping (a comment I made in jest a few weeks ago, enjoying a flippant flight of fancy, seems to be rather nearer the truth than I had originally thought...) More gems from this fantastic new (old) source another day...

Planning Ahead for Open House Day

Benedict has mentioned something that has escalated an idea that's been smouldering at the back of my mind since September.

Benedict writes:

As I look out of my studio and wonder what the time is (my watch stopped 5 years ago) I gaze up to see the reliable Greenwich Clock Tower and see its time to stop my doodling and banging. Then I get to thinking wouldn't it be great to go up it! It seems to have some sort of glazed viewing gallery or room at the top. Have you ever been or know anyone that has been up there, I bet the views are spectacular! It could be a great attraction to rival the imminent new Wheel, they could light it up at night and have a restaurant at the top. I love having this handy kitchen clock and its minimal/deco/post-modern design out the back door but can't find out anything about it.

When we talked about this last year, no one had ever been up what was very clearly an observation tower. And it occurs to me that it would be the perfect candidate for Open House Day - a magnificent example of that civic-deco style of building of the 1930s - and surely not that hard to open. If we started now, maybe we could draw the attentions of the organisers to its charms.

But it doesn't just stop there. There are at least two more buildings in the heart of Greenwich that I'd utterly love to see open for the day (well actually I wouldn't be terribly upset if they opened a couple of them for more than a day...)

The first is the Power Station. Contrary to popular belief, it's not abandoned - it's still working. And I've wanted to see inside it ever since I met a security guard having a quiet fag outside. Must be amazing in there - but at the moment it has the grubby allure of a parallel-universe Wonka Chocolate Factory.

The second is the roof of Greenwich Observatory. It's flat - people can go up there - and just think of those views.

Each of these buildings have great architectural beauty in their own ways. The Observatory has true historic value but the power station - well - I can't even begin to think what industrial treasures lie inside there.

I can't find any specific information on how to suggest buildings on the Open House website but I'm sure an email to them will give us some ideas. It may require lobbying...

Anyone got any other pet buildings they'd like to nose around (sorry - appreciate the architectural merit of...)

The Herb Garden, Greenwich Park

Warning:

If you're ScaredofChives, or of a similarly delicate constitution, look away now. We are about to enter Herb County...

Tucked away in the North-west corner of Greenwich Park lies a little garden. Behind low, dainty railings, and separated by parterres of box, a modern Tudor-knot contains herbs for every sense, billowing out their frond-y, frothy abundance in a heady green-and-yellow haze, a gentle breeze rustling the ferny leaves in a soft murmur.

Well. Ok. maybe not just at the moment. It's more like a bunch of dark green boxes full of dead brown-and-black stalks and grizzled old earth, scoured by a howling gale. But in these dark January days a Phantom needs a few memories of long, hot summers and long, fragrance-filled evenings to light the way through to Spring.

Memories, for example, of that little fountain in the middle - I think it's supposed to be a thistle - but it could be a tulip or even a pineapple. No matter. The tinkle from that tiny pond twinkles in my mind and I can feel the warmth of the sun on my back, even if it's actually just my cardi, an extra blanket and a fan heater.

It's not that old (the herb garden, of course, not the fan heater, which is antediluvian.) There's precious little written about it anywhere - naturally - I'm beginning to get used to a total blank-er-oo whenever I try to find anything out about stuff in Greenwich. It's as though just putting something lovely somewhere is enough - when surely part of charm of a thing, whether a statue, sculpture, street furniture - or a garden - is in its history?

The new Greenwich Park walks leaflet (which I will be reviewing as soon as I've had the chance to try out one or two of the suggested route-marches) comes to the rescue - a bit. The garden was first planted in 1969 but tarted up in 1993, with 30 herbs. That fountain, designed by (and yea! - we have a sculptor) Kate Malone, was added in 2000.

The Phantom is in reflective mood today, swaddled in blankets and thick socks, leaving you with a lovely photo to remind you that Spring's not that far away now. Honest.

Valerie Dressmaker

The Village, Charlton, SE7

A tiny, hidden gem today, nestled in the shadow of Charlton House. I don't get to go east instead of south or north as much as I would like but I noticed this curious little store during a night-time visit to The Big House and have taken this long to get back during daylight hours to check it out when the shutters are up.

It's a quaint, old-fashioned wool and haberdashery shop - Andrekabu - sit up straight at the back there - which sells all manner of fabric-y frippery, knitting nonsense and novelty notions that are nigh-on impossible to find in this neck of the woods.

There's a lot of wool. The whole of one wall is covered in shelves full of different types of knitting yarn, patterns pinned and pegged around the edges, jostling with printed tapestry kits. Actually, there isn't a spare spot of wall left, after all the drawers of buttons, boxes of trimmings, trays of greetings cards, wheels of glass-headed pins, racks of ribbon and spools of thread. Tiny tubes of ribbon rosebuds, minute buttons for dollies' clothes, cards of elastic and piles of Vilene. Not much of any one particular thing, but a wide range of types of thing. And following the long tradition of these shops stocking wedding and party paraphernalia, nestled among the reels of cotton and lengths of lace, lie satin gloves and diamante tiaras. By the door, in between the knitting patterns for bootees and lengths of bobble-trimming for 1970s lampshades hang several garish feather boas.

Do you know that bit in Alice Through The Looking Glass where she visits the sheep's shop? she can see through her peripheral vision that the shop is choc-a-bloc, but when she tries to focus on any one shelf it seems to be empty. I sort of get that feeling in this place. As I write this, in my mind's eye, it is jammed with glass cabinets full of fake flower corsages, bargain bins full of remnants and shelves-to-the-ceiling full of intriguing-looking brown cardboard boxes with ageing tissue paper-wappings peeking out from their lids, but when I try to think of any one specific place, the vision becomes hazy.

What isn't hazy is the middle-aged lady in a nylon housecoat sitting at an ancient sewing machine at the back. This, I presume, is the titular Valerie, and although she will stop her sewing to help you, she doesn't immediately do so - you are left to browse, something I appreciate. She tells me that she does alterations and makes clothes to order - a handy little thing to remember, though she is adamant she is a dressmaker, rather than a tailor.

I was surprised to find this little place - somewhere well worth remembering when you need those funny little things that nowhere else will sell. More like something out of Wallace & Gromit than a London suburb, its just the kind of store that needs to be cherished. It's right in the middle of Charlton Village, which means a bus ride if you don't drive, but worth it just for the novelty value - and a chat with Valerie...

Almshouses - Part One

Hatcliffe Almshouses,

Tuskar Street. SE10

I've been meaning to look at Greenwich's numerous almshouses for some time - sadly since they aren't time-sensitive they've been bumped virtually every time I've tried. But hey - it's about time - so I'm going to start - not with the grandest, we'll get to them later - but with one of the most tucked away - so much so that if you don't live virtually on top of them, you may not even know they exist...

What we see today are relatively modern buildings - 1938 - but William Hatcliffe (1560-1620) himself is a far older figure. I got quite excited when I started to research him as it began to look like he could be William Shakespeare's mysterious "Mr W.H." to whom the first 126 sonnets are dedicated. Apparently a William Hattcliffe was an extremely popular law student at Grays Inn and was even voted "Prince Purpoole"in 1588 - Lord of the Revels. That would make him 28, though - a bit old for a law student, and especially for a law student that everyone fancied, and, rather annoyingly I then found another William Hatcliffe - 1568 - 1631 who looks a more likely candidate for Shakespeare's affections.

No matter. Our William Hatcliffe is still quite interesting - though little is known of his life. He was Chief Avenor (whatever one of those is) of King James's stables and must have ended his days quite wealthy. In his will, after leaving £30 to his sister, the unfortunately-named Anne Duck, to buy a mourning outfit, he left his land - in East Greenwich, Lee and Lewisham to be used for the relief of the poor.

Though the powers-that-be were thinking about it as early as 1839, it wasn't until 1857 that anyone got round to doing anything about it. A set of almshouses were built in Lewisham - until Lewisham council built the town hall on top of them. They were rebuilt nearby but destroyed by an air raid in WWII. The London Footprints website reckons that the East Greenwich Almshouses were also built in 1857, but I'm not totally sure about that - they look younger to me. Maybe someone can set me right.

What I know is that in the 20th Century four doughty Greenwich ladies coughed up enough cash to either build or extend the almshouses in Tuskar St. Adelaide Mary, Henrietta Martyr, Mary Jane and Helen Mortimer Smith of Crooms Hill left money for the handsome red-brick row with its Dutch gabled ends. Not as splendid as, perhaps, Trinity Hospital, Queen Elizabeth College or even the Jubilee Almshouses, it is still a lovely little block - of its own time and with an honesty that still works.

Sadly the Hatcliffe Almshouses didn't last much longer. They started going downhill and by the early 1980s they were virtually derelict - mainly boarded up.

I am glad to report that it's no longer like that, and the buildings are once again being used for their original purpose, as sheltered housing for elderly people who have lived in Greenwich for at least ten years. As long as they don't have pets, there are 13 one-bed flats available, though I suspect you probably have to put your name down for one of them at birth.

There appears to be work going on there at the moment. I am assuming it's more improvements. But next time you're walking along Trafalgar Road, take a small detour to find these quiet, hidden buildings...

Underground Greenwich (4) Underneath the (ex) Gloucester Arms

1, King William Walk SE10

I read an extraordinary thing the other day. That back in The Olden Days, where the Greenwich Park Bar & Grill is now - but some still think of as the Gloucester Tavern/Arms - used to be a prison. It's unclear from the book I was reading whether it was also a tavern on ground level. Apparently lock-ups were often located under pubs - not a bad idea when you come to think of it - think of the felon-miles that could saved on a Saturday night if they put a cell under a few bars in the town centres of modern Britain...

But I digress (again.)

This was in use for some years, but most notoriously during the reign of Queen Mary, where Protestants were clapped in irons along with the regular perps, banged up awaiting the stake. I don't know if the tit-for-tat religious persecution that went on when Elizabeth came to the throne meant that later on Catholics inherited the same chains.

The author of the 1902 book that I was reading, (Greenwich Park - Its History and Associations, if you're interested,) A D Webster, inspected the cellars of what was then the Gloucester Arms and found, "attached to the cellar, a very likely prison, about 18 feet long by 12 feet wide, which in all probablility is the remains of that referred to," though he admits that not all the bricks seem to be that old - presumably the result of later repairs.

How to find out if it still exists?

Difficulty rating: Hard.

I can't see Greenwich Inc allowing phantoms to traipse down to their cellars, even if it hasn't all either been bricked-up or turned into a funky downstairs 'chillout' lounge with annoying wavery music, low faux-fur sofas and seventies-style pendant lights.

Maybe I could wear a brown lab coat, a pair of thick glasses and an improbable moustache, carry a clipboard and pretend to be a Man From The Council. Or I could try to get a job as a bartender, with Special Expertise in "changing the barrel."

There's an ancient, albeit ceremonial, post of Ale Tester (not sure if it's just for the City or not, but it's quite a job - you get paid £ 10 per year, in two £ 5 instalments, but you do get all the ale you can drink.) Perhaps next time they put on a new beer, I could wear the special 18th Century frock coat and wig and insist that I see where the barrel is installed.

No. I don't think I'd fall for it either. But maybe a Blue Badge Guide could "apply" officially to find out? Perhaps someone already has? Has the disguise already been donned? Does anyone know what's under the GPB&G nowadays? Do tell...

Devonport House Burial Ground and Admiral Hardy's Tomb

The strange thing about the somewhat austere frontage of Devonport House and its even more austere grounds is that on a first glance it just looks like a patch of grass with a few trees in it.

It's only when you start to peer in a bit further that you realise that what used to be the main cemetery for Greenwich Hospital still has some rather splendid monuments and even the odd grave. By the time naval veterans made it out to Greenwich they were already pretty decayed (if you look at old engravings of Greenwich Pensioners there's always at least one with a peg-leg - either the same guy got himself into every picture or there were a lot of limbs blown off by cannon fire) so the cemetery filled up quickly.

Actually, the very first graveyard was at the bottom-east corner of Greenwich Park - where that little row of cottages snakes its way up the side of the park now. By 1749 it was full, so they decamped to a new one on Goddard's Garden (no relation, I hope, with Goddard's Pie Shop...no - let's not even go there...) on King William Walk.

This was a purpose-built graveyard - which already included a posh Mausoleum for officers. It's still there - although you have to crane your neck to see it unless you care to do what I did, which is sneak around the back (or front - I can never quite work out the geography of Devonport House) and tiptoe across the grass. It's by Nicholas Hawksmoor (a man who certainly got around) and was built between 1713 and 1714 in his signature dour neo-classical style. When it was first built it had open arched columns but they were filled in sometime about 1820 and the whole thing re-roofed.

This might have something to do with the fact that it was attacked by grave robbers in 1806. Perhaps it was very stupid grave robbers who were hoping to find Nelson's remains - he's buried in St Paul's Cathedral of course - though had they returned in 1839 they would have found Admiral Hardy - he of "Kiss me, Hardy" (or "Kismet, Hardy " as it is more fashionable to say these days) fame. It also contains the mortal remains of Lord Hood and Tom Allen, who was Nelson's personal servant.(I'll get onto these guys another time.) You'll be glad to know it's listed.

The big move to East Greenwich Pleasaunce took place in 1857, after the graveyard at Devonport House just got Too Full. It didn't help that not long after, the railway was being extended with a new-fangled cut-and-cover tunnel under Greenwich Park that went straight the cemetery. I'll get onto that some other time.

But for now, it's definitely worth a sneak around the grounds of Devonport House (which, in time-honoured tradition, I'll cover some other time) and taking a closer look at the monuments that are left, looking ever so slightly lost, in the grass. If I understood the complex Victorian language of funerary monuments (a bit like a goth-version of the Language of Flowers) I'd be able to tell you what a broken pillar covered in a marble cloak or Britannia with her shield lowered meant. Sadly the book I had with it all in got lost years ago...

There was more disruption in the 1920s when building work began on Devonport House, when 1247 skulls and 58 boxes of bones were dug up for removal to East Greenwich.

For now, though, I'll leave you to ponder upon the ghostly consequences of such deathly upheaval...

Peter de Wits Breakfast/Lunch

Something that always puzzles me about Sundays in Greenwich is that while the market and surrounding shops, the park and - well - practically everywhere else in the town is heaving, Peter de Wits is nearly always virtually empty whenever I walk in for brunch.

Maybe the tourists just walk past - it's small and perhaps unexciting-looking from the front and perhaps the (very slightly - we're not talking Las Vegas here) flashier-from-the-front-but-a-bad-idea-once-you-get-inside sandwich shop next door looks more inviting. PdW's, after all, has plain white walls and simple-looking tables where the sandwich shop has cakes in the window (don't bother trying them - they promise an AWFUL lot more than they deliver) but this is one case where looks alone are deceiving.

I have always had a soft spot for Peter de Wits anyway. Any cafe that's only got about eight tables that still manages to present live jazz two nights a week (and not just local music students - proper names) deserves a bit of respect. But I actually enjoy their food. It's a simple menu, that doesn't try to overstep the size of the kitchen - on Sunday I had a slice of the special quiche - all home-made and very enjoyable and the very fact that the tourists seem to pass the place by often means I can take my paper in there and enjoy a cup of coffee and a simple lunch virtually undisturbed. The staff are always friendly (as opposed to next door) and the prices, though not bog-low, are fair.

It's particularly lovely in the summer, when they open up the back and there are a couple of ancient tables surrounded by pots of whippy greenery next to the loos (much nicer than it sounds.) I am always slightly surprised when I can get a seat out there as it's such a sweet little secret corner in the very centre of town, but I've never been disappointed yet. Just the place to dissect a Sunday paper and its never-ending supplements...

Peter deWits has undecipherable opening hours. I often try to go there and it's shut. I have to make do with the Organic Cafe opposite which is nice enough, and reliable, but not as fun as PdW (try reading the paper next to the loos there you won't be popular - there's often a queue and it's next door to the kiddies' play area...) You just have to accept that PdW's seems to open on a whim and enjoy it when you strike lucky...

The Phantom's Favourite Front Gardens (6)

The Fan Museum, Crooms Hill, SE10

Ok, folks, I'm being all fluffy again today and waxing lyrical about a lovely little secret corner of Greenwich which many pass by (its being slightly set away from the road) and yet adds, in its quiet way, a little moment of happiness for me - and, I hope, others who pass by. Aaahhh...

After yesterday's entry which is more likely to be seen by locals than tourists, todays, I'll bet, gets viewed by visitors and the rest of us only notice it when our mums are visiting...

As you will probably know by now I'm most impressed by front yards that have very little obvious potential, but which their owners have not given up on - the one in Angerstein Lane that has virtually no light, for example - or the tiny one in Maze Hill that most would think was far too small for a formal landscape - or even the one at St Alfege's Passage that has no 'garden' at all.

Basements - however pretty the houses themselves might be - can be excuses for doing nothing - no one's going to notice so why bother? So it's double joy when someone does something good with one.

Now, admittedly, if you're going to have a basement front garden, Crooms Hill ain't a bad place to have it - but I always get a little frisson of pleasure whenever I pass the Fan Museum and look down. Giant sword ferns and potted evergreens jostle with hanging baskets of annuals and what looks suspiciously like an overgrown house plant. The little cast iron table and chairs(which may or may not belong to the people next door - I don't care - it's the overall effect through that arch that counts and if neighbours can co-operate to create a nice view for the rest of us I'm not complaining) looks wonderfully inviting even if no one ever sits in it and even practical things like the security bars at the window, the floodlight and the rolled hose are part of the pleasure of this place.

The Phantom smiles serenely.

Favourite Front Gardens (3)

A totally different favourite today. I always adore walking past number 39 Whitworth St for its sheer exuberance. There's no fancy topiary shapes, no gorgeous country cottage charm, no formal splendour. Instead, behind the neat picket fence and fancy edging over a gravel base, bursts a veritable explosion of artificial flowers, jolly statuettes of animals, scarecrows, windmills and, of course, the nigh-on obligatory garden gnomes.

I am sure it's not everyone's cup of tea, but for me this is an expression of someone's personality that is just as exciting and valid as some of my other favourite gardens in Greenwich. This is a person who knows their own taste and is confident enough to absolutely go with it. No wishy-washy single gnomes or discreet plastic flowers masquerading as the real thing. The owner of this front garden likes the colour and vibrancy of artificiality and clearly gets a lot of pleasure from the concentration of baskets, pots and novelty boots full of giant faux-flowers, something I would argue is probably the only way to really 'get away' with such a look. The window box is crammed full of colour, and every corner of this minute space gleams with the zing of perky blooms.

How much more do I like this kind of thing than the garden that says nothing at all. The person who doesn't give a stuff about what they look like; the owner who leaves a pile of old fridges and broken armchairs in the front; the one who seems to think that leaving last year's hanging basket half-full of dead flowers will do; the person who makes a bit of effort but is so timid they end up saying very little.

I love all gardens that have had some thought. They might not be what I would have chosen - but they're not my space, they are someone else's and that person has had the courage to make a statement. And it is in the collection and variety of these individual statements that we find Community...

Favourite Phantom Front Gardens (2)

Maze Hill, SE10

This is about half way down Maze Hill (I couldn't see a number for all the greenery...)

Whoever lives here must spend half their life out the front - the garden is tiny - a few square feet at best -but this hasn't prevented the owners from treating it like some kind of stately home.

On the adjoining side of the semi, well-managed trees create a frame - I'm sure there's a eucalyptus in there, but it's kept under tight control and adds a wispy curtain in front of a maple(?) that's also been heavily-clipped. A date palm and cyprus give it a lush depth which only a serious plantsman would know how to create. At the centre, topiary pom-poms shoot up like a sort of mad green fountain and by the drive there are more well-clipped shrubs. The whole thing is softened by a cascade of annuals and a background of climbing roses and I love it.

It's worth walking past this house for no other reason than its sheer exuberance. These people have not let the fact that they only have a garden the size of a (ladies) handkerchief in which to express themselves get in the way of putting on a display for passers-by that puts the owners of far bigger places to shame. Not a blade of grass is left to chance, not a leaf is out of place, not a rose left un-deadheaded. The colours are restrained, but exquisite and the whole is a country house garden in miniature. It's a complete opposite to the fabulous cottage garden up at St Johns, Favourite Front Gardens (1) but nevertheless a brilliant gem to stumble upon.

I can only guess what the back garden is like, but in the meanwhile, how generous of the owners to give the rest of us a free show...

Preview: Open Gardens Day

The Pagoda, Pagoda Gardens, SE3
28, Granville Park SE13
12, Eliot Vale, SE3

15th June 6.00pm - 9.00pm

I'm sure that many people will know about this already, but I thought I'd give the rest of you a heads-up on one of the great opportunities-to-be-nosey of the year. Part of the National Gardens Scheme, three of the best private gardens in Blackheath are open for one evening only for the public to enjoy, the proceeds going to various good causes. It's an evening that I normally would not miss, though sadly I can't make it this year.

The great thing about these particular gardens is that the owners have got together and made them open on the same evening at the same time, so that, in a very civilised move, you can wander between the three of them, enjoying a glass of wine at each as the sun sets. So very civilised...

The Pagoda is probably the most famous of the three. I will come to the house itself another day - it warrants an entry on its own - but the garden is wonderful - totally in keeping with the house's history. An English interpretation of an oriental fantasy, the half-acre includes shady walks, a water garden with a suitably red lattice pergola and some truly lovely country-style planting. There is some fabulous old stonework, and a great mix of jungly/tropical and old English plants.

28 Granville Park is a long, narrow garden with separate 'rooms' - right next to the house there is a sunken area with giant ferns and palms. My overwhelming memory is of a splendid circular lawn and intense planting. There's a pond and, right at the far end, a dry garden. Plenty of shady nooks and interesting corners.

12 Eliot Vale is completely different. Designed for access (presumably there's someone with disabilities in the family) the paths are long, wide and winding, and the planting is low. The pond is raised - I assume to avoid accidents, and there's an enchanting little summerhouse in the centre. It's an odd shape - just when you think you've got to the end, it turns a corner in an extra bit that they presumably bought off the neighbours. Lovely and shady. This garden seems younger than the others to me - an extra year on, it may well have established much more. The sculptures that are dotted around may not be to everyone's taste, but it's certainly a bold idea and they add interest, mingling in with the plants.

On the surface, it's not a 'cheap' evening. Each garden costs £ 3.50 entrance fee, which notches up if you have a family, but if memory serves, this includes a glass of wine, and, let's face it, it's all for charity and it's a lovely evening. Somewhere in my mind it costs less if you go to all three. My suggestion would be to give up on the savings front and book a nice restaurant in Blackheath Village afterwards.

Enjoy - let me know what you think if you go.

BTW, I'll be coming onto the other Open Gardens - for Bexley Cottage Hospice, and in the centre of Greenwich for GreenwichAlive another day...

Rathmore Benches

The corner of Troughton and Rathmore Roads, SE7

Who needs to go to Barcelona when you have Charlton on your doorstep? If you're not expecting anything more than some rather sweet Victorian terraces when you're walking along Troughton and Rathmore roads, the first time you see the (still) fabulous Rathmore benches is one of those wonderful experiences that Life gives out for free every so often.

In a style strongly reminiscent of Gaudi's dazzling Park Guell, this extraordinary structure of concrete benches wrapping its way around an old (1901, if memory serves...) chapel (now Rathmore Youth Centre) winds like a length of colourful satin ribbon gently undulating and forming two long, continuous benches for the Youth of Charlton to enjoy. All along it, in minute detail, are mosaic images - people, flowers, sun rays, crashing waves, boats, motorbikes, cornfields - and what looks suspiciously like a detonator of some sort.

Maybe this is a darker vision than it at first appears. This was made by the excellent Greenwich Mural Workshop (You know the drill, 'more about them another day') in the heady days of the 1980s when there was the money around to do that kind of thing. There is some doubt about exactly when it was executed - The Public Monument and Sculpture Association, thinks 1989, but I have found evidence of a publication about it as far back as 1983 (it's by Greenwich Mural Workshop themselves and just 12 pages long, so I guess it could be a proposal. I am sure one of you long term residents - Inspector Sands, perhaps, can tell me the date?) but this is a period when CND and the Greenham Women were still very much at the forefront of the news. A time when even Tony Blair was still against nuclear weapons. In other words, more politically volatile times.

Sadly the colourful mural that accompanied the project and which may have explained more about the meaning of the remaining benches has been painted over - in battleship grey, of all colours. A more miserable, dampening colour would have been difficult to find, but could have rather symbolic subtext if my theory is correct. I have no idea whether my fancies about these benches having political resonance are anything more than mere whim, but if it is, it might explain the grey paint and general condition of the work...

If you've never seen these remarkable constructions, my advice would be to see them for the very first time by night. The sodium streetlamps are far kinder to them than the harsh sunlight which shows just how badly they have worn. By night, they are a magical sight, the colours a little subdued by the lighting, but the general view much more akin, I suspect, to how they were originally conceived.

The money just isn't around these days to look after exciting sculptures in backstreets in Charlton. The Public Monument and Sculpture Association has recorded them as being "At Risk" - and they're absolutely right. They are. Flakes and tiles of mosaic are missing almost everywhere you look, and in places the wire mesh that forms the foundations shows through. Even the little flowerbeds carefully integrated into the design are looking distinctly bare. But it is not too late to save this wonderful piece of late 20th Century art. If the will is there, then they can be preserved, perhaps even by their original creators. Listing would even be an option. Sadly I don't think that grey paint is coming off any time soon...

Helena Pare Lydia Mott

Today I bring you a total mystery. In vain I have searched for information about the poet Helena Pare Lydia Mott, who lived at 115 Maze Hill. There is a glorious 1951 plaque to her, in flowing rococo-style, with what I can only assume is a verse of hers engraved into it.

The summer's breath is spent upon the hills
Behold, remember and rejoice
She seems to say
I give you colour
That the colour of your winter
May be eased
Until I come again.

And, er, that's it. I have consulted books, googled her to infinity, asked anyone I know who might have a clue - and drawn a complete blank.

I find it remarkable that such a splendid house, with such a grand plaque has absolutely no reference to it - or the person to whom it relates - anywhere that I can find. This is only just over 50 years ago. Is someone so important that she warranted a memorial in 1951 so easily forgotten?

Does anyone out there in Greenwich Cyberville know anything about her? In the meanwhile I will continue to delve and update you if I find anything.I guess Greenwich without mystery would be a dull place indeed.

BTW I will be coming to No. 111 Maze Hill and its more famous but un-plaqued resident very soon...