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...

The Phantom Cheers Up

Grumpy Old Phantom has been going through the fantastic photographs you've sent me this afternoon instead of doing Proper Work (naughty me) and came across this. It sort of follows in the same vein as the sign we discussed over the weekend and it made me laugh. You may have to click on it to really enjoy it to the full.



I think the ultimate Scary Neighbour who penned this is in Pelton Road (am I right, B?) Whatever. The Phantom is smiling again...

Separated At Birth...

Could it be? Is it possible? That Admiral Lord Nelson has a long-lost brother? It took me a long while to work out whose lips the artist based this statue on (thanks for the pic, Stevie) ...



...but I've finally worked it out.



Who would have guessed?

Grisly Bones Discovery

Talking of lovely local photographers sending me curious things, here's an oddity from Blackheathen which has left me puzzled indeed.

Walking along the path by the Old Royal Naval College on Saturday, he saw police raking around on the shore, collecting a large quantity of dodgy-looking bones, after a tip-off from beachcombers. Apparently they are probably not human, (the bones, dummy, not the beachcombers...) though they've been carted off to the labs for checking anyway, and had probably been in the river for some time (also not the totters...)

Blackheathen tells me

"Police have yet to confirm if their investigation will lead to any prosecutions but local residents commended the prompt response by authorities in brightening up an otherwise dull afternoon..."

The Lucky Greenwich Dromedary

The Royal Standard, Pelton Rd, SE10

Benedict, who clearly has too much time on his hands, has sent me this great picture of the splendid fellow outside The Royal Standard pub in Pelton Road. I think he must once have been a Christmas decoration, but was such a hit he just stayed there. He's been there for bloomin' yonks now, and somehow the place just wouldn't look the same without him. He seems to be caught in what looks like a rather alarming net - presumably that's fairly lights, though I've not seen them lit. I've heard all kinds of stories about him, most of which seem to be variations on his granting three wishes to anyone who climbs up, gives him a carrot and a mince pie, and pats him on Christmas Eve, from which has arisen the moniker of the Lucky Greenwich Dromedary.

There's is something strange about that reindeer, wishes or not. If you click on the pic you can see it better and blow me, if it isn't actually some kind of humpless camel with a saddle on its back and antlers attached. Part of a recycled fairground ride, perhaps?

This kind of customisation is something of which I approve, and I've set my mind to thinking how other sculptures in Greenwich could be improved with little extras. William IV with deelyboppers, perhaps? The Throne of Earthly Kings with some comfy cushions? It's a good job Knife Edge isn't still with us - it would have made a fantastic maypole. Maybe we should have a special festival of 'improved' statues? I certainly enjoyed the Cannon-In-A-Condom recently.

And what of Nelson, which Stevie (who sent this pic) and I have been agreeing is easily the ugliest statue in Greenwich? Certainly that pale green furniture does nothing for him. The only improvement I can think of for this strangely amphibian incarnation would be a paper bag...

Any other suggestions for funky additions to Greenwich Scuptures?

Toadhog Day

From the ridiculous to the sublime...

Benedict points out that it is, of course, the Second Lunar Trimester before the Spring Equinox entering the House of Jupiter with Capricorn rising, exactly 18 Solar Days before Easter Sunday, which, as we all know, makes it Toadhog Day.

Rush to the lawns of the Old Royal Naval College at around 11.00 this morning to join in the special Toade Hunt, where His Worship the Mayor will, in full cermonial garb, make a proclamation before the gathered assembly, then lead the public in the "lifting of the stones" ceremony, looking for the Lucky Greenwich Toad, before initiating a joyful Toad Walk through the park to the Observatory.

A little history. Incredibly, the origins of Toadhog Day have nothing to do with amphibians at all. During Duke Humphrey's tenure, it began as 'Olde Hogge' Day, when older, more dangerous wild pigs were hunted down and a sneaky mid-Lentern feast provided for the people. It was, of course, much disapproved of by the Church.

The Toads came in after Humphrey's enclosure of the park and boars were less common. 'Slipping ye tode in ye hole' became somewhat of a vulgar term during the reign of Good King Hal, a sly reference to his courtship of Anne Bolyen under the old oak tree in Greenwich Park. The festival got a bit out of hand in the centuries to come, gradually becoming saucier and saucier, and wasn't cleaned up until Victorian times when prudes forced the annual undergound Saturnalia to become a family event. It is nevertheless still much enjoyed by the people of the Parish.

As ancient tradition decrees, as the Time Ball drops at exactly 1.00pm, His Worship will raise the stone of the Lucky Toad and ask him when Spring will arrive. The number of irritated croaks will tell the world how many more weeks of winter we have to endure.

The comes the fun - a veritable carnival of toadery - Guess the Weight of the Toad, How Many Toads In The Barrel and Pin The Wart On The Toad competitions, to name but a few of the wholesome entertainments on offer. Greenwich does not come any more exciting. The event's highlight is, of course, the annual Parade Of The Toads, dressed in their finery. Benedict has kindly sent me a photo of the winners of last year's coveted Glamorous Toad award.


"Terence wears a Daffodil vase Top Hat by Benoit and Titania also chooses, from the same designer's spring/summer collection, a beautiful petal-motif bonnet."




Happy Toadhog Day, one and all...

Beer and Gin

Virtually nothing survives of the old palace of Placentia, as we were discussing yesterday. So when I hear about something that does just about cling onto existence, I want to know about it. Especially if just about the only description I can find on the internet claims it is 'obscene.'

I read about Beer and Gin - two ancient figures who lived over the Buttery (food store) at Placentia - in a single sentence in a guidebook written in 1937. Sir Geoffrey Callender, who was the first Director of the National Maritime Museum refers to the pair in passing as having
"presided over many a riotous scene in the days of Bluff King Hal, still serving a long term of imprisonment in the Tower of London, whither they were moved by order of the Commonwealth."

I was intrigued. I'd never heard of such figures. I googled the pair to infinity, finding only one other mention - as their being 'obscene.' No pictures at all, no mention in any modern references to the Tower today.

Now I love an ancient obscene figure as much as the next Phantom, and when faced with the concept of two of them, I sniffed A Quest. Not least, perhaps, one of rescue. What the hell were they doing still languishing in the Tower when Greenwich could do with all the ancient obscene figures it could get? (And no, Chris Roberts doesn't count.)

Since I couldn't find anyone to tell me whether they were still there, there was only one thing for it. Co-opt a couple of American visitors and seek the jolly pair out myself.

We decided to do the whole tourist thing - I mean if you're paying sixteen quid each you want every cheesy moment the Tower can throw at you. And believe me - there are cheesy moments a-go-go on a visit to the Tower. We did the Beefeater Tour, the Crown Jewels and the photo opportunity with the ravens. We paced up and down Sir Walter Raleigh's Walk and dutifully voted about whether we thought the Little Princes were actually murdered by Richard III. We heard gory tales of Tyburn and Tower Hill and Jack Ketch, The Most Inept Executioner In All Of England. And then we got down to business.

The first Yeoman I asked didn't know what the hell I was talking about - I doubt he gets many questions that don't include Anne Boleyn, torture or his costume. It didn't bode well. So I went for the oldest, beardiest, fattest-looking Beefeater I could find - always the best idea when asking obscure, I find. And obscene. Beer and Gin? Just by the stairs on the first floor in the White Tower, he told me. Tension mounted. Filth coming up...


Hmmm.

You know, I spent a long time trying to work out what on earth was obscene about the strange pair in front of me. Waist-length carved wooden gentlemen in Tudor doublet and gown, each clutching a tankard in pudgy fingers and looking - well, a bit pathetic, actually.

They've clearly been knocked about a bit (by Cromwell, boo, hiss) and Beer has what looks like a whip wound around his middle. One of my American companions pointed out a slight bulge in an obvious place in Beer's puffy pants, but frankly, I would defy Mary Whitehouse herself to find these two 'obscene.' Comic? Perhaps. Creepy? Definitely. Obscene? Nah...

I can only assume that Cromwell thought that the very act of drinking was obscene. Tell you what, though. Rude or not, I still think they could find a little spot for Beer and Gin in the new Interpretation Centre in Greenwich. Our very own Statler and Waldorf, commenting on goings-on from that balcony up the spiral staircase. I can just see it now:

Beer:"It's good to be heckling again."
Gin: "It's good to be doing anything again!"
Both: "Ha ha ha ha!"

A new campaign for the Phantom, perhaps.

If I'm absolutely honest, there is something else more important (what - more important than Beer and Gin?) The Tower holds that I would like to see returned to Greenwich. But that's for another day...

The Phantom Titters...

I'm sorry - but is mine the only puerile mind that finds this image snigger-worthy?

I'm not really sure why - maybe it's the juxtaposition of the cannon-in-a-condom with Sir Walter looking on in frank admiration, maybe it's just been a long day...

Thinking about it, it's all a bit - ahem, masculine around there, isn't it. We have two obelisks, a cannon, Sir Walter Raleigh and a host of virile sea-captains looking down on it all. We don't even have a bare-breasted Nannie clutching a piece of horse's tail to counterbalance the male-female off-kilterness at the moment.

Still, I guess the cannon-that-was-lost is now found and they want to look after it, and good for them.

More news of long-lost local obscene-art that should be returned to its rightful home soon...

Greenwich Cablevision

Paul asks:

I found an intriguing reference last night in a book called "I Never Knew that About London" by Christopher Winn to the fact (apparently) that Greenwich was the subject of the first pay TV channel, Greenwich Cablevision. Apparently it began broadcasting from a studio in Plumstead on 3 July 1972 and its first programme was about everday life in Greenwich at the time. I would love to see the programme. Ever heard of it? Seen it? Any ideas on sourcing it? If not, I may go to Mr Winn's publishers to ask.

The Phantom is flummoxed.

Blimey - I'd never even heard of it. But it sounds intriguing indeed. Wow - I'd like to see that too.

I would say your best bet for a first-stop would be the Heritage Centre or the Borough Museum at Plumstead - they may have it - though of course it could be on some long-lost tape format and unwatchable now. Your enquiry might prompt them to digitise it while it's still available (though actually still in copyright so there might be some iffy implications.) Sadly I don't think there's a TV equivalent of the British Library - where you have to legally deposit a copy of broadcast material.

Perhaps the BFI could help though?

Do keep me posted on this intriguing Greenwich first...

My Chemical Romance

I was just walking through the Dome, taking my parents to the Tutankhamun exhibition (review tomorrow) when I met a mate who works there. He said "You've got to see this..."

We went round the back - beyond the ice disco (eleven quid for an hour, btw) to find dozens of face-painted MCR fans, wrapped in blankets and sleeping bags.

"They've been there since Tuesday," said my pal.

"But don't they have tickets?"

"Yeah..."

I almost wish I was going myself. If a band is so good people are happy to queue for two days when they already have a ticket, it's got to be worth seeing...

The Throne of Earthly Kings

Devonport House, King William Walk, SE10

Like so many modern sculptures around here, youth doesn't seem to prevent obscurity when it comes to any kind of record of what something is. I'm still, for example, trying to find out about the interesting mural A Thames Tale on the wall of the power station (see "Weird Greenwich") even though it's not seven years old yet, and regular readers will remember the fun and games we had trying to find out who the hell Lydia Pare-Mott was.

It's taken me ages to track down anything at all about this curious, exciting and ever-so-slightly rude-looking piece of practical Angle-Grinder Art - you can (if you actually have the nerve to open the gates and walk in) actually sit on the "throne" and pretend that you, too are some kind of evil emperor in a science fiction movie.

I tried all kinds of searches on this - even though I knew the title - The Throne of Earthly Kings - but the site where the breadcrumb trail actually began was that of the haulier firm (Fast Forward, if you're interested) who carried it from the artist's workshop in Brittany over to Greenwich in 2004.

It was commissioned by The Cathedral Group PLC (on whose website I did eventually find a cursory mention) who developed Devonport House into student accommodation and a hotel. They were responsible for quite a bit of art in the early naughties - remember the hundreds of naked bodies lying around the Cutty Sark in 2001? The somewhat ill-fated inflatable Dreamspace in the grounds at Devonport House by the same artist (Maurice Argis) in the same year? (I really enjoyed that - shame it all ended so sadly in Chester-le-Street...)

It takes a while to find the artist who conceived and built The Throne of Earthly Kings. Francois Hameury is hardly mentioned at all on the web - and I certainly couldn't find anything locally - things in Greenwich become obscure almost instantly it seems. This was 2004, for God's sake - not 1004.

I did finally find the artist's website - if you'd like to check it out. Ignore the rather creepy photo of him with a boiled egg in his mouth, but do have a listen to the music - played by one Yorrick Trowman, who sat on the throne at its unveiling and played the violin for champagne-quaffing arty-types. If you click on 'The Throne,' there are photos of it being created and a video of the aforementioned opening ceremony, which clearly had some cash thrown at it. Such a shame it's become so obscure so few years later. Luckily, once you do find his site, Hameury's artist statement about the piece is charming.

It's probably my favourite modern sculpture in Greenwich - not least for the engraving at its base:

May all who sit here have the courage to be true to themselves.

The world is a Kingdom for those who search inside.

Francois Hameury, 2004

Ladies and Gentlemen - To Science!

Whilst reading up about the Greenwich Foot Tunnel recently, I came across a curious 'fact.' It must be true because I found it in a school test-paper by the Oregon Department of Education, and it quotes the seminal work of one Jearl Walker, The Flying Circus of Physics. But enough of the sources - onto The Science...

At the Foot Tunnel's inauguration on 4th August 1902, a large celebration was in order. Sundry dignitaries and bigwigs bowled up to make speeches and cut the ribbon of the fine new tunnel under the Thames to get the hoi-poloy to work at the docks. So important was the event that champagne was laid on down inside the tunnel.

But then tragedy struck. The champagne was as flat as the proverbial pancake, due to the difference in atmospheric pressure 15.2 metres underground to that at surface level.

"Phooey!" shouted the bigwigs - and drank it anyway. It was only on their return to the surface that they realised they should have paid more attention in their physics lessons. As they climbed the stairs, the atmospheric pressure changed, re-animating the bubbles. A witness said:

"The wine popped in their stomachs, distended their vests and all but frothed from their ears..."

It was all very embarrassing. One poor sod had to be rushed back below to undergo champagne decompression.

Is it true? Personally I doubted it - but there was only one way to find out. So on Saturday a bunch of us, some dressed in Victorian garb (complete with waistcoats to distend, of course) took a large amount of different kinds of bubbly down to the lowest part of the tunnel to test it out.

Of course we didn't know much about the original event - what kind of champagne it was, how long it had been down there, how long it had been opened (had they opened it before the Mayor's - naturally interminabl - speech, for example?) or even how long they were down there before returning. And I confess it wasn't what you'd call a 'controlled' experiment (no one wanted to be the one who didn't drink champagne) but I did ask everyone to avoid eating baked beans, Jerusalem artichokes and Brussels sprouts for a period of 24 hours before the experiment.

We all trooped down, where there was, handily, a nice big red cupboard to use as a bar. We were relieved to find that champagne drinking was not included in the long list of things you're not allowed to do in the tunnel - but was this because the people who wrote the rules had not heard the salutary tale of the opening ceremony?

It was with slight disappointment that the first bottle popped very nicely indeed, thank you. We put it down to having carried it about with us all the way from Theatre of Wine and nobly drank it anyway. It was very nice - but also very bubbly. The second bottle had come on the tube and DLR from North London, and had a similar fizzy nature, though the third had began to calm down, despite its having arrived from Roehampton. We tried a couple more bottles just to make sure. An intrigued family of American tourists joined us, giving them another story of eccentric Brits to add to their cannon of tourist tales.

Some latecomers to our party ensured yet another bottle being opened, but by now it was clear. I can reveal, with, I admit, equal quantities of relief and disappointment, that no wine popped in anyone's stomach, no vests were distended and it's perfectly safe to drink champagne in The Greenwich Foot Tunnel. The Blackheath Fireworks afterwards however, seemed very loud and bright indeed after all the 'scientific experimentation...'

But the nagging doubt remains. Shouldn't we have done this properly? Maybe we needed to make sure we were all dressed appropriately, that we appointed 'a Mayor' to make a speech and had kept the champagne down below for a longer time? It could be that we needed a proper scientist with a clipboard and a white coat to oversee things (I did invite one but he was busy 'holding a party for the arrival of a new washing machine in his flat' - I don't know - he could have just said he was washing his hair...)

Perhaps in my excitement to test this as soon as I read about it I missed that the atmospheric pressure would be slightly different in the heat of the summer? I guess there's only one thing to do - repeat the experiment - properly this time, on the exact 106th anniversary next August...

The Ghost of the Tulip Stairs

There are a whole bunch of famous 'photographs of ghosts' - some of which are slightly less ridiculous than others, some more authenticated than others, some creepier than others, but as far as classic, almost stereotypical bugaboos are concerned, you'd go a long way to beat the snap that retired vicar, Reverend Ralph Hardy took on holiday in 1966 and which is now one of the most famous of its kind.

Rev. Hardy and his wife were visiting Greenwich from White Rock in British Columbia and were enjoying an afternoon at the Queen's House. He decided to take a picture - like so many people before and after him - of the famous, delicate, ammonite-like (and, in my humble opinion, bloomin' claustrophobic) Tulip Staircase, which was at the time off-limits to the public and was barricaded so no one could climb up. There is a list of the equipment and conditions under which he took the picture on the National Maritime Museum website (see below...)

When he got home and had his photos developed, he was stunned to see a shrouded figure clinging to the banister with both hands. To me it actually looks like two ghoulies - one chasing the other - either that or the poor ghost has two left hands. It's undeniably creepy - but is it really a picture of a member of the spirit world? The photograph has undergone extensive 'tests,' including examinations by Kodak who can't work out what's happened, but are convinced it's not double-exposed or otherwise tampered with.

Turning to Malcolm Godfrey, I discover the sad story of a housemaid who fell to her death over the handrail of the stairs, and who has been spotted trying to mop up her own blood from the floor at the bottom. Footsteps have also been heard trudging up and down, a school choir singing and doors banging. A spooky place indeed.

The National Maritime Museum has a longer account of the incident, including splendid photo of a seance held the following year by the Ghost Club and a list of what they 'experienced.'

Proof of the spiritual world or about as authentic as The Crew of the Boundless? Either way, it's quite fun...

Take a peek at it yourself:

http://paranormal.about.com/library/blclassic_ghost_on_stairs.htm

Sad Cherubs

After Burtons Elephants on Tuesday Gwladys reminded me of their friends across the road, the Sad Cherubs who decorate the pillars around St Algege's church.

These poor characters have been part of my image of Greenwich for as long as I can remember - they are one of my earliest memories of the place. Their faces eaten away by years of pollution - first from the coal fires and smoke from Greenwich's industrial past, more recently from the incessant car fumes, these poor little creatures haunt me whenever I think of St Alfeges - horrific yet somehow tragic. Almost as if they have some kind of caul across their faces they appear to writhe and struggle to get out from their stone prisons, gasping for air.

I can only assume that they are the same age as the church itself. I have always been a bit puzzled by the end of the church that presents itself to Greenwich Church St - where you would expect to see a door, there is a portico and a lantern - but a blank wall and railings supported by those cherubs. A rather odd face to show the world - the real entrance is round the 'back' and the altar is behind the cherub-wall.

Gwladys tells me that the cherubs remind him of that bit in Raiders of the Lost Ark where the naughty Nazis open the Ark of the Covenant and all the evils of the world come out, and I can see where he's coming from, but for me these creatures are more pathetic than that. I see no malice in them - just melancholy.

Where I do agree with Gwladys is that they are in urgent need of attention - but perhaps it's already too late. Short of recarving them and putting the originals out to pasture I can't see that they are repairable ( a foriegn friend once referred to something as being "immendable," which I think is an excellent word for these pitiful putti.) They are part of Greenwich's past - both cultural and industrial - and I cherish them as they are.

Something to look out for on those railings, BTW. There are often small flyers attached to them advertising concerts and recitals at St Alfeges - usually the only way I get to know about these lovely events...

Burtons Elephants

We'll get onto Cafe Sol that currently occupies this place another day with a proper review but for today I would like to take a peek at the building itself. It would be pretty easy to just walk past this fantastic art deco corner and not even notice its beautiful lines. It's a case of looking down - then looking up...

It doesn't take a genius to work out that this building was built by the mid-range gentleman's outfitters Burtons. There are two entrances, both of which still retain their fabulous mosaic 'doormats' - see above. The date I have is 1932 - though whether that is the date of the building or the decoration is unclear from the books I've been reading. I'm in the process of trying to find out...

The beautiful curved glass of the main window is still there - thank heavens. They just don't do curved glass any more (well - not within most people's budgets, anyway) - hence people with original 1930s curved windows in their houses being forced to replace them with a series of flat panes and spoiling the whole look. Tut. If you look carefully there is still a the top stained-glass leadwork running around above it.

But the best bit is definitely found by looking up. A crenellation of elephants (sounds like some kind of weird collective noun, doesn't it) carved in that distinctive deco style tops the lot. I have no idea why the architect chose elephants (I have images of that French cartoon character Babar - he wore a suit, didn't he?)but it's certainly spectacular.

I'm not sure when Burtons moved out, but apparently before this incarnation, it was the venue for a bar called Brandies. Cafe Sol occupies the ground floor - but can anyone enlighten me as to what goes on on the first floor? There looks as though there are chairs and a large TV. Any clues for a nosy Phantom?

Ham at www.LondonDailyPhoto.blogspot.com (who, when I finally get around to creating myself a links section will definitely top it - his is the best London Blog I know) has an occasional series on London Elephants. I can't find whether he has ever included the elephants at the top of Burtons but they are very splendid indeed. Ham - if you're out there - come and take a better photo than I can, eh!

Monster Attack!

Just had to show you this horrific scene I witnessed today on the corner of Park Row. The monster with the penguin between its jaws and Spiderman in its lethal grip was on the front of a contractor's truck. Makes a change from silhouettes of naked ladies, I guess...

Odd things noted last night...

Just by-the-by.

Whilst out a-haunting last night, three odd things came to my attention:

1) If you stare at the Othello Steak House's neon sign as you're walking along on the other side of the road, the two lines seem to move in opposite directions.

2) There is an extra building in between the Painted Hall and The Chapel. It was dark so I couldn't get in to get a closer look, but it looks very 'classical.' A film set, perhaps? Will Nicholas Cage be bursting out of it today, whilst filming his latest blockbuster National Maritime Treasure?

3) The chickens in the Trafalgar Road Tesco are individually security-protected AND monitored by CCTV. Gulp.

Laser Leanings

The Meridian laser from Greenwich power station

On Friday night, when I went down to check out that splendid ship near Lovell's Wharf, I realised that the best view was probably to be had from outside the Cutty Sark pub. Sadly, by the time I'd got there, the light was failing and the outline of the ship was fuzzy, but something else was all too clear...

At first I couldn't work out whether the fabulous laser that marks the Meridian Line had got a friend in Silvertown/Canary Wharf that met it somewhere over the Thames, but it didn't take too long to work out that actually it's just our beam, which now hits what looks like a new building on the other bank.

Presumably the workmen knock off before the laser gets switched on and nobody's noticed that one of the bedrooms/offices has its very own Unique Selling Point - that it is precisely in (Meridian) line with the Royal Observatory's laser-marker. No one's going to get much sleep in that room...

Being a Phantom of Very Little Brain, I can't help getting images of James Bond strapped to a chair with a laser beam slowly cutting between his legs (in an easily-escapable room while the ubervillain has left him to his fate in the hands of very stupid henchmen who have conveniently turned their backs on the whole thing.) Presumably the Observatory light is not of the evil movie-instrument-of-torture variety but it's still going to be Very Bright.

How are estate agents going to sell this apartment, I wonder? Clearly it will get points for being on the Meridian Line, so it's all very historic and cultural. But there must be some advantages of buying this particular flat...

• "Ideal for insomniacs!"
• "Zero lighting bills!"
• "Never lose your way home again!"
• "Be seen from outer-space!"
  

I guess they'll just make the Observatory tilt the angle (easier said than done when you're dealing with a fixed line and a light beam that goes for miles) despite the fact that they were there first. I'd be really fed up if they make them switch it off - it's a fantastic little feature.

Thank you to Andy and Anonymous who also noticed this.

Would you buy this apartment?

Dracula Returns?

Gwladys has sent me a most intriguing thing:

Out for my riverside run at dusk last night I headed for the river path. There was an extraordinary sight at the boat repairers yard (near The Cutty Sark pub). They are currently working on a three masted galleon ( or some such sort of craft- I don't want to upset the pedants and purists). I don't know if it is there for filming purposes or indeed what they are up to with it. It certainly looks quite ghostly at night. Has Dracula sailed unobserved into our midst?

Gwladys - have you noticed any strange trails of earth or suspicious black dogs knocking around? How about very tall, rather pale-looking gentlemen in need of a little dental work? We're a long way from Whitby but...

I have no idea what this is - unless it's some kind of film set - or a very nice commission indeed for the boatyard - but I intend to find out. I'll try to get down there today to find out what's going on, and maybe some of you folk have some inside info but in the meanwhile, Gwladys, make sure you keep wearing that garlic necklace and start carrying a nice sharp stake with you on your nightly run.

Maybe it's a publicity stunt for the new project at Greenwich Picturehouse - a re-release of F W Murnau's Nosferatu (from 1922, if memory serves...) with a score by Darryn Harkness. I'm never too convinced by these new scores for old silents - Nosferatu and Metropolis seem to be the two that composers worry like a (little black) dog with a bone.

Nosferatu is definitely the creepiest of the Dracula movies - despite or perhaps because of the day-for-night camera work, the use of shadow and the understated violence. Max Schreck's portrayal of the count is truly scary - those spindly long fingers, those staring eyes and those two long front teeth gave me nightmares for months afterwards. Bet he didn't get too many young romantic lead roles after that one.

Do new scores always do much for old classics? I'm pretty sure that the way I saw it - in silence - was not how it would have originally have been shown. I can't believe that the jangly cinema piano would have done justice to the eerie atmosphere, either. But I've not always been convinced by the modern interpretations (I just turn the sound down on that Queen version of Metropolis. Never managed the Nosferatu at The Barbican.)

I guess the only way to find out if this version is any good will be to go along...

25th & 26th Sept, The Screening Room, Greenwich Picturehouse.

Dudgeon-Type Cycle Network Milepost

Talking of milestones, there is a splendid one at the very tip of the peninsuala which was erected by the Milennium Commission. It's got a figure 1 on the top of it, but I can't work out whether it's the first milestone to be erected or part of Cycle Route One. The website for the Cycle network, Sustrans isn't the most useful I've ever found and although it shows a map, which implies that Route One makes up this area of the Thames Path, I can't find any official route map - others are listed but that one is missing - maybe one needs to buy a book.

Apparently it's a "Dudgeon-Type," officially called "Tracks," designed by Belfast artist David Dudgeon. There are four different styles of markers, all similar, but with significant differences by artists from the four countries that make up the UK. 'Tracks' is supposed to represent the marks left on the countryside by bike-riders though I'm not convinced that that would be a major selling point of cycling. At the bottom there is a poem by Dudgeon himself.

On each of the markers is an individual disc with a motif depicting an aspect of Time, with a part of a secret code. You're supposed to do rubbbings of each one, collect them and crack the code.

Milestone along Morden Road

Now here's a thing. It's clearly 'important' because it has a little railing around it - but nowhere can I find out anything about this sweet little milestone along Morden Road, near the pond at the South-East corner of Blackheath.

The wonderful Neil Rhind, who is usually so eloquent on things like this, doesn't appear to have an entry about it anywhere and The Milestone Society doesn't seem to have anything about London milestones.

Maybe someone who lives in or around The Paragon might have some idea? There are a few scratches on it, but they appear to be the work of local youths rather than any kind of detail...

Shopping Cart Valhalla...

...Where trolleys go to die...

There is a quiet corner of Greenwich where I always bow my head for a moment in silent thought, surrounded by a small colony of tragic trolleys, used and abused, then finally cruelly abandoned by their callous masters when they are of no further use.

It is, of course, the little cut-through between Tunnel Avenue and the always-enjoyable footbridge across the A102(M)which finally brings you out next to the Odeon.

It's a funny, wide little alley, which takes you between two houses and the little strip of no-man's land next to the road. There are some nice-ish shrubs (which were obviously planted once) and the surface is good. But it does puzzle me why these shopping trolleys are abandoned here, and not further in. I mean - people have already done the hard work pushing them up the curly-wurly slope and over the bridge (I love that bridge - you can see so much from the top - from tantalising glimpses of The Observatory up the hill - and never quite in the place you expect to find it, to the naughty, satisfying smugness you can enjoy looking down at the stationary traffic queuing to get into the tunnel) so why not finish the job and just take the trolley home?

I have a couple of theories - if anyone lives in Tunnel Avenue and can tell me what really goes on, I'd be delighted to have another Greenwich Mystery solved.

My first thought is that the trolleys are used in some kind of extreme sport by the local kids - sitting in the cart and whizzing down the slope in some sort of helter-skelter-on-wheels type activity - scary but all too plausible.

My second idea is that these are people in Tunnel Avenue's personal trolleys - a bit like the free bicycle in Amsterdam that people use and leave around the city. I like to think that people take one back with them whenever they go shopping (I do occasionally when I'm feeling VERY generous) but who can tell?

Sometimes, one of the trolleys has hoisted itself up and over the chainlink fence to the little strip of wildland, presumably so it can die in peace. No one has ever seen how they do it...

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...

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...

Greenwich Time Ball

It's one of those wonderful oddities of London which makes our city so vibrant. In the same way that we don't actually need beefeaters marching around a dead royal palace with a bunch of keys every night, an annual dinner for two warring livery companies to settle medieval differences or a bloke in black to open parliament every session, there is no real necessity for us to squint up at the Greenwich skyline at 1.00pm to set our watches, but if we ever catch the Greenwich Time Ball at that microsecond when it drops, we feel a little shiver of excitement; a little link with our maritime past.

It all goes back to that old chestnut of longitude, which I promise I'm not going into today. The problem had been more or less solved by the end of the 18th Century, but none of John Harrison's splendid clocks was going to stand a cat's chance in hell if they weren't set correctly to start with. Trouble was, that they didn't have radio-controlled digital timepieces in those days. A few people, such as ships' captains had clocks and watches, and the ships themselves, by the 19th Century, had chronometers, but they were useless if they couldn't be set.

They'd been experimenting with the idea of time balls in Portsmouth and in 1833, it was suggested by one Captain Robert Wauchope that Greenwich would be an ideal place for one for the Thames. John Pond, who was Astronomer Royal at the time, thought it was a great idea and the Admiralty agreed - Greenwich Observatory was well-placed, up a hill, and with the right instruments to gauge the time accurately. I doubt that Pond was quite as pleased when he realised that it would be the job of the astronomers working there to toil up the stairs of the little tower, haul the ball to the top of the weather vane then drop it at one o'clock every day, rain or shine, when they could be doing a million other, more exciting things.

Nevertheless, the world's first public time signal was duly manufactured by Maudslay, Son & Field. A giant red ball, with a winch, was installed. The ball was originally made of leather, which must have become like lead when sodden with winter rain.

I'm not going to go into the concept of standard time and GMT today - do try to contain your excitement, I'll come to it ;-) Suffice to say that the Observatory was central to anything that went on throughout the 19th Century to do with Railway Time, Local Time or any other time. But all through that time the Greenwich Time Ball was hoisted to the top of its little pole at two minutes to, then dropped precisely at one o'clock. As the years passed, telegraphic communication helped to let people across the globe know what the time was, but Greenwich remained at the centre.

Today the ball is automated - there are no more astronomers left to winch it up and let it drop. But it continues to do so by machine, every day like - well, like clockwork, I guess. It's aluminium these days, but still a big bugger. I heard they had to take it down for a spruce-up recently and it proved exceeding unwieldy.

Why 1.00pm rather than midday? At first I was told that it was because the astronomers were always doing important experiments at midday when the sun is at its apex, but more recently I've heard that it's because in order to know the exact time you have to know noon. Since you're actually waiting for noon, it's difficult to be really accurate, so once the astronomers saw noon, they could actually count more accurately to 1.00pm.

I am terribly fond of our time ball. Not least because it's discreet. If you don't know to look for it you might miss it completely. If you need the time it's there (set your watch precisely "1.00pm" the moment the ball drops) if you don't need to know, you don't get bothered. As a local resident, I guess I'm quite glad I'm not in Edinburgh where 1.00 is signalled with a cannon...

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...

Phantom Phone Booth Update

I've been digging around (nothing like having 'proper' work to do to instigate a spot of procrastination, is there) and discovered that K2 models like the one at Whitworth St and outside East Greenwich Library are already rare enough to be considered listed, so we can heave a collective sigh of relief. I'd still like to know about others though, so if you pass any of the old type, think of your poor geeky phantom, spectral anorak zipped right up to ghostly chin and let me know about them, eh...

BTW if you want to buy one, unicornkiosks.com have a limited number at £ 8500 (excluding delivery...)

Phone Box Phantom

I am trying to remember the article I've read in the last few days about how BT, now that most people seem to have mobile phones, is quietly removing phone kiosks from our streets rather than mend them after being vandalised.

I guess I can sort of see the argument, but I should be extremely sad to see those fabulous old cast iron monoliths that are still dotted around Greenwich and which add such character go the way of the last round back in the 1980s where they were replaced by nasty clear plastic hoods with all the sound-proofing qualities of a loudhailer and souless modern pastiches of the classic Superman call box.

They're odd in the way that we hardly notice them while they're around, but if they were to go we would lose something really rather special. I've become a bit of a Phantom Phone Box Anorak in the last few days, ever since I found out that English Heritage does occasionally list phone boxes. I would argue that Greenwich, being a World Heritage Site, needs all the heritage it can get - and that means 20th Century classics as well as stuff from hundreds of years ago.

I've been learning a bit about phone boxes. No - stay with me - it's quite interesting being a callbox-spotter, honest.

The first type is the

• K1 - it's from 1921 and is distinctive in that it's concrete and has a red wooden door. I don't think that we have any because apparently it was universally hated and was replaced by the

• K2 - This was designed by Giles Gilbert Scott in 1924 as the result of a competition. It's neo-classical, in cast iron and with a segmented vaulted roof, with reeded strips to the corner. The crown in the top is perforated and set in the upper faces of the canopy. It has six rows of small panes of glass in each side. This is eligible for listing, as far as I can tell. The one at the end of Whitworth St (above) appears to be a K2, so it will be well worth a punt at trying to get it listed (if it isn't already...) The street would be a sadder place without it.
  

• K6 - is the most common kind and dates from King George V's jubilee in 1935. It's painted red overall and the crown is in relief, not perforated. If you're getting really technical, it has 8 strips of glass each side, with little margin lights. English Heritage needs a good reason to list these because quite a few of them have survived, but if BT are busily removing them this will not always be the case.
  

EH like particularly kiosks "closely associated with other listed buildings." So I reckon we could put up a case for, for example, the one on the South-west corner of Greenwich Park, near Rangers House. (I can't remember which one that is, offhand, I'm not THAT much of a geek - yet...) and maybe even the one (can't remember what that is either) outside East Greenwich Library (which is, I believe, Grade II listed.) They will also consider boxes that are "playing a key part in a notable town landscape." Maybe boxes within conservation areas will stand a chance.

I think it's worth having a go here. These lovely little examples of British street furniture are so much part of our world that we don't always notice them. I was going to give you a list of them, but realised that I just tend to walk straight past them. All I would know if they went was that I would feel I were missing something.

Maybe we can compile a list of boxes between us then do some kind of class-action appeal? Is there a lovely old K1, K2 K3 (unlikely, this is another concrete affair) or K6 at the bottom of your road? let me know. I guess if we could come up with some cunning new use for them - off the top of my head maybe some kind of top-up station for mobile phones, BT might be a bit keener to keep them without listing. Of course, you might totally disagree with me and think that the sooner these unofficial pissoirs are off the street the better. Now there's an idea - they could be plumbed-in and actually made into official pissoirs (sorry...)

In the meanwhile, if anyone wants to look at English Heritage's policy on Listing,

http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/server/show/nav.8833

is as good a place to start as any.

Remember. BT will not warn us that it's removing these little classics - you'll just come home one evening and your local lovely bit of vernacular heritage will be gone.

Underground Greenwich (3) Jack Cade's Cavern

(Theoretically) 77, Maidenstone Hill, SE10

I say "theoretically," because, frankly, there is bugger-all to see if you go there. Believe me - I've scouted around a few times, not quite believing that there really is nothing there. I've poked around garages, peered over back gardens and squinted down alleyways and I have come to the conclusion that this great Greenwich curio is well and truly sealed up and hidden.

Which is a big shame. There are tunnels and caves all over Blackheath and Greenwich Park, created differently and for different reasons, and none of them are to be marvelled at today. We've already discussed the tunnels in Greenwich Park, but Jack Cade's (or Blackheath) Cavern to the west deserves a special mention.

No one really knows how old any of these caves are. Some say they're Roman, others talk about the usual Druid tosh, but to be honest, in Jack Cade's case at least, it is far more likely to be 17th Century chalk miners that created