12 November 2019
Today we are again following our only true god of walking, Andrew Duncan*, and specifically his trail from the Angel to the Barbican. This fascinating area of London is called Clerkenwell, a vibrant and historical district named after - you’ve guessed it - a well that was once claimed as their own by some passing clerks. This is a modest two mile or one and a half hour walk, one that barely earns the name and is more of an excuse for some fresh air before heading to the pub for lunch. I think I’m finally getting the hang of this walking lark.
This isn’t the first time we’ve done this particular walk, but it’s the first time we’ve attempted it in the right order. A few months ago, back when I was a complete novice at this sort of thing, I foolishly tried to connect two short-ish adjacent walks from Duncan's guide into one mega-walk but failed to notice both walks start at the Angel, Islington, and then head off in opposing directions. Jayne, already a seasoned walker who would never make such a basic error, was not impressed. Undeterred, and already in the starting blocks at the Barbican, I insisted in my best mansplaining voice that all would be fine if I just read the relevant chapter backwards. This was not an experience I can recommend.
So it’s a relief when we head southwards from the Angel tube into the peaceful and wide Claremont and Myddleton Sqares, which seem many miles from busy Pentonville Road but are in fact just a few steps away. The first plaque sighting proves a little disappointing - neither blue nor someone we have heard of (Fenner Brockway, early 20th century politician and anti-war campaigner) nor did he live in this particular abode for more than two years. Then we notice, despite being born in 1888, he is apparently still living, surely making him the world’s oldest person at 131 years old. (I realise this is just the London Borough of Islington deciding to spend its money on more worthy causes than updating a plaque, but Wikipedia confirms Lord Brockway was indeed known for his longevity, only passing away in 1998, a few months short of his 100th birthday).
We are fascinated by the site of the New River Head, which has its own mini-visitors’ centre off Myddleton Pass and was originally where the New River terminated. As a South Londoner (have I ever mentioned that?), I had never even heard of the New River and its importance as a primary source of fresh water to Londoners since 1613. I expect it’s compulsory for North Londoners to learn about this at school, whereas South Londoners are fed a censored diet of less important Kentish waterways (or waterways of Kent, depending on which side of the Medway River they can be found). And that, dear reader, proves my point - gags** about tributaries in Kent come naturally to me, but I wouldn’t know a North London waterway unless I fell into one.
Where was I? Oh yes, the New River. The first important fact we learn about the New River is that it’s not new. The second important fact is that it’s not a river. Mmm, this just seems to reinforce my long-held suspicion that North Londoners are a bit weird. It’s an artificial watercourse that originally brought water from springs in Hertfordshire. Today it’s still an integral part of the Thames Water network, but since 1946 ends at Stoke Newington (much like life itself). We also read that it’s possible to walk the full 28 miles of the original course of the New River - from where we stand now to its source near Ware. The pictures look jolly nice too. Noticing that I appear keen, Jayne opines that this is something for another day … or possibly life. Before continuing, we note the magnificent panorama of St. Paul’s and the rest of London available from this spot - in 1752. Unfortunately it’s now 2019 and the view (of anything) is obscured by the buildings of the old New River Company, of which Sir Hugh Myddleton was the first governor, thus explaining his ubiquity in the road and school names of the area.
Passing Sadler’s Wells theatre, we cross Rosebury Avenue and head for Exmouth Market. As I experienced last week when I (coincidentally) attended a course in this area, this is a vibrant pedestrian walkway with a mix of street-food stalls, restaurants, coffee shops and bars, where Clerkenwell’s hip community of artists, students and start-up businesses are at work and play. To me, this whole district gives off a totally different vibe to the neighbouring areas - one of energy, creativity, innovation, urban cool. Further south, we come across scores of new shared-space offices where individuals and micro-businesses can hire a workspace cheaply to dream of creating the next “unicorn”. This is like WeWork but better - and without the beer on tap (if you want that, just go to the pub) and the massive ego of its founder (if you want that, everything is sure to go Pete Tong at some point soon).
We pass through Spa Fields, scene of riots in 1816 when angry crowds marched on the Tower of London. This is a mere taster for the historical events awaiting us on the remainder of the walk, the highlights of which include violence, slaughter, decapitation, burning alive and a bit of flaying. It’s a shame the St. John’s Ambulance service was only founded here in 1877 as they would have found plenty of custom back in medieval times. And there’s a dash of revolution too, as the Marx Memorial Library has its home on Clerkenwell Green (not green, but pleasingly triangular) and Lenin is said to have put the finishing touches to a revolutionary text here.
Jerusalem Passage heralds our entry into St. John’s Square, where the military Knights of St. John first established a priory in the 12th century, only for Henry VIII to abolish the order in 1539. Henry VIII abolished lots of things around London he no longer liked, including several wives, but I’m sure his subjects loved him all the more for it. If Twitter had existed in those days, he would probably have claimed any dissent was a witch hunt and everyone should just “read the transcript” which he had edited himself.
From St John’s Lane, we take a brief detour towards Cowcross Street (where the cows once did cross on their way to Smithfield) and come across The Rookery - now a tastefully restored boutique hotel but originally a well-known bakery from Dickensian times. Boards on the walls remind us quite how dangerous and squalid this area must have been in Victorian times, with Dickens’ own marvellous descriptions from Oliver Twist bringing to life the depredations that inspired the characters of Fagin and Bill Sykes.
Now we reach Smithfield, home of the UK’s largest meat market. The current buildings were constructed in the 19th century, but Smithfield (originally “Smooth Field”) has been the site of fairs since 1123 and an animal market since 1200, traditionally for livestock - the market for dead meat came much later. There are more tales of death and destruction as we circle West Smithfield Park towards St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, the oldest hospital in London and originally part of the eponymous priory founded in 1123. A small statue of a big man, that Henry VIII again, adorns the archway over the main gate, as if to remind us of his nefarious deeds wherever we tread. The area where the park now stands was a favoured place of execution in the Middle Ages, when, as Duncan informs us, criminals would be hanged whereas traitors and unbelievers made up a smorgasbord of agonising death (“would you like your heretic roasted, boiled or grilled, madam?”). It was also at this spot that the leader of the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, Wat Tyler, met a sticky end. Already stabbed by the Lord Mayor William Walworth, the unfortunate Tyler had all but checked into A&E at St. Bart’s when he was dragged out again by King Richard II’s soldiers and decapitated in the street. And some people dare to criticise the NHS.
Today’s Smithfield is surrounded by pubs and eateries that evoke the sights and sounds of the market - the Butcher’s Hook & Cleaver, the Slaughtered Lamb, the Hand & Shears, Prêt à Manger. I’m unsure of the origin of Bishop’s Finger though, one of the pubs on West Smithfield Park (and also the name of a Shepherd Neame beer served there), so I make the mistake of googling it. The clean version is that Bishop’s Finger takes its name from the finger-shaped signposts that used to guide pilgrims on their way to Canterbury. You don’t want to know the Urban Dictionary version as it might put you off your lunch.
We plump for the wonderfully evocative Butcher’s Hook & Cleaver, a Fuller’s house, as our lunch stop. Jayne doesn’t stray from the Pinot Grigio but I order a pint of Dark Star Hophead, “a golden ale with a floral aroma and elderflower notes from Cascade hops”. It doesn’t disappoint. Jayne tastes and agrees, looking keen to offload the Pinot in a sneaky swap transaction (declined). The food menu looks excellent too, going long on hand-crafted pies (and added bonus award-winning mini-pies) and short (i.e. non-existent) on rip-off cold meat platters -Trafalgar Tavern take note. In the end, we share toasted sandwiches (“Black Cab” ham, beer mustard and strong cheese, and the "four cheese" - lots of cheese then), accompanied by a small plate of crispy squid, coriander and chilli jam. All very good, albeit a bit carb-heavy, thus offsetting any health benefits we may have accrued from the walk. In particular, the chilli jam gets a big thumbs-up as the taste even rivals Jayne’s home-made variety, not praise that I dish out willingly - or indeed at all unless she releases her grip from my neck.
We exit the pub and also the square of doom, pausing briefly to admire the statue of St. Bartholomew holding a knife. It’s still bad news though - history has it that he was flayed to death with said knife while on a mission to Armenia. The good news is that he gave his name to a famous hospital, whose modern day facilities sprawl outwards from here to the Barbican, the historical St. Bartholomew’s Fair (which took place for over 700 years to 1855) and not one but two parish churches (even if one, St. Bartholomew the Less, sounds a bit insulting).
The final stage of today’s walk takes us along Cloth Fair, past another old pub, Ye Olde Red Cow, and into Charterhouse Square and its Carthusian monastery. Or it would have done, had yet another building site not blocked our way. And guess what? Henry VIII was here in 1537, closed the monastery down and executed 20 monks in the process. In 1610, a more benevolent soul, Thomas Sutton, bought the land and founded an almshouse, which still stands today, and the famous Charterhouse school, which moved out to Surrey over a century ago along with multitudes of stockbrokers and bankers. Today its attractive buildings are hosting a Christmas market, which we decide not to visit for fear of reducing the average age of its patrons to an unacceptably low level. Our walk ends - more prosaically - in sight of the concrete monstrosity which is the Barbican centre and roundabout.
Summary: Short but sweet, this walk gives many fascinating insights into the bloody history of the capital. From the story of the New River via the hipster cool of northern Clerkenwell to imagining the vivid sights and sounds of old Smithfield, this really has something for everyone - and a wealth of cafés and pubs en route. It’s definitely among our favourites so far - and we’ve done it in both directions now, seeing so much more the second time around. We also lingered longer over some of the sights, including the odd detour, which meant we took a touch over three hours in total (including one hour for lunch). It's good for around 12,000 steps - not including the pleasant walk back to Cannon Street via St. Paul's and Watling Street.
*Acknowledgements: Richard and Jayne were following Andrew Duncan's "Walking London: Thirty Original Walks in and around London”, Clerkenwell walk, pp 130-136, 2010 edition published by New Holland Publishers (UK) Ltd. Photographs by Jayne Burton (thanks!)
**All the best gags have to be explained (said no-one ever). Anyway, legend has it that anyone born in Kent on the east side of the Medway River is known as a "Kentish man", whereas anyone born on its west side is instead a "Man of Kent". It's pedantry like this that makes Kent the place it is today - the home of Nigel Farage.
Another enjoyable read.