30 October 2019
Let’s start with the admission that - as a born and bred South East Londoner - I don’t really “do” West London. Or North or East London, come to think of it. This is one reason I want to walk as many parts of London as possible that are interesting, offer some nice stops for refreshment and do not expose the passer-by to a high risk of being murdered for wearing a Tommy Hilfiger gilet (though I do understand the extreme provocation which may result from this). I may claim to be a Londoner, but who can really say they know much more of the metropolis than the immediate vicinity of their home, place of work and a handful of social or sporting staples? Or maybe a lot of people can say this and it’s just my life that has been a bit dull up to this point? Mmm.
Whatever the answer (and sometimes it’s best not to know), I am fairly sure I have never, ever set foot on Kensington High Street, let alone explored its leafy and prosperous environs. But that’s fine, I’m only 56 years old. Aside from business meetings, my rare trips to West London have centred mainly on football matches (rarely with a good outcome) or music concerts (better).
This time it’s a concert at the Royal Albert Hall that sows the seed. It's not the Squeeze songbook that inspires us to visit (Chris and Glenn are as South East London as I am, probably more so), but rather that we spot at South Kensington tube it’s only a couple of stops further to “High Street Ken” (as we Londoners like to call it - even those who have never actually been). As we’re staying up in town for a couple of nights while the kids are on trips, it’s a no-brainer to retrace our route the following morning.
We emerge from the Circle Line into what appears to be a high end shopping mall rather than a station. Yet this morning’s news has provided a timely reminder that the affluent Borough of Kensington and Chelsea comprises extremes of wealth and poverty which should not co-exist in this day and age. The first report into the terrible fire at Grenfell Tower, whose charred remains stand barely a mile to the north, has just been published. Like many others today we are dismayed that the Grenfell firefighters are copping so much of the flak - but maybe this is just the start of the blame game. We can’t see the tower block from the High Street but are somehow conscious of its presence - a constant reminder of an unthinkable and avoidable tragedy in our midst and on our watch.
Like so much of London, the buildings of Kensington High Street are undergoing major construction or renovation work. The Derry and Toms department store may boast roof gardens from the 1930s, but they don’t look much fun at the moment unless you’re partial to mojitos topped with cement dust and accompanied by a side of nuts and bolts.
We continue down Derry Street into Kensington Square - described by Andrew Duncan* as “one of the oldest and prettiest squares in London”. Jayne is initially sceptical, as there seems to be a square or street described as such in every one of Duncan’s walks, but she is soon won over by its 17th century magnificence. It’s hard to imagine that Kensington was once a village in the countryside, but in fact the original houses around the square pre-dated Kensington Palace and served as retreats for City-folk before the courtiers arrived.
The first blue plaque of the day is spotted, always an exciting moment. This commemorates a late 19th century actress named Mrs Patrick Campbell. I’m intrigued by this as I haven’t come across many women called Patrick. She was, by all accounts, a relatively emancipated woman of her era, yet still chose to act out her professional career under her husband’s name (even after his death and her own remarriage). It would be tempting - and comfortable - to conclude that women’s rights have come a long way since then, then I’m reminded that one of the great women tennis players of my school days, Christine Evert, was shown on the Wimbledon scoreboard as “Mrs J.M. Lloyd” after her marriage. And in today’s news, not only are a number of female MPs standing down due - at least in part - to the misogynistic abuse they receive each and every day, but a BBC presenter is suing her employer as she claims her pay is only 14% of that of a male presenter who commands a smaller audience. So maybe we're not so far ahead after all. Food for thought thanks to “Mrs Pat”.
We pass into Kensington New Town, which is not new in the Milton Keynes sense but was built in the 1840s by a tobacco mogul, John Ingerwick. The houses here are pleasant and much sought after, but turn out to be modest in size compared to the Victorian apartment blocks just to the south. We linger long enough outside an estate agent to catch sight of the property prices in this area - I think this is known as a schoolboy error. Suitably chastened (if not metaphorically handed a dozen strokes of the cane on a bare bottom), we resolve not to make this mistake ever again. But it’s difficult not to overlook the power play of parked cars - I don’t think I’ve ever seen a higher ratio of Bentleys and Jags per square mile.
We wander off Duncan’s recommended trail into various mews which nestle in amongst the imposing apartment blocks. These are full of character, many with original cobbled streets dating from the horse and cart era, and act as oases of calm so close to the bustling streets outside. We are also amused by the apparently schizophrenic Allen Street, which insists it is also called Alma Terrace on one side and Inkerman Terrace on the other. I expect the postman gets used to it eventually.
By now, we are picking up the twang of American accents from passers-by and see that many of the house-fronts are in the process of being decorated for Halloween. If you can imagine how an outbreak of ghoulish up-onemanship would look, you are standing next to us on the streets of Kensington. We watch as one lady, whose property is one of many providing local builders with a bumper year, battles valiantly against her scaffolding - and the odds - to keep up with the Joneses for another year. All a bit bonkers really - and I don’t really get the “police crime scene” tape that accompanies some of the more garish decorations. Or maybe one of them really was a crime scene? It was certainly realistic enough. Later, at a particularly posh address near Holland Park, we come across a team of workmen from a company specialising in Halloween decorations - I've come across some seasonal businesses in my time, but this takes the biscuit. Here they’ve erected a life-size witch in the front garden, complete with moving limbs - an impressive investment, especially if vast amounts of money are burning a hole in your pocket.
Further insights into wealth management reveal themselves during a pitstop at The Scarsdale Tavern, one of two pubs on this walk mentioned by Duncan, and nestled just beyond Rassell’s Nursery, an apparently thriving garden centre which takes up a fair chunk of Pembroke Square (the other chunk is given over to a tennis court). The pub is fronted by a generous outside seating area where it’s just about mild enough to sit, the watery sun making its way low across the dappled autumn sky. My pint of Harvey’s Sussex Best hits the spot, but we’re still full from our mid-morning brunch so can’t vouch for the food menu.
Jayne is enthralled by the conversation on the next table as two men, both cradling their pet dogs, discuss their life challenges. One is booked up with “shooting” every Friday and Saturday until the end of February, but the object of these shootings remains an unspoken mystery - I think films, Jayne is for wildlife. The other seems oddly worried about the quantity of cars he owns - should he divest one of the Porsches or something a bit more upmarket like the Maserati? Poor guy. This doesn’t even qualify as a first world problem, it’s in a Kensington-land category all on its own.
Soon after leaving the pub, we cross Kensington High Street again on the way to Holland Park. Its centrepiece, Holland House, was largely destroyed by World War Two bombs, but for the preceding two centuries the successive Lords Holland played host to many gatherings of politicians (only Whigs though, the old name for the liberals), writers such as Byron and Dickens (who got everywhere) and other intellectuals of the day. The garden parties must have been legendary too - and are immortalised by Mao Wen Biao’s stunning mural paintings from the mid-1990s. Holland Park is well worth a visit just to see these vivid, colourful and very detailed depictions of Victorian high society at play.
From the park we exit into the Campden Hill estate. Standing atop the hill, Campden House (built by Viscount Campden who hailed from Chipping Campden) must have dominated the view for miles around when Kensington was just a socially aspirational country village. Now the Campden epithet dominates street names for miles around instead - so much so that any road, way or grove not called Campden comes as a bit of light relief. Exhausted from Campden overdose and conscious over half an hour has passed since our last refreshment, we call in at the Elephant & Castle at the corner of Gordon Street and Holland Street. It seems an odd name for a pub that's nowhere near the actual Elephant and Castle in SE1, but at this moment I’m very satisfied with its teleportation to leafy Kensington.
It's another pleasant enough local pub with decent custom for a midweek afternoon, but seating is at a premium and it must get pretty cramped on the advertised quiz night. The food menu (pies a speciality but we’re still not tempted) claims the pub is famous “for a connection with Henry VIII’s first wife”, but doesn’t go into any more detail so we’re none the wiser. Maybe quiz night has never been the same without her. I order a St. Austell Flanker & Firkin red ale, just for the hell of it. Jayne has a taste and immediately labels it inferior to the earlier Sussex Best. It’s hard to disagree with her (and she’s also right about the beer).
Now somewhat light-headed, I head off in search of the promised antique shops before turning round and going the right way towards St Mary Abbots, the parish church of Kensington. Duncan informs us a church has stood on this site since the 1100s. This historic landmark signals the end of today's walk and we are back within spitting distance of the building sites on the High Street.
Summary: This is a nicely constructed two hour walk stretching over almost 3 miles (in practice, we took a leisurely four hours due to our various pub stops and other detours). In common with Duncan’s other London walks there was much interesting history to be learnt and fine architecture to be admired. It was a pleasant walk in a very agreeable suburb, so yes, we had a nice time.
Yet it was impossible to shake off the feeling of being surrounded by great inherited wealth and privilege. Today this was put into the starkest possible contrast with the latest news of Grenfell Tower, but somehow it felt different to our Highgate/Hampstead walk despite the similar demographics. Kensington is definitely an area of London where the well-off have built their playground. Its history suggests t’was ever thus.
Acknowledgements: Richard and Jayne were following Andrew Duncan's "Walking London: Thirty Original Walks in and around London”, Kensington walk, pp 27-33, 2010 edition published by New Holland Publishers (UK) Ltd.
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