6 February 2020
Till today, I have somehow muddled through life without once visiting Notting Hill. I have seen the film though - many times - and it looks really cool, especially the house with the blue front door.
The journey to the start-point of our walk, Westbourne Park, involves three different trains and hence is fraught with risk. Despite waiting for the morning rush hour to subside, it hasn’t noticeably done so. After advancing through suburbia at a snail’s pace, it’s already 9.40 by the time we reach London Bridge tube, but we need to let a couple of Jubilee Line trains go as they’re absolutely rammed. Why are there so many working people cluttering up the trains at this hour? It’s so inconsiderate. In all, it takes us an hour and a half door-to-door before we breathe the not particularly clean air of the Great Western Road.
Our mood is not improved by the first section of the walk, which takes us under the Westway fly-over, past Westbourne Park bus station (which would have been of great interest to me at the age of 12, but not especially now) then along a road which offers us sweeping views of a furniture superstore, the main railway line to the West and a 30-storey apartment block. To cap it all, someone hasn’t yet taken down their Christmas decorations. We tut loudly, but nobody cares.
As we reach Golborne Road, things start to become more interesting. On Saturdays this street would be buzzing with market stalls and even today the local shops are offering up multinational cultural delights - Portugal and Morocco are both well represented here. Turning left, we already find ourselves on the famous Portobello Road, the centrepiece of today’s walk. As if to ward off further disillusionment at this early stage, Andrew Duncan’s guide* cautions that we are still at the “less affluent end of both the market and the Notting Hill district”. He’s not wrong. But it’s interesting enough, the walls decorated with colourful street art as we pass alongside the Spanish language school, an indication of the substantial Iberian influence on the Notting Hall area. Indeed Portobello Road is named after a farm that originally took its name from a famous 18th century naval battle at Puerto Bello; further on, we come across a mural dedicated to the residents of the area who took part in the fight against fascism in the Spanish Civil War.
As we pass under the Westway for a second time, the road takes on more of its distinctive character. On Saturdays, when all the market stalls are open, this place is packed with visitors but now - mid-morning in mid-week - we enjoy the freedom of strolling as we please, basking in some unaccustomed winter sunshine. At the moment it’s hard to imagine a million people packing these narrow streets for the annual Notting Hill Carnival, originally conceived fifty years ago as a celebration of the Caribbean culture brought to this country - and particularly this area - by the Windrush generation. From coffee shops to quirky fashion stores, bric-à-bric merchants to street food stalls, bustling cobbled streets to colourfully decorated mews houses, this part of the Portobello Road epitomises laid-back cool. I love it. For a moment I’m Hugh Grant - though better-looking obviously - walking down this very road to the accompaniment of Bill Withers’ “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone”, as the seasons turn from summer through winter and back again.
Why do I like the film Notting Hill so much? Well, for one, the screenplay was written by Richard Curtis, who is such a comedy genius that you can somehow forgive him even the cheesiest plot twists (think Love Actually). Oh, you need a second reason? THE. BEST. LOVE. SCENE. EVER. The one that turns even the coldest heart to mush. Even after seeing it a hundred times. And all of a sudden here we are - stood outside what purports to be “The Travel Book Shop”, the name of the scarcely viable bookstore owned by Grant’s character, William Thacker - and where this iconic scene takes place. But reality strikes and it turns out it isn’t a travel book shop at all, just a tacky gift shop with a poster of Julia Roberts in the window. I’m devastated of course, but still peer inside in the hope of seeing Julia looking up at Hugh and saying:
“The fame thing isn’t real, you know.
Don’t forget -
I’m also just a girl,
Standing in front of a boy,
Asking him to love her.”
(Actually I’m hoping - in an ideal world - to see her looking up at me, not Hugh, though “up” may be stretching it a bit in my case).
I snap out of my romantic rêverie just in time to admire the Ginstitute on the corner of Talbot Road, home of Portobello Road London Dry Gin. Otherwise there seems to have been a surprise Viking invasion, with the ubiquitous Joe and the Juice from Denmark facing off against the very wonderful Happy Socks of Sweden. A little further on, there’s a café called Eggslut, which seems a bit harsh on egg-lovers but is, in fact, the first UK outlet of an innovative new egg-based restaurant business founded in Los Angeles. Feeling peckish after all this excitement, we head into Gail’s Bakery for elevenses (very naughty). My gruyère and chive drop scone is to die for, possibly the best £2.30 anyone has ever spent in the entire history of cheesy scones. We wonder, not for the first time, why there isn’t a branch of Gail’s in Chislehurst High Street - surely one of the ten estate agents could make way if push came to shove?
From here on, it’s antiques all the way - after all, it’s what Portobello Road Market is most famous for. Mr Duncan informs us that it’s been this way since 1948 when the former Caledonian antiques market in Islington closed down and a new home had to be found. To my untrained eye, it’s amazing the sort of tat that can pass for saleable goods, but of course there are some fascinating pieces too. In a remarkable show of self-restraint, we turn down the purchase of any one of a hundred different designs of ancient doorknob and turn right into Chepstow Villas, which leads in turn to Kensington Park Gardens. As instructed, we note the blue plaque in memory of the bloke who discovered the metal thallium - such has been the impact of thallium on my everyday life that I was unaware of its existence until now. More interesting are the spacious communal gardens hidden behind the imposing residences, but unfortunately are strictly for residents’ use only. Not wishing to overdo the mentions of “that film”, I decide not to emulate the floppy-haired one by attempting to scale the gates, as those metal spikes (thallium?) look decidedly dangerous.
Reaching St John’s Church, it’s only now that I have an epiphany and realise that Notting Hill is, er, actually on a hill. I’d not imagined anything like that. In my vast experience of London hills (having grown up on one), this specimen hardly seems worthy of the name, yet our guide insists that the next turn “plunges down the western slope of Notting Hill” (it’s a gentle incline at best). This area was once the site of a local racecourse, the only legacy of which is the wonderfully named Hippodrome Mews. From here, we catch sight of the ill-fated Grenfell Tower, which has left behind its own legacy - one of shame, neglect, prejudice, incompetence, cover-up, delay. The graffito “Justice 4 Grenfell” has been crudely daubed on an otherwise splendid old pottery kiln opposite Avondale Park, yet no-one will come to wash this away until that goal is achieved. Ironically, this area of former potteries and piggeries was - according to Duncan - one of the worst of all Victorian slums, a squalid cesspit, yet one that was located just down the hill from the opulence of the grand residences built to attract the middle-classes out of an increasingly crowded West End. Contrasts then, contrasts now - plus ça change in the Royal Borough of Kensington & Chelsea.
We continue past surprisingly spacious avenues and squares - St. James’s Gardens (with its spireless church - ran out of money apparently), Queensdale Road, Norland Square. We’re instructed to turn right at the Prince of Wales pub, but no such pub seems to exist - maybe a sign of the times. We're now on Princedale Road - as Duncan informs us, this was the home of Oz magazine when it was raided by the police following its notorious “schoolkids” issue. This means nothing to us at all, so I have to google it .. and it’s an interesting story of how the mood of the swinging sixties had captured a nation, but the nation’s laws had not yet caught up. So it was that the editors of the progressive Oz magazine, originally from Australia and whose writers included Germaine Greer, were convicted under the Obscene Publications Act. This resulted in a public outcry, with support from celebrities such as John Lennon and Yoko Ono, and the conviction was subsequently quashed on appeal. This all happened 50 years ago, but there's no sign of a blue plaque. (I tell this story purely to use the word "quashed", which has been a lifelong ambition.)
Crossing Holland Park Avenue, we admire the statue of St Volodymyr, who ruled Ukraine from 980 to 1015, introducing Christianity in the process. He must have done an awesome job to warrant the erection of a statue in a different country a thousand years later. We’re now back in Campden Hill, a much more substantial hill than its Notting counterpart and one we touched on in our earlier Kensington walk. It’s all very pleasant, especially another residents’ garden in Campden Hill Square where Turner used to paint his sunsets. Among various famous residents of nearby Aubrey House was Lady Mary Coke, an eccentric 18th century diarist who kept a cow (called Miss Pelham) that escaped one day and was eventually found in the company of a larger herd. Fascinating stuff - if that was the highlight of her diaries, I can’t wait to read the rest.
Unable to top that cliff-hanger, we emerge at Notting Hill Gate, the end point of our walk. All that remains is to find a suitable watering hole for lunch and the Sun in Splendour, housed in a yellow building which curves round the southern-most corner of Portobello Road, will have to do. It’s a rather odd affair, worryingly empty for 1pm on a Wednesday, but the barman directs us to a narrow choice between two window tables as all the others are reserved. We await with anticipation the enormous influx of guests, a delayed Christmas party maybe, but it transpires that the reserved signs are already in place for a pub quiz this evening. The selection of beers looks enticing though - I plump for a pint of Gipsy Hill Ranger (£6.15, gulp - but it’s a light refreshing pale ale that is perfect for lunchtime or maybe a leisurely summer picnic) and Jayne plays safe with a half of Camden Pale Ale (a slightly less unreasonable £2.95). The food menu looks excellent too, but regrettably we are again tempted by the Calabrian Meat Board (£15), accompanied by Pan-Fried King Prawns & Chorizo (£6.50), both with toasted sourdough. And once again we find ourselves at best “whelmed” by the experience. The Calabrian epithet can only refer to the person who collected the pre-packed meats from the supermarket, while those prawns must only have been king of a very small land (and I didn’t actually notice the chorizo). Hey ho. At least the sourdough is decent - and comes with an intense olive oil and balsamic vinegar dressing (as we both discover by trial, error and coughing fit).
Summary: At three and a half miles, this walk should take around two and a half hours, a nice length for a morning stroll but nothing more strenuous. We thought Notting Hill was fascinating and are determined to return when Portobello Market is a bit busier (maybe on a once in a blue moon Saturday when nobody in the family is playing or watching sport, dream on). Our step count is around 13,000, give or take, but we later improve this to 23,000 by walking home from Grove Park as the trains are messed up on our line. There is nothing remotely interesting about that, so we won’t be doing it again if we can help it.
*Acknowledgements: Richard and Jayne were following Andrew Duncan’s “Walking London: Thirty Original Walks in and around London” - Notting Hill, pp 20-26, 2010 edition published by New Holland Publishers (UK) Ltd. Photography by Jayne Burton (thanks!).
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