On one rare dry day in December last year, my daughter and I went on a small adventure in London to explore two different districts.
Our first stopping off point was an already well-established stomping ground: Camden Town market. So well-established, in fact, that it seemed to be rather tired around the edges, not really fresh, vibrant and full of cheeky energy its reputation would suggest. And full instead of dutiful foreign tourists taking advantage of the cheap pound. I’m not sure I’ve got much to call out. There were endless dark little shops nestled in the old stables and other ‘characterful’ nooks and crannies of the area; different and independent, but peddling what seemed to be the same kind of merchandise after visiting a couple. They were mostly stores for vintage clothing, stuffed to the rafters of shell suits, shiny shirts and gray dingy old denim and staffed by rather scary looking men with grisly hirsute faces, topped by sunglasses, clearly a critical accessory in that gloom.
Our second stopping off point was the newly reopened and revamped Battersea Power Station. Would it be worth the wait after many decades of no action and many false starts? Well, the building itself is so impressive and so iconic, that being able to come up close and touch the bricks is in itself a pretty amazing experience.
But beyond that, I don’t remember feeling more awe and amazement. Unlike the Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern, there is no vast open but indoor space where you can feel small. Instead, the spaces are taken up, inevitably, with ‘desire-inducing’ shops and walkways. It does all look nice and shiny and new, and the festive lights added color and decoration in an interior which might otherwise feel rather bland and sadly unspecial. It does make me wonder what there will be once these decorations are taken done… Perhaps I could manage another visit?
