you?’
He turned to me in his seat. He had his stick with him. The end of it was down in the footwell between his knees and he was holding the handle with two hands like a little old lady holds a handbag on the bus, or as if he were about to ride a hobby-horse. ‘I’d like that very much,’ he said.
I smiled at him. ‘Where shall we go then?’
He paused for a brief second, then said quite firmly, ‘Barnes.’
‘Barnes!?’ I laughed. ‘OK, why not.’
I turned on the ignition, gave him a wink, and swung round and we headed off towards Maida Vale and Westway. We sped down through Swiss Cottage and St John’s Wood to Warwick Avenue, my dad gazing out of the window as London flashed by, the shadows of trees and buildings flickering across his pale face. He let out a quiet hum of approval as we passed the lines of brightly painted houseboats moored at Little Venice. All flowerpots and lace curtains. An unexpected yucca.
We passed under the Marylebone flyover and up on to Westway. I have always loved Westway; it is like a futuristic relic from the days when hopeful and expectant planners envisaged central London ringed with an inner motorway. I read recently that it was conceived as part of the London Ringways System and many of the ideas pre-dated the Second World War in the years when issues of environmental impact were not high on the agenda. The plans were ultimately deemed too invasive – and having seen some of them, such as the dramatic flyover from the top of London at Whitestone Pond down over the wilds of Hampstead Heath, I can see why – but two of the three remaining pieces of the expansion programme (the Westway itself, and the dog-legged West Cross Route from White City to the Holland Park roundabout) remain. They are somehow suggestive of a more streamlined and optimistic London, even though the thick monstrosity of their concrete footprints stamps brutally through the old neighbourhoods of Notting Dale and Portobello. Landmarks crouch just visible below its thin hard shoulder: the overground Hammersmith and City Line station of Westbourne Park with its fringed peely-painted white wooden awnings; the voluptuous curves of the old British Rail building that almost touch the guard-rails; the white tent-tops of Portobello Market; Ladbroke Grove awash with colour and noise and the thud of sound systems on Carnival days, when the road above is lined with police vans and aerials and surveillance cameras; the tags and throw-ups of the graffiti writers on the brick walls below on the southern side, which you can’t see from the road but you can from a train approaching Paddington Station; and gazing down on it all, still more impressive than the recent office skyscrapers of the Paddington Basin development is Ernö Goldfinger’s functionally beautiful Trellick Tower with its patchwork of balconies festooned with drying washing and bicycles. Above us was the wide west London sky, all ancient and modern: a removals-van blanket of flecked grey clouds and fingers of light. It felt like a modish and gracious journey to be taking on Christmas Day.
At Hammersmith Bridge, my dad, who had been largely silent throughout the journey, let out a big sigh, as if it had been in there for a while. Hammersmith Bridge was a gateway on to an old world for both of us. Barnes and south-west London started on the other side. The outspread sweep of the Thames curves in both directions under the bridge, rippling and polished, with the old Harrods repository building peeping over the towpath trees, a once yearly national landmark on Boat Race day. It was also the place I found out recently where my dad proposed to my mum for a second time.
We crossed over and turned right down Lonsdale Road past my old school and the old reservoirs. From the age of eleven I used to ride my bike to school down that road come rain or shine. Neither of my parents ever dreamed of taking me in the car; that would have been far too indulgent. Instead,
He turned to me in his seat. He had his stick with him. The end of it was down in the footwell between his knees and he was holding the handle with two hands like a little old lady holds a handbag on the bus, or as if he were about to ride a hobby-horse. ‘I’d like that very much,’ he said.
I smiled at him. ‘Where shall we go then?’
He paused for a brief second, then said quite firmly, ‘Barnes.’
‘Barnes!?’ I laughed. ‘OK, why not.’
I turned on the ignition, gave him a wink, and swung round and we headed off towards Maida Vale and Westway. We sped down through Swiss Cottage and St John’s Wood to Warwick Avenue, my dad gazing out of the window as London flashed by, the shadows of trees and buildings flickering across his pale face. He let out a quiet hum of approval as we passed the lines of brightly painted houseboats moored at Little Venice. All flowerpots and lace curtains. An unexpected yucca.
We passed under the Marylebone flyover and up on to Westway. I have always loved Westway; it is like a futuristic relic from the days when hopeful and expectant planners envisaged central London ringed with an inner motorway. I read recently that it was conceived as part of the London Ringways System and many of the ideas pre-dated the Second World War in the years when issues of environmental impact were not high on the agenda. The plans were ultimately deemed too invasive – and having seen some of them, such as the dramatic flyover from the top of London at Whitestone Pond down over the wilds of Hampstead Heath, I can see why – but two of the three remaining pieces of the expansion programme (the Westway itself, and the dog-legged West Cross Route from White City to the Holland Park roundabout) remain. They are somehow suggestive of a more streamlined and optimistic London, even though the thick monstrosity of their concrete footprints stamps brutally through the old neighbourhoods of Notting Dale and Portobello. Landmarks crouch just visible below its thin hard shoulder: the overground Hammersmith and City Line station of Westbourne Park with its fringed peely-painted white wooden awnings; the voluptuous curves of the old British Rail building that almost touch the guard-rails; the white tent-tops of Portobello Market; Ladbroke Grove awash with colour and noise and the thud of sound systems on Carnival days, when the road above is lined with police vans and aerials and surveillance cameras; the tags and throw-ups of the graffiti writers on the brick walls below on the southern side, which you can’t see from the road but you can from a train approaching Paddington Station; and gazing down on it all, still more impressive than the recent office skyscrapers of the Paddington Basin development is Ernö Goldfinger’s functionally beautiful Trellick Tower with its patchwork of balconies festooned with drying washing and bicycles. Above us was the wide west London sky, all ancient and modern: a removals-van blanket of flecked grey clouds and fingers of light. It felt like a modish and gracious journey to be taking on Christmas Day.
At Hammersmith Bridge, my dad, who had been largely silent throughout the journey, let out a big sigh, as if it had been in there for a while. Hammersmith Bridge was a gateway on to an old world for both of us. Barnes and south-west London started on the other side. The outspread sweep of the Thames curves in both directions under the bridge, rippling and polished, with the old Harrods repository building peeping over the towpath trees, a once yearly national landmark on Boat Race day. It was also the place I found out recently where my dad proposed to my mum for a second time.
We crossed over and turned right down Lonsdale Road past my old school and the old reservoirs. From the age of eleven I used to ride my bike to school down that road come rain or shine. Neither of my parents ever dreamed of taking me in the car; that would have been far too indulgent. Instead,
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