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All roads in this town seem to lead to Christchurch.
Over 20 years ago, I was involved in a London based writing/improv project that, to some extent, entailed psychogeographical elements. A key area was Whitechapel, and within Whitechapel, Christchurch, Hawksmoor's church at Spitalfields. Christchurch stands slap bang in the middle of ugly old Ripper country, and as part of our research we went to see it.
Back in the 90s it was a soot-covered looming monster, with a soup kitchen, and a patch of land around it dubbed 'Itchy Park,' for all the tramps who congregated there. Walking in, the bare stones showed intricate work, a place to fear and be in awe of The Living God, who, if he was around at all, was not in a cheery mood. The distinct square and compass of the freemasons was clearly visible in the stonework of the ceiling above the altar. At one point we went to the 10 Bells, the infamous pub right next to the church, supposedly frequented by two of the Ripper's victims, Annie Chapman and Mary Kelly. We stepped in to find it dark, full of seedy men watching a stripper. We stepped right out again, quickly.
Sometimes over the years, I have ended up back at Christchurch. Yesterday an old friend suggested meeting near Aldgate East. Bambling around lost, I ended up going down a sidestreet I didn't know, and approaching a church that looked vaguely familiar from an entirely different viewpoint. Yes, I was back again. It's shining bright now, perfectly restored in 18th century grandeur. The oppressive stonework has been plastered over, and the light shines gloriously.
A lady approached me out of nowhere, talking about how Billy Graham had come to the place. He had asked her why she was there, and her reply had been 'I sing for the Cross.'
'Ah,' he said, 'I speak for the Cross.'
She told me she had sung for them all then, in English, Urdu and Bengali, and how Billy Graham had praised her, calling her The Bengali Songbird. Then she started to sing for me. Old though she was, her voice was still rich and fine. She invited me to come to some choral organ festival thing. I made my exits as courteously as possible, wondering if I had somehow wandered into a parallel universe. I ran to meet my friend and eventually found her. We meandered through Brick Lane towards Old Street and then there it was aqain. Christchurch is nowhere near Old Street, god alone knows how we got there. Then my friend noticed the 10 Bells, which has undergone as radical a transformation as the church next door. It's clean, tiled, full of pleasant looking folk all enjoying their drinks. It was...nice.
And there we stayed, much more snug and pleased with ourselves than poor Annie and Mary could ever have been back in 1888. The night was pleasant but today I feel as though I keep passing some weird Door in the Wall phenomenon a la H.G. Wells... only whatever lies behind that particular door is no enchanted garden...
Over 20 years ago, I was involved in a London based writing/improv project that, to some extent, entailed psychogeographical elements. A key area was Whitechapel, and within Whitechapel, Christchurch, Hawksmoor's church at Spitalfields. Christchurch stands slap bang in the middle of ugly old Ripper country, and as part of our research we went to see it.
Back in the 90s it was a soot-covered looming monster, with a soup kitchen, and a patch of land around it dubbed 'Itchy Park,' for all the tramps who congregated there. Walking in, the bare stones showed intricate work, a place to fear and be in awe of The Living God, who, if he was around at all, was not in a cheery mood. The distinct square and compass of the freemasons was clearly visible in the stonework of the ceiling above the altar. At one point we went to the 10 Bells, the infamous pub right next to the church, supposedly frequented by two of the Ripper's victims, Annie Chapman and Mary Kelly. We stepped in to find it dark, full of seedy men watching a stripper. We stepped right out again, quickly.
Sometimes over the years, I have ended up back at Christchurch. Yesterday an old friend suggested meeting near Aldgate East. Bambling around lost, I ended up going down a sidestreet I didn't know, and approaching a church that looked vaguely familiar from an entirely different viewpoint. Yes, I was back again. It's shining bright now, perfectly restored in 18th century grandeur. The oppressive stonework has been plastered over, and the light shines gloriously.
A lady approached me out of nowhere, talking about how Billy Graham had come to the place. He had asked her why she was there, and her reply had been 'I sing for the Cross.'
'Ah,' he said, 'I speak for the Cross.'
She told me she had sung for them all then, in English, Urdu and Bengali, and how Billy Graham had praised her, calling her The Bengali Songbird. Then she started to sing for me. Old though she was, her voice was still rich and fine. She invited me to come to some choral organ festival thing. I made my exits as courteously as possible, wondering if I had somehow wandered into a parallel universe. I ran to meet my friend and eventually found her. We meandered through Brick Lane towards Old Street and then there it was aqain. Christchurch is nowhere near Old Street, god alone knows how we got there. Then my friend noticed the 10 Bells, which has undergone as radical a transformation as the church next door. It's clean, tiled, full of pleasant looking folk all enjoying their drinks. It was...nice.
And there we stayed, much more snug and pleased with ourselves than poor Annie and Mary could ever have been back in 1888. The night was pleasant but today I feel as though I keep passing some weird Door in the Wall phenomenon a la H.G. Wells... only whatever lies behind that particular door is no enchanted garden...
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