May 1820, Navvies’ camp, Haggerstone village

Danny looks disconsolately down at his breakfast: six rashers of leathery bacon – more fat than flesh – a small crusty loaf of day-old bread, and a tankard of insipid beer.

‘Stare at it any longer, Danny, and the crows will make off with it,’ remarks the woman serving the food.

‘Crows widnae dare go near this shit,’ replies Danny, taking a last couple of swift drags on a clay pipe, which he then duly lets fall to the ground.

‘You might be right, there,’ she mutters, stealing a glance towards the kitchen. ‘Best be on your way anyhow – you’re holding up the line.’

Danny shrugs, and slinks off to the table nearest the stall. At the far end, the Irish crew are in fine voice despite the early hour, singing like it’s a veritable feast day. On the other side, the English are already on their second pints. No Scots as yet though: he has the table to himself.

He sits down, draws a knife from his pocket, and tries cutting into the loaf. ‘Ah’ve worked wi’ granite safter than this!…’ The bacon doesn’t half work his jaws too.

Suddenly a firm hand clasps his shoulder, and he quickly whirls round. ‘Aye aye there, Danny!’ a familiar voice greets him.

It’s Coll, or at least someone who might have once been Coll, but whose corpse has been salvaged and brought back to life. His nose is broken and awkward, his clothes dishevelled, and his hair thickly encrusted in canal muck; a crimson bead of blood hovers over an open cut above his brow.

‘Christ, Coll. Whit happened?’

‘Wid ye believe me if ah said ah fell intae the canal?’

‘Aye, but who threw ye in: the English or the Irish?’

‘Haha, good one, Danny! Erm..’ he then coughs, before confessing. ‘Actually ah think it might’ve been baith…’

‘Well four years workin this bloody canal, and that maun be the first time the English and Irish ever came together. Congratulations, Coll! Anyway, ah darenae think whit ye must have done tae get yersel’ thrown in.’

The Irish crew suddenly break out into a rousing chorus of The Galway Piper. The English move on to their third pint. The pair of Scottish companions briefly look on.

‘Tae be frank, ah cannae remember! A right rammy it was though, and they made aff wi’ ma shillings too.’

‘Och, ye better have a rasher o two of ma bacon then. Heck, have ’em all!’ Danny says, shoving the plate towards his wounded friend.

‘Whit ye tryin tae dae, bloody poison me? Haha, no ah’m aw right thanks. Ah’ve still got ma tokens left, here see.’

‘Ye may hae tokens, but nae time to spend them: bell’s gonnae ring soon. Whit hour did ye get back to camp onyway? Looks like ye’ve jist hauled yersel’ oot o’ the canal!’

‘Well, erm.. That’s ’cause ah jist have! Up the horse-ramp n’ all. Woke up this mornin in the canal trench, aw covered in muck, head like thunder. Thank the Lord the puddling’s still a bit wet, or ah could’ve broken ma leg.’

‘Ach Coll, horse-ramp is meant to be for fallen horses, nae for Scotsmen! Still, good job we finished buildin’ it last week, or else yer wee erse might still be in yon canal.’

Suddenly, the seven o’ clock bell rings across the camp. The Irish wrap up their singing, the English drain their pints. Danny pockets the remaining crust of bread, picks up his shovel, and lights up another pipe.

‘C’mon Coll. ah’ll save this fur ye. We’ve a lang day o’ diggin ahead…’

 

 

June 1944, Regent’s Canal, Mile End to Haggerston

‘Flippin’ heck, what’s that in the sky?…’

‘Never mind, Vera, just keep your hand on the tiller, and your eyes on the canal!’

The narrowboats cut through the night like a pair of giant sea creatures, their behemoth forms catching the occasional glimmer from the gleaming half-moon above.

The chug-chugging of the lead boat pierces the city’s brooding silence, its rumbling bass pulsing along London’s industrial watery arteries. Gliding obediently behind, stealthy and unerring, the butty boat: its fate tied to the lead, its tow-rope taut from a heavy consignment of steel and cinders, sugar and Spam.

On each boat stands a woman: sentinels of the waterways, steerers of precious cargo from Limehouse to Liverpool, Mile End to Manchester, shadows drifting through the night as the rest of the city sleeps.

‘No, look Kitty, over there!’ Vera darts her finger towards a flame tearing across the night sky; in its wake, an eerie glow is cast over the clouds. It moves apace, an increasingly loud guttural rasping sound emanating from its industrial belly.

Then darkness. And silence. As though it never happened. They shrug uneasily, and turn to face ahead.

“KBOOOM!!”

The V-1 rocket hit barely a hundred yards behind the towpath, its blast close enough to knock the women from their perches, slamming their bodies against the decking. The boats lurch and heave on the water; agitated waves chop heavily against the bows.

A quickfire volley of rocks and debris suddenly rain down, splish-sploshing into the water, and then a loud thud-thud-thud drumming over the decking, roofs, and gunnel. The women scurry for cover inside, their elbows aloft and with desperate hands shielding their heads.

Then silence, save for the barge chugging along.

‘Are you alright, Vera?..’ Kitty eventually calls out from the butty boat.

‘Just about! What the hell next, bloody U-boats in Regent’s Canal?!..’

‘I wouldn’t put it past them. God help any poor soul at the end of that. No sirens either. Never seen one like that before…’

‘Me neither!’

The two boats continue to wind their way up the canal, slipping between warehouses and factories born from another age, another time.

As they approach the Kingsland basin, they spy a vague outline of a boat up ahead, moonlight glinting off its paintwork. On drawing nearer, a match lights up on deck; the faint glow conjures a solitary figure out of the gloom, a weathered face lined with crags and contours that flicker and dance with the flame, before fading into a billow of pipe smoke that fans out into the cool Hackney air.

Vera puts the engine in reverse to slow their passage, and then cuts it out entirely.

‘Now there’s a sight to see!’ calls out the man over the water. ‘What are you two wenches doin’ out on a night like this, on boats n’ all?’

‘We’d ask the same of you!’ Vera retorted. ‘At least we’re on proper business. What’s your excuse? And who are you callin’ us wenches anyway? For that, you can give us some cigarettes.’

‘Can do that, I guess,’ he replies. ‘Don’t suppose you can spare any tea n’ milk in return? I seem to have used up my rations.’

‘Tea we ‘ave,’ replied Vera. ‘But milk we only got from farmer a couple days back, just as we were comin’ into London – we don’t have much left, and it’s on the turn anyways.’

‘Fine then. I’ll be getting those fags for you.’ And with that, he scuttles off inside.

‘Cheers, but be quick, mind,’ calls out Vera after him. ‘No-one wants to get themselves blown up while we wait! Not after that rocket just now.’

He soon re-emerges and they make their exchange, each spending a moment to inspect their wares.

‘Well, best be off,’ Vera abruptly announces, as she starts up the engine; the vessels amble off again into the night.

‘You be careful out there!’ calls over the man.

Vera nods, and looks on ahead. Only a year ago she was cutting hair; Kitty was teaching. Just look at us now! – she thinks to herself. Their hands roughened and calloused and barely recognisable. Their lives now dedicated to the ferrying of food, industry, and munitions all about the country.

The boats skirt past a horse-ramp, and then under a looming bridge where the night is blacker still.

 

 

May 2021, Regent’s Canal, Haggerston

From under the bridge, a couple of curious coots emerge, tentatively peering out from the shadows; the bright spring sunshine catches off their white beaks, dazzling white streaks against a black canvas.

They take a moment to survey the canal before gently meandering along, veering off to the far bank where they nibble on the occasional clump of sedge or meadowsweet.

A sharp squawking disturbs the peace: a squadron of Canadian geese swoop low in a sleek delta formation. The coots seem nonplussed, but a nearby moorhen, startled by this sudden raid, bursts out from a canalside shrub, and frantically skits over the water. Splish splish splish… A succession of little concentric rings materialise then fade.

Once the commotion subsides, the coots drift along to the near side, where they inspect an unexpected bank of steps that rise out of the water.

One of them lurches itself onto the stone ledge just above the water-line, propelled by an energetic flap of its wings. There, it toddles back and forth, getting a feel for this anomalous piece of architecture. Eventually it decides it likes it, and with the sun beating down, nestles down for a while.

Such antics I observe from my canal-side table, an incidental spectator entranced by this momentary theatre of nature.

It is the second spring of the pandemic. The past year has brought isolation and loss, an existence lived largely cooped up in enclosed spaces, and on electronic screens, where images of family, friends and colleagues were close yet so far. It’s been a time when time itself felt suspended and surreal.

Not to these coots perhaps. Although perhaps they have been wondering why the towpath has been so unusually quiet at times this past year. Why they’ve had the canals to themselves, without having to worry about passing canoes or narrowboats. Why the air has felt especially fresh and sweet, untainted by the ubiquitous fumes of petrol or industry.

But now, human activity is returning again, with all its bustle and endeavour, pleasures and fallibilities. For me, it’s an opportunity to explore London again, particularly taking advantage of outdoor spots – although like the skittish moorhen, I admit to a certain anxiety about the world I now find myself in.

The Towpath Café is an idyllic outdoors spot in the city: a glorious urban sun-trap on a bright spring day. Here, there are no walls and doors to contain the dining space, which instead spills out from a series of kiosks onto the towpath, with tables that sidle up to the canal, almost within touching distance of the water.

Customers sit, stand, or just generally mill about, exposed to the elements and other aspects of the natural, if decidedly urban, world. Sometimes very exposed – as related in the café’s eponymous cookbook, a mother and child once tumbled into the canal to avoid a careering cyclist; they were duly resuscitated with a mug of hot chocolate and slice of olive oil cake.

And indeed, here is a place whose food and service is generous, nourishing, and comforting. Where there’s an atmosphere that invites one to linger, aided by a menu that seamlessly transforms throughout the day from breakfast to lunch to dinner.

That the two co-owners – chef Laura and front-of-house Lori – have put their heart and soul into this venture is evident from the careful sourcing of ingredients, an earnest commitment to quality and simplicity, and an eclectic menu that brings together elements from their culinary past.

Here we have dishes from their mutual Jewish heritage (e.g. a soulful bowl of chicken soup with kneidlach), Lori’s sojourn in Italy (e.g. a rich flavoursome aubergine parmigiana), Laura’s stint at restaurant Rochelle Canteen (e.g. heavenly soups that sing of the season) and affection for other London restaurants (e.g. Turkish eggs à la Providores, beetroot borani à la Morito), and a profound love for the diverse cuisines of the Mediterranean (e.g. a fabulous olive oil cake, one arguably worth diving in the canal for…)

I end up staying several hours – after all, canal life is slow, and these days everyone needs a bit of slow in their lives, even if there is a certain degree of privilege in being able to embrace it.

I find myself drawn to the various rhythms around me – the chefs in the open kitchen, the tables on the towpath, and the wildlife on the canal. After months where the world has been turned upside down, it feels like a tangible connection with normality. For now anyway, at least.

 

 

December 2130, On Dalston Dike

Emre and Kelvin perch high atop Dalston Dike, fishing rods in hand, their lines cast into the water, waiting for what seems like hours in the warm winter sunshine. Stretching before the two boys, Bermondsey Bay: its waves shimmer in the muted afternoon light.

‘When did we last catch anythin’ proper?’ says Kelvin despondently.

‘What about that sea-bass a few weeks back?’ replied Emre. ‘That was massive!’

‘Yeah, but still…’

They stare out ahead. In the distance, the soaring edifices of ages gone by – The Shard and The Gherkin, St Paul’s and Westminster, and a few dozen others – jut out through the water, rising vertiginously like islands of karst limestone. Museum pieces, preserved in Atlantic seawater; the city centre’s remaining buildings having been dismantled long ago.

In school, they learned all about The Climate Meltdown – not just the science and geohistory, but the indulgences of humankind, the greed, the excesses, the inequality. They cannot fathom how past generations allowed it…

‘All this talk of fish… now I’m starving!’ cries Kelvin.

‘Lunch?’ suggests Emre.

‘May as well,’ agrees Kelvin.

The boys dip into their backpacks, and draw out their provisions: snacks of fried grasshopper chapulines and a couple of algae bars; sandwiches of lab-cultivated beef and hydroponic watercress, a rippling swirl of borek filled with ground lab-lamb; and finally some earth-grown oranges and persimmons, freshly picked that morning from the communal allotment.

They munch in peace for a while, before the whirring hum of a solar-wagon suddenly disturbs them. It stops right underneath them, and they watch on as a Class 4X-b engineer droid steps out, a toolbox in her right hand.

‘Good morning!’ she greets, before stooping to lift a grill from the base of the dike wall below. ‘I am here to inspect this electricity panel – please continue in your activities.’

‘No worries,’ Emre replies. ‘As long as it doesn’t scare off the fish!’

‘I will endeavour not to disturb you. My job is to examine these cables,’ the droid continues. ‘We’ve been picking up some circuit micro-disruptions.’

‘What cables?’ Kelvin asks.

‘The cables that lie deep underneath the dike,’ the droid explains. ‘They follow the whole shoreline.’ At that, she gestures along the bay as it tapers towards the west.

‘What… we’re sitting on a load of electricity?’ asks Emre, as the boys eye each other and squirm uncomfortably high up on their perches.

‘Yes. There have been cables here for over 150 years,’ the droid explains. ‘Back then, when laying the network, they took advantage of the old canals, which were already bisecting the city. The canal water was also utilised to prevent overheating. And it’s still the case now – except these days it’s primarily seawater, of course.’

She proceeds to draw out a device from her bag, and syncs it with the panel. A rapidly-shifting array of figures and graphs scroll across the screen, and after a few clicks and swipes, a projected holo-image flickers then settles in front of her, a 3D-representation of the cabling and sensor circuits.

Sweeping her right hand round in a curved arc, she seamlessly rotates the image on its axis. She then slowly extends her left hand out, magnifying the image and exposing the detailed micro-network.

The boys watch on intrigued, when a sudden tug in the fishing line jolts them into action. ‘Emre, Emre! Quick quick!’ shouts Kelvin excitedly.

‘I’m trying, I’m trying!..’

He grapples with the rod, and feels a force heavy and resistant on the other end. Something then gives, the reeling promptly loosens up, and soon enough their catch breaches the waves and ascends towards the sky.

The pair, all primed to burst into whoops and high-fives, look on dismayed. ‘Aw, just a stupid piece of netting,’ shrugs Kelvin.

‘No, wait. What’s that?…’ points Emre. Amidst the brown netting, the sun’s rays pick out a flash of bright white, a tantalising slither surrounded by gloomy mud and slime. They eagerly finish reeling it in, and closely inspect their haul.

Caught up in the ocean detritus, a little clay pipe, its bowl and handle almost intact. Emre carefully extracts it, and wipes it down gently with a towel. He holds it closer to his eye, and studies it, flipping it back and around, running a finger along its curves and edges.

‘Maybe it’s a lucky day, after all…’ he says, before carefully placing it into his pocket.

 

 

*

 

Through war, pandemic and climate crisis, here is London: always adapting, always changing, somehow surviving. In this piece, I wanted to tell some of the city’s forgotten stories, the people who risked life and limb in order to build the city, protect its people, or just make a living – the endeavours of the itinerant navvy labourers who built Britain’s canals and railways; the courage of the women who left their homes and jobs to work on the waterways as part of the war effort.

For more on the history of the Regent’s Canal navvies, here’s a summary via the History of London; there’s also a fascinating Time Team episode on navvies too. For more on the wartime women on the waterways, here’s an article from the Canalside Heritage Centre, plus an exquisite audio piece by Heather Wastie – “Idle Women and Judies” – a marvellous collection of spoken poetry, folk music, and interview clips with the women involved. Meanwhile, here’s a rather sobering graphical projection of the potential impact of Climate Crisis sea-level rises on London. Following that, I’d recommend the soothing tone of the Towpath podcast, which gives more insights into the ways and workings of the Towpath Café.

Finally, re the opening section – as well as attempting to channel the spirits of my late Glaswegian grandfather, great-aunts and uncles, I also have to heartily thank my friend and native Glaswegian, Alison Sabetti, for her kind help in reviewing the piece. For more on London’s history of resilience, feel free to read this other post of mine: London Bridge is Staying Strong.

 

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Towpath Café

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Towpath fauna

 

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Canal life

 

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