Dérive or "Why I love London all morning long".

My derive starts in a place I’m very familiar with. A place that’s not somewhere I frequent by choice but more by necessity. This place is the 24 hour Starbucks at the far end of St Pancras station in Central London. Ever since I’ve lived in London I’ve developed a penchant for riding night buses around the city and at 3am on a Monday morning there are few places of refuge that I can think of bar one or two McDonalds, some kebab shops and a bagel store on Shepherd’s Bush Green. Starbucks furnishes me with coffee and Wifi, for that I am thankful.



From Starbucks I am drawn underground into the labyrinthine tunnels that create a transport hub beneath Kings Cross and St Pancras stations, connecting two mainline stations, dozens of bus routes and six tube lines it is probably the most important collection of corridors and concourses in London. The Northern booking hall draws me in, the escalator sucking me downwards and my subconscious kicks in, without noticing I am drifting through this network of tunnels, twisting and turning, snapping a photo here and there. I notice a staircase which leads up to the main level of Kings Cross station. It is almost six in the morning.



The usually heaving area in front of the departure boards is, unsurprisingly, empty. Burger King is shut, a small queue forms outside Delice de France and Caffé Nero, everyone there wants the same thing as any sane person at this time. Caffeine and pastry. I glance up at the departures board. Leeds 6:00. Stevenage 6:04. How glad I am that it is not Welwyn Garden City I am to travel to. I leave the station through the main entrance, a beggar sits next to his sleeping bag, not inside it, it’s freezing, perhaps he’s trying to acclimatise himself. A Polish woman asks me how to get to the Eurostar terminal, we chat for a while about her trip to Brussels and her time in London. I’m drawn towards a building on a junction between two roads; it’s derelict and has an ornate tower with no apparent purpose. The bottom of the building is an abandoned fish and chip shop and the top is adorned with graffiti.



I turn back to see the gothic towers of St Pancras contrast against the more modest arches of Kings Cross. The last dregs of night buses speed along Euston Road soon to be transformed into day buses with shortened routes and more ‘regular’ passengers. I walk down the side of the dilapidated fish and chip shop and notice another beggar I’d seen about 2 hours before standing forlornly outside a convenience store staring in. Inside the phoneboxes cards with pictures of scantily clad women and dirty details testify that this particular area of London is not the best to be hanging around in too late at night. As I wasn’t paying any particular attention to where I was going I was more able to notice things I would miss most days. A little tile design, a mini trapped in a garage, a surprisingly ornate Travelodge.



An enormous advert for eau du toilette stands out boldly from its humble setting above a kebab shop. Fully illuminated the model’s face stares into the middle distance. A community garden takes my interest, it’s hidden behind some thick shrubbery and large gates with opening times a long way away prevent me from entering but I can imagine what a haven this place might be on a hot summers day. This street has a lot of dental surgeries, about 5 or 6 so far and also the rather abruptly named UCL Ear Centre. An apartment block with a beautiful art deco style boasts an amazing lift just inside the front entrance, one with a semi-circular floor indicator and slam-shut doors.



I’ve never noticed how busy the skies over London are, even at this time there are jumbo jets criss-crossing the sky above me, I can imagine the fantastic views the passengers are getting as they come in to land at Heathrow or City Airport. The London Welsh Centre (Canolfan Cymry Llundain) catches my eye, it’s one of those brilliant words they took from English and made Welsh. Llundain. The ITN news building contrasts with the modest terraces it overlooks. Inside I can see the newsdesk and the 20 or so screens in the lobby. NBC have offices on the second floor.



I turn off this street onto another as it looks more interesting. It takes me down a familiar route past one of my favourite stores Magma, closed of course but still a pleasant diversion to look in the window at the things I want but can’t afford. Some of these shops have great signs like the neon of the framers and the rather obviously named Pound Plus store where everything is ‘one pound or more’. You get the feeling they didn’t quite capture a niche in the market. A piece of paper flutters past my feet ‘What would the world be like with no electricity?’ and then a large, blank, white space. Obviously the question was too perplexing for whoever this belonged to. A toilet at this point was most welcome and certainly went along the lines of following my desires. That would be my desire not to urinate on myself in public. Thank heavens for the self-cleaning toilet carbuncles that litter our pavements.



Leather Lane. Whenever I’ve had experience of Leather Lane it’s been a bustling market but not at this time of the morning. Now it’s just a narrow street lined with closed shops and empty, metal frames waiting to be filled with cheap fruit and expensive tat. I pay homage at the spot where some of London’s best burritos are to be had. Daddy Donkey. As it is this is just an empty bit of pavement but in a few hours a trailer will arrive to furnish the hands of hungry office workers with meat, rice and compliments all wrapped in an enormous tortilla. Looking up is something I don’t do enough, noticing weird chimney stacks and hand-painted street signs.



This is London’s jewellery quarter and it’s obvious to anyone why, every shop is home to shiny window displays. Carl’s catches my eye with three Vespa scooters parked outside and a wonderful 1950s logo it looks like it could be a scene from Happy Days. Roof gardens, until now I never realised how many roof gardens there were in London, they are such a wonderful thing to have, whenever I see leaves and branches hanging over a balcony or rooftop it makes me a little bit happier. Once again I go from not having a clue where I am to knowing my exact location in an instant. A café sticks out, I once had breakfast there a few months ago and it’s near Farringdon station. I cross over the street but am not feeling hungry enough to buy a proper breakfast, I’ll wait.



I hit Farringdon Road, I hate Farringdon Road so hurry across it and down to Farringdon station, it is one of the oldest on the system and there’s a man standing outside handing out the City AM freesheet, he does this right next to a newspaper stand, I wonder if they are friends or whether there’s a silent awkwardness between them. On the right buildings are being demolished to make way for a shiny new station from the Crossrail project. Ealing Broadway in 18 minutes. How thrilling. Turning a corner a huge concrete block juts into the sky, Shakespeare Tower. I am drawn towards it, it’s so intriguing and anonymous.



This street is lined with architects offices, vacated at this time of the morning I spend a few minutes staring in through the windows at the models displayed. I wonder if any of them will actually be built, they certainly look like nothing I’ve seen being planned. Smithfield Market appears around a corner, its Victorian roof covers several lorries as they leave having delivered their stock of fruit for the morning. I turn left up a street away from the market. Inside an office building a TV is on, it’s Sky News. Something about watching TV through a window has always interested me, I watch the newsreader go over the days papers in silence, the receptionist stares at me "This TV is not for you" her eyes say.



The street I turn down next represents a lot about what I love in London. It’s a patchwork of modern and old buildings, tall and short all alongside each other. Down one alley you’re presented with an office block that looks like the wing of a Scottish stately home, continue down the street and there’s the ‘Tasty Café’ squeezed uncomfortably inbetween more modern buildings. The owner comes out of the front door to put up his A-board with the day’s menu on. A strange bicycle and the mural of a dragon catch my eye as I turn the corner into a distinctly cooler part of London. The side of a building holds the scar of its demolished cousin, the stairs still lead their way up the wall but they’re not there anymore. Not feeling very at home in cool London I turn off and under a terrace of shops.



A dragon on a pedestal tells me I am leaving the borough of Camden (an area which not only covers Camden but a significant portion of north central London) and entering the prestigious City of London, an administrative anomaly, a county and borough all in one. This one square mile holds most of the UK’s banking and financial industry. It also holds the Barbican Centre which looms out in front of me. An archway leads through to a green coloured tower block, at the top a Courbuisier-style pavilion juts out over the lip of the roof. On the wall a fantastic 3D map made of metal shows the layout of this part of the estate. It’s clear the period in which it was built and it is clear it was built by utopians. The ‘physical recreation building’, ‘community centre’ and ‘workshop’ makes this place feel like something out of 1984 I can smell the cabbage and oily Victory Gin already.



I walk under the main building and out into a car park, a rather rotund lady exits one of the low rise blocks with a carrier bag of rubbish. She gives me a scornful look and purposefully closes the door behind her. A rather fantastic little church with a notice soley in Welsh is plumped between some generic looking office blocks. A brilliant little car with a “The Lord is my shepherd” bumper sticker is parked just outside. I imagine a Welsh vicar driving around London in it, this makes me very happy. Once again one of the three enormous towers of the Barbican complex dominates the view down this road, I keep walking towards it.



It leads to an underground road on top of which one of London’s tallest buildings sits. It’s always been a dream of mine to get to the top and have a look at the view but this dream is very quickly crushed when I walk towards the resident’s entrance only to be stopped by a very friendly security guard. I asked him for directions to Moorgate station. I didn’t want to go to Moorgate station. The sharp angles and unforgiving concrete are both foreboding and intriguing. I walk in the direction I was told to by the security guard and this leads me onto the Barbican high walk. The Barbican Centre is an incredibly odd inner-city development with a mix between residential apartment blocks, terraces of self-contained flats, several theatres, two schools, a system of lakes, a church, a library. It’s very much a city-within-a-city. One, I’ve noticed, without any shops. The high walk runs around the centre underneath the apartment buildings, across the lakes linking up the distant edges of the complex with the tube stations it surrounds.



Modern glass office blocks play off against the grey concrete and injections of dark wood. Despite this being a very urban place there are little gardens everywhere and all the balconies have their own window box. An enormous bridge stretches over a man-made lake; the whole building it goes under is on stilts. This place is amazing. I want to run around, to discover everything, so I do. I walk all around the high walk, down by the lake. The entire place feels like it’s in a Stanley Kubrick film and at any moment I’ll hear someone yelling ‘Oh my brothers’.



I walk around the sweeping Forbisher Crescent and this leads me down a large set of steps and down to the lake. Here there are about a dozen marble tables with plastic chairs. Lakeside Terrace it’s called and that’s where I’m sat right now writing this. It’s about 8:30am. There’s a slow trickle of people walking past, the sound of a drill somewhere distant, trees are russling in the light breeze and every now and again a beam of sunlight illuminates the block of flats infront of me. Work men are fixing a light on the staircase, about every 30 seconds a plane goes overhead and I’m sat here writing. I’m happy.



I’ve discovered a whole slice of London in a totally new light. I think early in the morning is brilliant time to get a new perspective on a city. It’s quiet but pretty safe, it’s light and yet everything is closed. You can walk down one of the busiest streets in the city and see only one or two people. I love London and it’s all too easy to forget why when all you see are tourists and businessmen but 7am brings out the best kind of people. The interesting ones. It’s the true twilight period between late night revellers and commuters.



I’d like to make a little addendum here. I walked out of the Barbican Centre and through some wonderful gardens and as soon as I hit Aldersgate Street it was evident the twilight period was over, Barbican tube station was surrounded by a throng of commuters, at the entrance freesheet thrusters battled with people from Virgin Active giving out writstbands. You have to pay twice as much for a peak-time ticket but Im pretty sure you can make that up in the amount of free porridge samples and sandwich vouchers. It felt good walking down that street against the stream of commuters, me in my hoody and shabby coat them suited and booted for the day ahead. I know that’ll be me in a few months when I get finally get a job but for now I’ll spend my morning doing what I want to do.



So I’m now sitting in Pod. A decent enough organic food place, beside me a Jewish couple discuss types of balsamic vinegar, a police car rushes past outside competing for attention with the pneumatic drill going at the pavement. The 100 bus to Elephant & Castle grinds to a halt at the traffic lights. There’s a woman. She’s been stood there for about 15 minutes, ever since I got here. She’s in a purple jacket and she’s handing out leaflets. Everyone is ignoring her but she looks happy, the few people who do take her leaflets glance at them and stick them in the bin but she smiles anyway. She’s just one person of thousands and thousands in the City today, she’s not getting paid anywhere near as much as the people ignoring her but she seems pretty happy. I think when I leave this café to go get the bus back home I’ll take a leaflet, I’ll say thanks. She might appreciate that, I just know that if I hadn’t noticed her I would have ignored her just like everyone else. I don’t know why but I like the lady in the purple jacket, I like her, she’s London.



This task was completed on the 16/03/2010.