The irony of it. I’d already been to
Brompton Cemetery, but never inside Brompton Cemetery.
London works in mysterious ways. How many times
have I cycled or walked on Fulham Road? Usually on my way to or from Stamford
Bridge (never to a game, though. Can’t afford the ticket prices. But I’ve been
to a couple of events there and, of course, to the shop).
What I’d never realised was that one of London’s
Magnificent Seven was right next door to the Bridge. Many years ago, I stopped
at the entrance to the cemetery on the Fulham Road side to fix something on my
bicycle (you can also access the graveyard from Old Brompton Road).
What first catches the visitor’s eye is the layout.
A road called Central Avenue threads its way southwards straight past regularly
spaced colonnades and the Great Circle until it reaches the chapel.
The affluence of the neighbourhood Brompton
Cemetery sits in is reflected in the many notable people buried here. From
women’s suffrage movement leading activist Emmeline Pankhurst, to the “Lady
Gaga” of the 1920s, Marchesa Luisa Casati, you’ll find plenty of several famous
residents here.
Brompton Cemetery is also an architect’s dream of a
place. Or that of a student of architecture. Or even an art student’s. Today I
spot a couple of people sketching the columns in the Great Circle.
The café is a welcome stop. I’m in need of a sugar boost.
What with this September day being hotter than your average August one. A warm,
but much-needed breeze caresses my face as I rest my bones for a few minutes
before saddling up and carrying on to my next stop: Kensal Green.
I come out directly onto Kempsford Gardens, turn
left onto Warwick Road and ride all the way up, Ladbroke Grove-bound.
As a city, London has a peculiarity that I feel
puts it in a category of its own. However, my lack of world-travelling
experience stops me from making conclusive, conversation-ending comments. For
instance, I’m unable to make comparisons with any other major metropolis, where
perhaps, a similar situation plays out.
In the British capital it’s not uncommon to find
social housing estates (or council estates) within spitting distance of
well-off areas. I lived in Edmonton, Enfield, north London, for many years. The
area had (still has) a reputation for being rough. Yet, it was within walking
distance of Winchmore Hill and Bush Hill Park, two neighbourhoods that could
comfortably be labelled as middle-class.
The Royal Borough of South Kensington and Chelsea
is different. There is a stark contrast between the moneyed southern part
(mostly hundred-thousand-pound houses and million-quid mansions) and its
multicultural, migrant-heavy northern counterpart. A bicycle journey between
two of London’s Magnificent Seven, Brompton Cemetery and Kensal Green, is
evidence of this.
As soon as you turn left from Holland Park Avenue
onto Ladbroke Grove, the scenery changes. What were tree-lined streets before
becomes a compact mass of people walking up and down the busy roads. It doesn’t
help that this next stage of my tour coincides with school pick-up time.
Throngs of children and their parents/carers mill about. Either waiting for
lights to change or for buses to arrive.
Ladbroke Grove’s tarmacked surface carries a
painful reminder for me. It was on this road that I pushed my bicycle down to
the site of Grenfell, where a fire had broken out on Wednesday 14th
June, 2017, in the early hours of the morning. A few days after, Saturday 17th
June, I pedalled down the Regent’s Canal towards Notting Hill. I wanted to help
out. I wanted to show the survivors that they mattered, that this part of
London mattered. That they were in our thoughts and hearts. That like many of
them, many of those who died, this immigrant could have faced a similar fate
(I, too, used to live in a high-rise).
Pedalling up Ladbroke Grove today, I recall a few
lines from a poem written by the Vicar of St Clement Church, Alan Everett, for
the victims of the fire:
Forced to watch
Lights at the windows
Torches
Of those who were still alive
For the time being
Signalling
Desperate faint hope
Until floor by floor
The darkness snuffed them out.
The oldest of London’s Magnificent Seven, Kensal
Green is also the city’s oldest commercial cemetery. For birdwatchers, the
graveyard is heaven on earth. It was declared a conservation area in 1984 and
boasts rare flora and fauna.
With seventy-two acres covering the area between
the Grand Union Canal and Harrow Road, this is a place worth more than a visit.
I’ve already been twice and it’s likely I’ll come again.
153 monuments are included in the National Heritage
List for England at Grade II* or Grade I. No wonder Kensal Green has a lot to
shout about. Some of those buried here include novelist Anthony Trollope, Lord
Byron’s wife and the engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
With only an hour to spare, I get back on my
bicycle and head for my final destination: Highgate Cemetery. Sadly, I get
there at quarter to five and last admission is at half four.
Of London’s Magnificent Seven, Highgate is the only
I’ve never visited. There are two sides (although if you’re only interested in
paying your respects to Karl Marx’s grave, it’s the East Cemetery you need to
go to). There’s an entrance charge, which is eight pounds fifty if you only
want to visit the East Cemetery and a tenner if you want to include the architecture-rich
west side, too.
I get back on my two-wheeler and make my way
back to Abney Park, where this tour started. Hard to believe that the sun is
still shining brightly and that the hoodie I brought with me (you can never be
too sure when it comes to the highly unpredictable London weather) stayed in my
pannier. As I cycle down Stoke Newington Church Street, I’m already thinking of
my next adventure. By bicycle, of course.
