Crossed Upper Thames Ctreet, Cannon Street and onto the narrow streets to the east of St Pauls, Watling Steet being one of them. In not too long a time at all I found my way to Wood Street and then walked into the emptiness of the square in front of the Guidhall. Simply an amazing buidling the Guidlhall; the silence there that Saturday afternoon was just incredible. Compared to the corwds and noise not so far away just across the other side of the river it was hard to believe that this place was so goddam quiet but it goddam well was. Think the City Fathers want to keep it that way. All shops in the City on Saturday are closed. Sitting on a bench in front of the Guildhall it is impossibke for me not to think of times gone by. After all this was the very site of the Roman Colleiusm in London nearly 2000 years ago. Here at this very spot men maybe women too came onto the stage as gladiators came onto the stage and fought to the death against each other or against wild animals native to Britain maybe or brought in from other parts of the Roman Empire. Here many met their death.
The Saturday silence was powerful. I knew underneath the ground the Guidlhall Art Gallery had recreated the scene of what it must have been like all those years ago. Hadly any people were around. A bored security guard coming out of the one of the buildings for a fag, a couple of toursits at the far end of the yard in front of the guidhall pointing the cameras, exclaiming wow wow, that was about it. The Guidhall buidling looks well protected, full of spikes jutting out at odd angles, something military about it, something like the keeper of deep secrests. The City Fathers knew hardly anyone came to this place unless they were invited and they wanted to keep it that way. The Guidlhall Art Gallery must be one of the least visited places in London and I get the feeling that is fine with them.
On down through Wood Street and up the escalators into the Barbican. Elevation. Past the Pizza Express. Light darkening now, feeling great, that autumn dark; brooding London light. Fast moving clouds of grey and black moving across the sky. Who wouldn't be moved by all this? Tramped down the empty walkways of the Barbicam to emrge at the John Trundle Highwalk by Barbican station. Looked back east down the elevated walkways, greeen vegetation and high blocks of flats. Here the space opens out and you get a glimpse of big sky. Incredible. Love it. One of my favourite views in London and empty of people of course. Naturally things are different in the week, Mon - Fri , 9 - 5. I remember well how busy it could get, from the 18 months I worked in the City back in the mid 80's, over 20 years ago now.
Down into Smithfileds from the Barbican. Place of slaughter for many hundreds of years, old execution site but now just a massive meat market. There is a quiet Starbucks down one of the side streets leading to Farringdon station and there I had a fresh coffee, glass of water and read more of Buddha. Occasionally lifted my head to glimpse the people walking down the street. London Saturday emptiness, dark light, windy afteroon. Fantastic. Not possible to stop the clock though, gotta move on...
After Bucking it up for 20 mins or so I was out again and now down Farringdon Street and then into Holborn. Ready for the long march into the West End. Marchin' to the City, an outtake from Dylan's Time Out of Mind and recently released on his Tell Tale Signs came to my mind for some reason.
Didn't stay on Holborn all the way but took a left half way down and walked through Lincoln's Inn Fields. Once the place of hundreds of homeless people it was been claened up for a good few years now and there was private party taking place at the smart cafe in the middle of the park. Ben and Jacinta. Something like that. Best of luck to them. By the empty bandstand three men hung around. One sitting on the ground in a long balck coat staring at his bag in front of him. Got the feeling he had no place to go. Sad sight but not unusual for this part of town. Picture of shadows, black, grey and very little white. Picture that could have been taken 150 years ago, maybe a picture that as far as London goes will be continually retaken.
Out of Lincolns Inn Fields and into the maelstrom of Covent Garden. Crowds. Late Saturday afteroon, you simply cannot ever find it busier than this. All human life is there. Love it; me a wanderer walking down, a ghost eternal, no one knew where I had come from, where my journey started, and no one knew where I was heading. Best kept that way.
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