The story of one house in Peckham over a century and a half, and of one family who lived there in the 1950s.*
It is just one of those things that when I look back to the Peckham of my child hood the sun always shone and there were plenty of days when it was so hot that the tar at the side of the roads would go sticky.
And on such days like that with breakfast eaten, the day stretched out and adventures beckoned.
When I was older we would go down to Queens Road Station and take a train to where ever two shillings return would take us.
Sometimes we struck gold and explored new places refreshed by Tizer and a packet of fruit salads and on other less successful jaunts the journey ended by a dismal canal with the threat of rain and a feeling of supreme disappointment.
But in the summer of 1959 trains were for the future, instead Jimmy O’ Donnell, me and John Cox set off down Queens Road and on to Deptford with no clear idea of where we were going other than a vague plan to reach Greenwich Park where Jimmy said there was and a bit of sandy beach by the river.
And still the memory of that walk has stayed with me along with the discovery of Blackheath all of which became even better as we walked through the park to stand beside that statute of Wolfe with the Thames and all London laid out before us.
It could all have been even better, had we made the right choice at the Cutty Sark, and found that bit of sandy beach.
Instead at the foot tunnel we made the wrong decision.
Having reached the entrance to the foot tunnel we took the steps down to the waterside and on a whim turned upriver and wandered beside the beached barges only to sink into ozzy oil soaked mud.
None of us sank deeper than our ankles but we were terrified and had to be rescued which added to the shame but was nothing compared with the long walk home and the knowledge that explaining how we came to be covered in a mix of Thames mud and oil would require a fair bit of imagination.
To my lasting shame I blamed Jimmy and John. It was a lie I have carried with me a full 55 years only owning up to Jimmy recently.
Looking back of course it could have been worse but I rather think not very much worse.
And of course that was pretty much how it was back then.
You knew the bits of Peckham to avoid which still left vast areas to be explored from the Rye back across to our own park on Telegraph Hill and down into edgy Deptford.**
In between there were more parks, plenty of bombsites and Nunhead Cemetery a place best visited in the late afternoon when the officials were busy but a place to be out of before dusk.
Pictures; looking down Greenwich, and out across the Thames at Woolwich, 1977 from the collection of Jean Gammons
*The story of one house in Peckham, http://chorltonhistory.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/The%20story%20of%20one%20house%20in%20Peckham
**Peckham, http://chorltonhistory.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/Peckham
 |
| The river, 1977 |
And on such days like that with breakfast eaten, the day stretched out and adventures beckoned.
When I was older we would go down to Queens Road Station and take a train to where ever two shillings return would take us.
Sometimes we struck gold and explored new places refreshed by Tizer and a packet of fruit salads and on other less successful jaunts the journey ended by a dismal canal with the threat of rain and a feeling of supreme disappointment.
But in the summer of 1959 trains were for the future, instead Jimmy O’ Donnell, me and John Cox set off down Queens Road and on to Deptford with no clear idea of where we were going other than a vague plan to reach Greenwich Park where Jimmy said there was and a bit of sandy beach by the river.
And still the memory of that walk has stayed with me along with the discovery of Blackheath all of which became even better as we walked through the park to stand beside that statute of Wolfe with the Thames and all London laid out before us.
 |
| Walking to the foot tunnel, 1977 |
Instead at the foot tunnel we made the wrong decision.
Having reached the entrance to the foot tunnel we took the steps down to the waterside and on a whim turned upriver and wandered beside the beached barges only to sink into ozzy oil soaked mud.
None of us sank deeper than our ankles but we were terrified and had to be rescued which added to the shame but was nothing compared with the long walk home and the knowledge that explaining how we came to be covered in a mix of Thames mud and oil would require a fair bit of imagination.
To my lasting shame I blamed Jimmy and John. It was a lie I have carried with me a full 55 years only owning up to Jimmy recently.
Looking back of course it could have been worse but I rather think not very much worse.
And of course that was pretty much how it was back then.
You knew the bits of Peckham to avoid which still left vast areas to be explored from the Rye back across to our own park on Telegraph Hill and down into edgy Deptford.**
In between there were more parks, plenty of bombsites and Nunhead Cemetery a place best visited in the late afternoon when the officials were busy but a place to be out of before dusk.
Pictures; looking down Greenwich, and out across the Thames at Woolwich, 1977 from the collection of Jean Gammons
*The story of one house in Peckham, http://chorltonhistory.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/The%20story%20of%20one%20house%20in%20Peckham
**Peckham, http://chorltonhistory.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/Peckham
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