Month: February 2017

Sticks in the Smoke 48: Paddington Street Gardens, Marylebone

paddington-street-gardensA Place in the Earth (Thursday 2 February 2017)

The deep desire for a piece of the Earth to call your own after you die has saved many acres of original London soil and clay from being paved, concreted or tarmacked over. Just like several of the other public gardens I’ve visited in this project, Paddington Street Gardens owes it’s existence to an earlier incarnation as burial ground.

048bThe sky today is a slab of slate. I feel a few flicks of rain but turn up my collar and follow the paths which trace a tapering rectangle around the garden and a curving ‘X’ across the middle. As I walk I try to imagine this landscape about 280 years ago, dank and misty this time of year, a line of wintery willows in the west which mark the line of the stream, or bourne (the village name was originally St Mary le Bourne).  And in the sky to the southeast, a bruise black shroud hanging over the City. Sometimes for days on end. Smoke from the 30,000 coal fires of Georgian London. Getting ever closer each winter. And a couple of fields away the stubby stone spire of the village church, with rooks clamouring and circling. By the 1730s, the church sexton was struggling to find space for new graves, so this 2.5 acres of land I’m visiting today was donated to the parish as a new burial ground by Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford (a politician and major London landowner; Harley Street and Oxford Street were named after him).

Fitzpatrick Mausoleum

Forty years later, an additional acre of land was acquired on the opposite side of the street, which has now become Paddington Street Gardens North: a square of lawn with shrubs and beds and edged with old gravestone remnants, overlooked by a smart apartment block; its plate glass reflecting and fragmenting the crooked tangle of tree twiggery.

The garden is well tended, abundant shrub foliage is a mix of hues, from shiny blue laurels to the brightest yellow choisya, singing out through the light rain. Planted terracotta pots line the paths. A symmetrical pattern of lawns with embellishments of geometric beds evenly pricked with yellow and blue flowers. Winter worn grass has been taped off and reseeded. A flock of pigeons pecking their way across.  The north lawn has a series of segmented beds planted with different rose varieties. At the moment all are simply woody stems, well pruned and spiky, tiny buds of new growth just emerging. I have to content myself with the colourful pictures on the labels at the head of each tranche. Overhanging the northwest corner a towering structure is rising, scaffolded and plastic sheeted: the Chiltern Place apartments will look down onto the broad canopies of mature plane and lime trees 048gwhich fringe these gardens. And on, over the roofs and chimneys of the surrounding Victorian streets.

In the second half of the 18th century, two workhouses were built to the north and south of these burial grounds (just as in Mount Street Gardens, Mayfair. See Sticks in the Smoke 47). Perhaps it was thought that a view of a cemetery would be a constant reminder to the inmates of their own mortality. Sure to make them feel better about being poor! A little stone sculpture of a boy gutter sweeper was placed here in 1943 (sculpted by the Milanese artist Donato Barcaglia), maybe a reminder of the once less fortunate occupants of this place.

The burial grounds were officially closed in 1814. The roots from these trees and shrubs are twining their way through the remains of around 80,000 graves.

048aThe rain comes and goes raggedly. Thankfully there are two hexagonal shelters in the gardens. Ideally, I wanted to draw from inside the north one, through its glass windows, which would frame the view of a bright metal astrolabe, perched on the top of a drinking fountain, the rose beds and tree branches interrupting the hard lines of sixties housing blocks in the background. But its ironwork gates are padlocked today, so I hurry to the far end, where the other shelter, without glass, squats in front of the twists and coils and primary colours of the children’s playground. Its gates are open and welcoming. Half lined with benches, a scent of musty damp and tobacco mix to create an atmosphere of stale incense, like in an ancient chapel. I set up to draw across the lawns, back towards the other shelter whose roof moss glows an acid yellow. And in the distance, at the end of Luxborough Street I can just about see the frontage of Madame Tussauds on Marylebone Road. A huddle of hardhatted and hoodied workmen are in here too on lunch break. They’re cackling and jeering at a 048cvideo on a phone. From their remarks and the loud soundtrack, it seems to be footage of a noisy and sweary argument between the wife of one of them and a neighbour. Voices ricochet off the hard surfaces of the building. I peer closer at the garden through the hoops of the decorative ironwork grille that clads this structure but find it difficult to focus on my drawing. A sharp shower rakes the park and rattles the roof, a bead curtain of drips sparkling in front of me. The shelter fills with people. Sheltering.

In 1885 the Metropolitan Public Gardens Association (MPGA) took on the task of developing these sad and neglected acres for the recreational use of the local community. Their landscape gardener, Fanny Wilkinson (designer of over 75 public gardens in London, many of them disused burial grounds), created the design and the garden was opened by Princess Louise the following summer. The original plan has stood the test of time, changing little over the years. It has always been a popular and well used space, a focus for community events, including live music in the summer. The shady plane tree 048ecanopies providing a leafy auditorium roof.

The rain stops as quickly as it started and the building empties. Sunshine glistens the paths as the garden begins to fill for school lunchtime. Yells and excited screams and hoots fill the air. A group of girls enter the shelter and sit on the benches. A sound of quiet murmuring and crinkle of crisp packets. A hi vis park keeper with litter stick and bin liner picks up discarded cans and cartons and sheets of newspaper. He glances at my drawing (see top) and nods at me as he leaves.

I pack my things and follow the east path. Bunches of schoolkids bustle around an elegant block of weathered Portland stone with classical arches and a square dome. Inscriptions on carved drapery have been eroded into illegibility. A stone urn sits high against the gathering sky, adorned with slightly sinister cherub heads that stare down at you with hollow eyes. This is the Fitzpatrick Mausoleum, erected by Richard Fitzpatrick as memorial to his wife Susanna who died in 1730. His daughter Anne, was later also interred here.

Garden of Rest

048fBefore I leave Marylebone I want to visit the original site of the parish church which was served by this ground, so walk the wet pavements up to the little courtyard space on Marylebone High Street. The chapel was built in 1740 (replacing one which was portrayed by William Hogarth in the marriage scene from ‘The Rake’s Progress’ in 1735).  An inscribed slab lists some of the notable people who were buried here, including Charles Wesley in 1788. A memorial obelisk marks the site of his grave, and a round tablet set into the paving, with spirally inscription. The chapel was used until 1926 but was demolished after suffering damage in 2nd world war bombing. Now this ‘Garden of Rest’ sits within its footprint.

Conscious once more of impending rain, I quickly set up to draw the garden’s length (see below). A gnarled and twisting locust bean tree spreads its tortured branches in front of the Victorian flank of the adjacent St Marylebone CE school. Zigzag brickwork like arches of electric shocks above its windows. Much of the paving slabs are worn and cracked gravestones. Today puddle dappled.

A couple, hands full of large bulging bags are holding a heated exchange in Russian. Their words accentuated in a bizarre dance of waving white and blue plastic. A strident bell from over the wall. The air bursts with the sound of excited girls’ voices rising to crescendo. Spots of rain pock my drawing and I realise I’m not going to get a chance to put paint to my drawing. I quickly pack and haul my rucksack onto my back just as the shower breaks.


(In his ‘Sticks in the Smoke’ project, Nick Andrew has been  visiting, researching and drawing a different public park or garden in Central London since January 2016. This is leading to a collection of paintings exploring the theme of city green spaces from the perspective of a rural landscape painter. These will be shown in a London exhibition in 2018. Sadly, the original planned exhibition at the Curwen Gallery, London in April 2017 has been cancelled as Curwen Gallery has had to close unexpectedly) 

Paddington Street Gardens, Marylebone, London. W1U 5QA
Garden of Rest, Marylebone High Street, London. W1U 5BA
Open 7am – ­  dusk
Google earth view here


Sticks in the Smoke 47: Mount Street Gardens, Mayfair

mount-street-gardenGiraffe in the mist (Wednesday 25 January 2017)

I can feel the damp cold pressing down as I walk past expensive restaurants, polished hotel entrances and luxury shoe shops in this, one of the most well-heeled parts of London. With my scuffed walking boots and rucksack I feel like an intruder. Through 19th century lanterned gates into this old churchyard garden, hidden from the surrounding streets.
A ride of a mile or so out of the medieval city, these open meadows were on the northern edge of the Manor of Ebury (named after the Eye Bourne, the stream which became known as the Tyburn). For centuries, a quiet backwater. But during the English Civil War, this piece of land was in a strategic location. In 1642, fears that the Royalists were planning to invade the Parliamentarian City prompted the building of defences and fortifications. A structure was built nearby, called Sergeant’s Fort, but nicknamed Oliver’s Mount (giving it’s name to Mount Street).
‘Into the Wind’ by Nic Fiddian -Green
Defensive ditches and ridges were built right through where the present day gardens lie. They were manned by voluntary militia known as the Trained Bands. No Royalist attack on the City happened and little evidence is left of these defences.
After the end of the Civil War this area was livened up by an annual fair that took place for a fortnight at the start of May. It began as a livestock market but by the start of the 18th century had developed into a large, unregulated, sprawling event with food sellers, beer stalls, street entertainers, gambling booths, acrobatic and wrestling shows, comic theatre and lots of other attractions. Inevitably, however, as it grew it attracted thieves, pickpockets and troublemakers. Drink ran freely and the nights became rough and noisy, which didn’t go down well with local residents. Since being acquired by the Grosvenor family in 1677, this was now becoming established as a fashionable district for the gentry and aristocracy, with its grid of elegant streets and squares being laid out. So the event’s days were numbered and, following a riot in which a police constable was killed, it was brought to an end in 1709, but is still preserved in the name of the district: Mayfair.

I follow the path past the entrance to the Neo-Gothic Church of the Immaculate Conception (built in the 1840s, designed by Gothic revivalist architect J.J.Scoles, with magnificent altar by Pugin), guarded by the densely twisting branches of an ornamental pear tree, an unnatural grey purple in this weakly light.

Bronze giraffe presented by Italy

Lawns of threadbare winter grass are neatly enclosed with metal edging into round cornered triangles and lozenge shapes, which roll to the rim of the basement drops of the surrounding Victorian mansion blocks. These tall red brick and stone buildings, both hem in and protect the garden. There are several exotic trees planted here, such as an Australian Mimosa and a huge Canary date palm, which wouldn’t survive without the windbreak of these walls. The paths are lined with benches, only a few occupied today by hardy lunchers (there are roughly 90 benches here, many of them with dedications sponsored by Americans due to the close proximity of Grosvenor Square and the US Embassy).

At the southeast entrance, a little bronze giraffe is grazing the ornamental grasses in a wide stone planter, inscribed with: ‘A gift to the City of Westminster from the Italian Republic 20th November 1987’.
A dense mist sits on the rooftops like a shroud, seemingly supported by the twisted branches of several massive plane trees. The garden feels slightly eerie in this gauzy light. Sounds of traffic from outside are muffled. People’s voices ring and echo around the space. Decorators are stripping paint from a grand first floor balcony window. Tapping and scraping a constant theme. A scatter of paint fragments like a light sprinkle of snow on evergreen shrubs below. I set up to draw eastwards along the garden (see top), towards the giant verdigris horse’s head on a black cube plinth, which dominates the garden (‘Into the Wind’ by Nic Fiddian-Green), its neck and mane deeply and expressively grooved. The submissive downward thrust of its head somehow adds to the melancholy air of this space.
Grosvenor Chapel spire and Mayfair Library
In 1710 an Act of Parliament was passed, set up to relieve the pressure on overcrowded inner London churchyards. Sites were purchased to build a ‘necklace’ of churches and cemeteries around the city. This space was bought in 1723 to be used as a burial ground for the newly built St George’s Hanover Square (about quarter of a mile northeast of here). A few years later, the Grosvenor Chapel, simple and puritan (design inspiration for many New England churches), was set up here, a sentinel, its gravestone shaped east window watchful over the garden. Today, its stocky copper bluegreen spire dissolves coldly up into the mist.
At about the same time, the parish workhouse was built on the garden’s northern flank. The local jobless and roofless were provided with hard work, board, and lodgings, their outlook over this dark and shabby cemetery. In the 1870s they were moved to a larger institution further west in Chelsea, and the workhouse was swept aside to make space for the grand apartment houses which stand here today.

In the 1850s, these burial grounds were closed by Act of Parliament, like all others in central London, due to concerns about the health risks caused by overcrowding. In 1887, the Metropolitan Open Spaces Act allowed ‘open spaces and disused burial grounds in the Metropolis for the use of the inhabitants thereof for exercise and recreation’.

Drinking fountain. Church of Immaculate Conception in the background

It was laid with lawns and flowerbeds, and trees were planted. The layout has stayed almost the same since then. In 1891 a bronze drinking fountain, with lions head spouts and topped with rearing horse, was designed by architects, George and Petocommissioned by a local estate agent (in 2005 it was restored to full flowing order after falling into disrepair).

Towards the western entrance are four cherry trees, full with blossom, light and whippy against the majestic planes behind them. A scatter of pink on the grass, not fallen petals but, on closer inspection, confetti: fallout from weddings held regularly at the registry office above the Mayfair Library.
Several school processions excitedly cross the diagonal path between St George’s Primary School on the southeast corner of the garden, and the Library. Both are impressive redbrick cakes, with Portland stone icing, built in the early 1890s in Jacobean style. One class of animated children is touring the garden with clipboards making nature notes and drawings. I hear the teacher’s stern voice: “Kyle! What did I say about keeping off the grass? AND not pulling leaves off the shrubs?”  My inner schoolboy shrinks and I hastily start packing my things, hoping she doesn’t spot me standing on the grass.

(In his ‘Sticks in the Smoke’ project, Nick Andrew is  visiting, researching and drawing a different public park or garden in Central London each week of 2016 and early 2017, leading to a collection of paintings exploring the theme of city green spaces from the perspective of a rural landscape painter. These will be shown in a forthcoming London exhibition) 

Mount Street Gardens, Mayfair, London. W1K 2TH
Open 8am – ­  dusk
Google earth view here

Sticks in the Smoke 46: St James’s Park, London


Ice and fireworks (Wednesday 18 January 2017)

I push my hands deeper into my pockets as I leave Queen Anne’s Gate and cross Birdcage Walk. Brr! Feels like the coldest day! The air is crisp and glistening above these 57­ acres of frosted grass, rolling out northwards to the The Mall, which cuts, as straight as a march, from Buckingham Palace to Admiralty Arch. The sun is melting stripes of green between the shadows of random clumps of trees.
St James’s Park is the oldest Royal Park in London. It takes its name from a women’s leper hospital, which was built in the 12th century and dedicated to St James the Less. The views southwest from here, where the park lies today, were across marshy meadowland on the banks of the River Tyburn, grazed by cattle and wallowed by pigs. And further, towards the towers of the original Westminster Abbey against the watery gleam from the Thames beyond. In the 1530s, Henry VIII acquired all this land. He had the hospital demolished and built the redbrick St James’s Palace  as his hunting lodge retreat from the stress of Whitehall 046acourt life. He had the meadows drained and fenced as a deer park. This provided him with an almost unbroken 2 mile gallop of royal hunting grounds, from here, westwards through what is now Green Park, Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.
I make my way towards the lake’s Blue Bridge  (the lake was originally spanned by an ornate Chinese inspired structure, built for national celebrations of victory against Napoleon in 1814. It had a tall pagoda rising from the middle but this was destroyed in a blaze during the firework festivities. It was replaced by an elegant iron suspension bridge in 1857, which itself was replaced by this one in 1957. It looks incongruous here, better suited to link a multi storey car park with a shopping centre). The lake courses the whole length of the park. On a map it looks like a giant claw, clutching at the seat of government in Whitehall. Today the middle part of the lake is frozen in a great sheet. Two confused coots are tottering tentatively and gulls appear frozen to the surface, but a pair of swans are determinedly breaking a winding channel through the ice. Tourists and park visitors line the bridge, fascinated and clicking pictures. As the swans push ahead, the ice flexes for a moment with an eerie doink doink sound until it shatters. 046bThe dull and waxy lustre of willow ginger in the ice suddenly replaced by sharp reflections of sunlit gold.
In the early 17th century, the park was landscaped and the drainage improved. The deer made way for the royal menagerie, which included camels, crocodiles and an elephant. Also a row of aviaries which housed the royal collection of exotic birds (hence Birdcage Walk). The Tyburn wound through the park at the foot of a vineyard, to the eastern end where pools and reedy islands lured ducks which were shot for the royal table. In 1660, Charles II celebrated the return of the monarchy with a bold redesign of St James’s Park in the formal French style, under the direction of Andre Mollet, the French landscape gardener. Avenues of chestnut trees and limes with a central feature of a straight ‘canal’ half a mile long. It would freeze hard in those little ice age winters and Londoners would flock here with their skates. In the summer, visitors could take a boat along the Canal (there were even a pair of gondolas from Venice, given by the Doge). Or promenade and maybe even meet the King (sometimes accompanied by his favourite mistress, Nell Gwynne). In the evenings, though, the park gained a reputation as a place for moonlit trysts, especially at the western end, 046caround a small lake called Rosamond’s Pond (thought to be named after the tragic and romantic heroine, Rosamond Clifford).
I follow the lakeside path with the sun warm on my left cheek and the chill from the lake on my right. The banks are bustling with all kinds of water birds trumpeting, screeching, piping and calling. Then, as I walk, there’s the thud thud of a marching band pulsing the chill air. As I get closer, try as I might, I can’t stop myself stepping in time to the drumbeat. I arrive to watch as, with Buckingham Palace in the background, the bearskinned and grey- coated Foot Guards bandsmen stride as one trumpeting, piping, umpahing and thumping body round Spur Road and into their home in Wellington Barracks.
From here the path drops down to the sunken area below the balustrade of the Queen Victoria Memorial Garden. The waters of the Tyburn are gushing from an ornamental outflow to feed the lake, which keeps this end ice free. I unpack my things to draw the view down the lake (see drawing at top). The West Island hangs just there, a magical fragment of wilderness with a weeping willow draping like a golden string curtain towards the water. At the far end, the towers and domes of Whitehall twinkle like a Disney fairytale palace. The Ice Queen’s?
. .046f
In the 1820s, George IV commissioned the renowned landscape architect John Nash to remodel the park. Nash cast aside formality and straight lines to transform St James’s to pretty well its current, more pastoral appearance, with naturalistic lake, undulating lawns, winding paths and informal shrubberies and trees, which mingle up towards more formal tree lines at the edges of the park
046dAs I finish my drawing, a rat purposefully scurries through the bank side undergrowth. Probably kept fat by the thousands of handfuls of bird seed thrown every day. A woman in a parka walks past, pigeons clinging to her shoulders and one on her hat. I think they know her. She probably comes every day with a Tupperware box of bird food.
It’s so very cold. I walk the lake path. A mass of waterbirds. And there in the quivering blue violet ripples, overlooked by the curvilinear and turf- roofed ‘Inn the Park’ cafe, is a host of coots, like a cluster of clergymen shivering in the water. I buy a steaming coffee and grip it tightly to defrost my drawing hand. My eye is caught by the sparkling spray of the Swire Fountain (installed in 2007, the jets reach over 4.5 metres high, helping to oxygenate the water), with the bright backdrop of Horse Guards Parade and WhitehallReedbeds fringe the banks at this end, fostering wildlife. And just across is Duck Island, a wild reserve for waterfowl, including a colony of pelicans (first introduced when a 046epair were donated by a Russian ambassador in 1664), which are publicly fed every day between 2 and 3pm. It’s also home to the London Parks & Gardens Trust charity.
I meander across the hard ground, my shadow stretching long, up towards The Mall. A glimpsed band of bleached white elegance between the trees. But here, at a junction in the path, stands a cherry tree, abundant with early pink blossom, ignited by sunlight. I set up my easel and start to draw (see below). On a nearby bench, a man in a khaki jacket and close cropped hair is holding a can of Special Brew. And more in a plastic bag. He calls over “excuse me my friend, what are you doing?” I tell him I’m drawing. “When did you start doing that?” I say about half an hour ago “no I mean when did you start doing art?” I tell him about a century ago. He comes over and joins me and introduces himself: “Paddy”. His face has lived and there’s a scar under his left eye. Tells me he came down from Leicester. He’d lost his mother and sister in the past 6 months and things not going too well for him up there. He came down to London to “be somewhere that no-one knows me”. Been sleeping rough; slept last night under a bush in Vauxhall. He wants to talk. Needs to tell his stories. As we chat I keep drawing the cherry blossom. It’s a burst of fireworks. Or neurons sparking in a busy mind.
The long shadows grow longer. We share my sandwiches and he tells me that last time he was in London was in the 80s, bricklaying at Canary Wharf and he earned a packet “and I mean a packet, Nick!” And he tells me how at the age of 7 he watched his drunk Dad attack his mother with a hammer. He had to call an ambulance.
As the sun sinks the earth chill rises through the soles of my shoes. I give Paddy money for a cup of tea. He picks up his cans and rucksack and says he knows where he can go and ask for a room “I mean they’ve got about 50 bedrooms, they can spare one for the night!” and weaves off in the direction of Buckingham Palace.

(In his ‘Sticks in the Smoke’ project, Nick Andrew is  visiting, researching and drawing a different public park or garden in Central London each week of 2016 and early 2017, leading to a collection of paintings exploring the theme of city green spaces from the perspective of a rural landscape painter. 

St James’s Park, London. SW1A 2BJ
Unrestricted opening
Google earth view here