Walthamstow is Cool, Central is Not
Harry gives the verdict on London Town
I’ve left Saint-Malo along with its fresh fish and beautiful beaches, to pursue a new venture in Switzerland.
It was high time to leave and I am glad to be out. My girlfriend is moving with me and it’s a new chapter for both of us. Until yesterday, she had lived in London for almost three years, two of those spent in Walthamstow, an area in the northeast of the capital. It’s at the top end of the Victoria line, past Kings Cross, Tottenham Hale, and Blackhorse Road. At the other end of the line is Brixton.
Is it always the case that the last stations on a tube line are the scariest parts of London? You’d be surprised to know that it’s not always true. Brixton can inspire moderate fear in your average country bumpkin, however it needn’t be this way. Many final stops on the tube are often semi-rural paradises. Take the end of The Northern Line (High Barnet) which is a leafy suburb with so much green space it may as well be in the provinces. The northern end of The Piccadilly Line is Cockfosters. I remember hearing the refrain of “This is a Piccadilly line service to Cockfosters” when my grandparents used to take me to London in my childhood. I always assumed that, compared to other stops on the line such as Knightsbridge or South Kensington, Cockfosters would be a squalid and backward sort of place. How wrong I was! I drove there recently en route to see my girlfriend and I was delighted to see that it’s actually a commuter's paradise with clean, wide roads, lots of trees, and large houses. The moral of the story is that one should not be so snobby. These parts of London are often the places most worth visiting. They’re what the city is truly about - diverse, welcoming spaces where actual working people lead their lives. The folks over there are just trying to do their best, kids smile as they walk to school, people say hello to each other. Come to think of it, the only people who are drawn to live in Kensington or Knightsbridge are those whose wealth has made them exiles from normal society. They’re embarrassed to show their faces, they know just how out of touch they are. Either that or they’re rich people from foreign lands, clueless about London and lacking good taste. Anyone who’s anyone knows that if you have tons of money, you obviously have to buy a house in Hampstead.
When I first met my girlfriend, she had been living in a studio in Putney, an area in West London right by the Thames. The houses are large and there are cool bars with clever, literary names - ‘Tequila Mockingbird’ is a classic, lazy example. I got to know Putney a bit in July 2022 when I stayed at my cousin’s house during a brief but bright spell in sales at a start-up. Putney felt safe, it was where families of bankers and rich thirty-year-olds bought houses. When I first met my girlfriend and she told me that she was moving to Walthamstow, I cursed my bad luck. Putney would have been perfect for me to visit - a short and pleasant trip on the tube passing through Chelsea and Fulham. To be fair, the trip from Paddington to Walthamstow wasn’t that much longer, especially as Putney could only be reached on The District Line, so unreliable that it has come to be known as ‘The Mystery Line’. You had to add at least 10 minutes onto any travel plans using The District Line. From Paddington to Walthamstow, you hop on the Bakerloo Line and change at Oxford Circus. Then get relaxed, grab a book, because it’s a sweaty 20 minutes on The Victoria until you reach your destination.
As fate would have it, the first time I ever came to Walthamstow saw me begin my journey in Putney. It was the night of my cousin’s birthday party and I had come to it with a close friend. It was a lovely, sunny evening in her back garden and we sat chatting with a famous footballer’s sister. Not to give any clues but he was a defender at Tottenham Hotspur. My cousin told me afterwards that she lives next to Owen Wilson and that her brother had bought her a big house to cheer her up after she broke up with a long-term boyfriend. Alright for some, I thought. But my friend and I soon packed up and left, for it was my soon-to-be girlfriend’s birthday party that night as well. A notorious people-pleaser, I had promised my cousin and my girlfriend that I’d attend both their parties. We got an Uber to Victoria Station and then tubed it. The car journey from Putney to Victoria is unrivalled in its beauty: the quiet streets with delicate, traditional houses and cosy pubs tucked into every corner. You also, of course, have to cross the river and so have the dramatic shot of driving over Chelsea Bridge, decked as it is in outlandish fairy lights. That really does make you feel special.
Off the tube, it was a ten-minute walk to her house. This was a route I would do over one hundred times in the next two years. On the last occasion, a week ago, I felt a tug of sadness in my chest at having to say goodbye to it and all the memories I have made along the road. But as Jack and I stood there, in the semi-darkness, we began to question our decision to trek this far out into “the badlands”. “Why would she want to live here of all places?” my friend asked, utterly dumbfounded. But we began the walk over, tensing preemptively for the stab in our backs, and we eyed each other guessing who’d be slower if we had to leg it. But we made it and joined a low-key event with light music playing, some snacks, and drinks. Highlights include getting to know my girlfriend better and Jack being screamed at for saying that he listens to Joe Rogan. In many ways, it was a strange experience, but my girlfriend looked beautiful and I could tick off Walthamstow from my list of “London Boroughs Visited”, now marked in red, never to visit again.
But of course, as my relationship developed, so did my trips up north on The Victoria Line. I began to know Walthamstow, I even wrote something on my Substack, snobbishly analysing the types of businesses along one of the main streets. Though what I wrote was factually correct, Walthamstow has lodged itself in my heart for its unconventional beauty. It doesn’t have the architecture of Kensington or the wealth of Fulham, but real people live there and there’s an energy of community about the place. It’s true that the houses are a hodgepodge of red-brick terraces, cheap-looking skyscrapers, and council estates. There are also larger houses on tree-lined streets owned by hippy families - the horsemen and women of gentrification. They have carved out a whole mini-district in Walthamstow with organic shops, pretentious eateries and artsy cafés. It’s not even subtle.
I am ashamed to say that this is one of my favourite parts of Walthamstow, but I also like the character of the main road. I have great memories of watching the red sunset through the gaps in terraced houses and the light bouncing off chicken shops and gold chains along the main drag. There’s also Wood Street which stretches south to north in a little slump in the area - perhaps a river once ran along there. The hippies have tried to occupy it but have failed entirely; their vegan bakeries with beanie-clad baristas haven’t made a dent in the beating heart of Caribbean fruit markets and Pakistani restaurants. This particular street hides the treasure of an indoor market of clothes shops, second-hand bookstores, and a fabulous sandwich joint.
Walthamstow is different from the West and centre of London in another way. It may just be me, but the richness of these more famous boroughs creates a hostile environment for the average Joe. Since the areas are very touristy and the locals very wealthy, there is no sense of community - the homeowners just hide away in their grand properties. If there is a network, a cooperative system of mutual love and support, it is hidden in the shadows. Walthamstow, on the other hand, shares everything with everyone. There’s a very strong sense of the polis, of people wanting to lend a helping hand to their neighbours. This is evident from the range of activities and events offered free to the public. My girlfriend and I once attended a poetry open-mic night in the Trades Hall. It was a beautiful event to meet lots of people: social workers, businessmen, and the literary society of the borough. They host it every month and events like this make you feel proud to be English, proud to intimately know Walthamstow.
But alas, it is bye for now. I hope to return whenever I come back to London and yet it’s a trek from the centre, especially as now nothing anchors me to it.
If you ever go to London, I would definitely recommend visiting it.
