Spitalfields

Princelet Street. Spitalfields

I often make a detour and turn off Brick Lane onto Princelet Street, leaving the inviting smell of curry behind me and instantly stepping into the tranquility of time travel in East London.

This street has been an anchor to me since I moved to London, and I find myself returning here. Perhaps it's the beautiful Georgian architecture with it's smart brickwork and polished windows, shuttered off to the world or maybe it's my history that gives me a deep sense of home.

On my Mothers side of the family we were originally Huguenots Fleeing from the abolition of the Edict of Nantes in 1685, the Huguenots lived in the first ghetto in London, using these beautiful buildings to weave silk in the lofts. Later, in the 19th Century thousands of Jews moved to Spitalfields, and this is linked to my Dad's side of the family.

Of all the places I could have chosen to move to, I somehow anchored myself to this place. A part of London that for the last 400 years has been a home to anyone who want's to absorb it.

It's well worth a wander down if you haven't already. If you walk up to the top (leaving Brick Lane behind you) and turn left, and then right by the huge and weighty Spitalfields Church you will find on your right an incredibly sweet little cafe - hidden inside one of these beautiful Georgian buildings it gives you a chance to sit and watch the legs of passers by from the basement window. A worthy trip.

I cycled down Regents Canal just as the sun was setting and the shadows were getting long. Everyone was bathed in a golden light and slightly tipsy at their various drinking holes.

Proud barge boats with flowers and herbs potted on their roofs, and people holding cold beers and prodding distractedly at the BBQ whilst laughing. Children on scooters and dogs sniffing around on the towpath.

I reached my destination, our friends new acquisition 'Lotte' and sat on the deck whilst preparing Dinner, and the sounds carried across the water, flat owners sat on their balconies talking, someone practicing on their trumpet, music softly drifting over to us.

As it grew darker, candles were lit and the golden light bounced around our faces whilst we sat and talked shit. People walked past us and looked down enviously.

The cycle home much later that night was perilously dark - the narrow towpath going under bridges where barely any light crept in. A low mist hung over the water, edged by Victorian Ironwork and the shadows of huge old trees.

It's moments like that, when I don't want to leave! What could top it? And what could top knowing you belong there?