London’s five most romantic neighbourhoods

From Hackney Wick to Eel Pie Island, “London For Lovers” reveals the city’s best date spots.

Forget Paris. London is today’s amorous city of choice, according to a new book, London for LoversBeautiful photography accompanies short guides to the city's finest romantic neighbourhoods - from the well-trodden (Notting Hill) to the less expected (Crystal Palace, anyone?).  Here are five worth discovering on Valentine's Day:

Lincoln's Inn Field

The largest public square in London, framed by the Gothic spires of the redbrick Lincoln’s Inn society of lawyers, this park is surprisingly easy to miss whilst power-walking down Holborn high street.

“Picnicking on the Field under the spring blossoms feels like stepping back in time,” write the authors, Sam Hodges and Sophie Vickers. Springtime it may not be, but the Inn has other curiosities to offer. The Hunterian Museum, a “less romantic but more macabre detour” on the park’s southside, is a bizarre collection of medical oddities. Collated by eighteenth century surgeon John Hunter, the museum boasts pickled foetuses and the skeleton of The Irish Giant, a 7 foot 7 inch wonder named Charles Byrne.

Dulwich and Forest Hill

The Dulwich Picture gallery, with its “crimson walls and topsy-turvey crowded galleries”, makes an ideal haunt for art lovers. It was also England’s first public art gallery whose first collection came as the gift from “eccentric” collector Sir Francis Bourgeois. He even bequeathed his own body to the museum.

Also recommended are the London Recumbents, cycle-hire specialists on the corner of Dulwich Park, where couples can hire “adult tricycles” with side-by-side seating, handy for roaming the surrounding greenery.

Wapping

Wapping is an atmospheric neighbourhood on the “brooding foreshore” of the River Thames laying claim to two titles of “the oldest”. The Prospect of Whitby calls itself the oldest Thames-side pub in existence, dating from 1543, while the glorious Wilton’s Music Hall, which has survived demolition scares and a takeover bid by Weatherspoons, has been around since 1725 (when it was an alehouse serving Scandinavian sailors).  This romantic venue is the oldest music hall in the world; comprised of a “pillar strewn” concert room and the Mahogany Bar, an antiquated drinking den where one (or two) can cosy up for a tipple.

Twickenham

Off the back of a Dickens quote, the Eel-Pie Island in Twickenham is flagged as a refuge for eclectic lovers:

“Unto the Eel-Pie Island at Twickenham: there to make merry upon a cold collation, bottled beer, shrub, and shrimp, and to dance in the open air to the music of a locomotive band.” – from Nicholas Nickelby

Separated from the Twickenham embankment by a curved footbridge, the secluded, car-free island is accessible only by boat. The place has a history of passion – the authors make mention of both Henry VIII, said to fill up on eel pies whilst journeying by riverboat from Hampton Court to the homes of various mistresses, and an artist couple who battled eight months with the Richmond council, eventually winning the right to rename their home ‘Love Shack’ (after the B52s' hit).

Hackney Wick

Londoners notoriously prowl for the “next” spot, and many have identified the current heart of chic as Hackney Wick/Fish Island - a cluster of warehouses bound on two sides by Union Canal and the River Lea.

It’s an area in a constant state of flux - there’s a good chance that any pop-up market or gallery mentioned here may be there one day, gone the next.” All the more reason to hurry there with a loved one tonight, to see what you find. 

Members of the English pop group The Tremeloes kiss their brides in Trafalgar Square, 1967 (Photo: Getty Images)

Charlotte Simmonds is a writer and blogger living in London. She was formerly an editorial assistant at the New Statesman. You can follow her on Twitter @thesmallgalleon.

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We knew we’d become proper pop stars when we got a car like George Michael’s

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

One of the clichés about celebrity life is that all celebrities know each other. Back in the Eighties, when we were moderately famous, Ben and I did often bump into other famous people, and because of mutual recognition, there was a sort of acquaintance, if not friendship.

There was a random element to it, as well. Some celebrities you might never catch a glimpse of, while others seemed to pop up with an unexpected regularity.

In 1987, the car we drove was a 1970s Austin Princess, all leather seats and walnut dashboard. In many ways, it symbolised what people thought of as the basic qualities of our band: unassuming, a little bit quirky, a little bit vintage. We’d had it for a year or so, but Ben was running out of patience. It had a habit of letting us down at inconvenient moments – for instance, at the top of the long, steep climbs that you encounter when driving through Italy, which we had just recklessly done for a holiday. The car was such a novelty out there that it attracted crowds whenever we parked. They would gather round, nodding appreciatively, stroking the bonnet and murmuring, “Bella macchina . . .”

Having recently banked a couple of royalty cheques, Ben was thinking of a complete change of style – a rock’n’roll, grand-gesture kind of car.

“I wanna get an old Mercedes 300 SL,” he said to me.

“What’s one of those?”

“I’ll let you know next time we pass one,” he said.

We were driving through London in the Princess, and as we swung round into Sloane Square, Ben called out, “There’s one, look, coming up on the inside now!” I looked round at this vision of gleaming steel and chrome, gliding along effortlessly beside us, and at the same moment the driver glanced over towards our funny little car. We made eye contact, then the Merc roared away. It was George Michael.

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

We’d always had a soft spot for George, even though we seemed to inhabit opposite ends of the pop spectrum. He’d once been on a TV review show and said nice things about our first album, and I knew he had liked my solo single “Plain Sailing”. We’d done a miners’ benefit gig where Wham! had appeared, slightly out of place in their vests, tans and blond bouffants. There had been a bit of sneering because they’d mimed. But I remember thinking, “Good on you for even being here.” Their presence showed that being politically active, or even just caring, wasn’t the sole preserve of righteous indie groups.

A couple of weeks later, we were driving along again in the Princess, when who should pull up beside us in traffic? George again. He wound down his window, and so did we. He was charming and called across to say that, yes, he had recognised us the other day in Sloane Square. He went on to complain that BBC Radio 1 wouldn’t play his new single “because it was too crude”. “What’s it called?” asked Ben. “ ‘I Want Your Sex’!” he shouted, and roared away again, leaving us laughing.

We’d made up our minds by now, and so we went down to the showroom, flashed the cash, bought the pop-star car and spent the next few weeks driving our parents up and down the motorway with the roof off. It was amazing: even I had to admit that it was a thrill to be speeding along in such a machine.

A little time passed. We were happy with our glamorous new purchase, when one day we were driving down the M1 and, yes, you’ve guessed it, in the rear-view mirror Ben saw the familiar shape coming up behind. “Bloody hell, it’s George Michael again. I think he must be stalking us.”

George pulled out into the lane alongside and slowed down as he drew level with us. We wound down the windows. He gave the car a long look, up and down, smiled that smile and said, “That’s a bit more like it.” Then he sped away from us for the last time.

Cheers, George. You were friendly, and generous, and kind, and you were good at being a pop star.

Tracey Thorn is a musician and writer, best known as one half of Everything but the Girl. She writes the fortnightly “Off the Record” column for the New Statesman. Her latest book is Naked at the Albert Hall.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge