Northern Line Section One:Mill East to Edgware, Chalk Farm, To Warren Street and Waterloo.

After half an hour of trying to divide the Northern Line into 3 reasonably equal, digestible chunks, which didn’t involve passing through a station I’d already visited while doing this line, it struck me that this might be a suitable task to test Mensa applicants with. Then I remembered that I am actually a member of Mensa already, so I stopped whinging and got on with it.  

The problems were really caused by the line having two northern arms, and a loop through central London. Loops cause problems. With arms it’s relatively simple, work your way to the end of the arm and then walk to the nearest convenient other end of an arm. Which is why I decided to begin at Mill Hill East, and hike from there to Edgware. Now, that’s by far the longest hike so far on any trip, but it greatly simplified the task ahead of me. From Edgware I could work my way to Chalk Farm, a mere step of about half an hour, and then finish off by working my way around the loop to finish at Waterloo. This promised to be the longest day of any of my trips, with 13 stations, interspersed with 2 hours of walking. It would require a very early start, but, if I could do it, then I would avoid crossing my own Northern Line tracks, as per the rash rule I made at the start.

I stand outside Mill Hill East station at 6 am, humming to myself the Jam’s “Down in a Tube Station at Midnight”, although to be honest, ‘outside a tube station too early in the morning feeling cold and a bit peed off’ would be rather more appropriate. I store away the fleeting thought that it might be possible to compose a play list of songs about the underground for the long walk to Edgware, and instead concentrate on the station in front of me. Thankfully it’s worth looking at, although a couple of windows which have been bricked up suggests that it has seen better days. It’s a former national railways station and it looks like it, probably 19^th century. Alas, the colour of the brick does remind me slightly of some public lavatories, which is a shame because this is otherwise a nice looking station, and I have a slight pang as I remember that I’m not here to catch a train.

As I walk, I expend a bit of mental energy by trying to make up my tube play list. Warwick Avenue, by Welsh chanteuse Duffy is an obvious choice, and perennial favourites Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty, Waterloo by Abba and Waterloo Sunset come fairly quickly. After that though I’m struggling, and coming up with rubbish like Poisoned ‘Arrow (on the Hill) by ABC and even Hainault, Hainault Don’t Dream It’s Over by Crowded House. I consider resorting to my limited knowledge of music hall songs such as ‘Burlington Bertie from Bow (Road)” and “If you’ll pay me fare you can take me up the Arsenal” (which I may well have made up.). But as we all know, resorting to Music Hall is the last refuge of the scoundrel. Trying to think of other joke titles – and failing – sends my mind off on a tangent and I think about an old Two Ronnies sketch where the two old codgers play a pair of London Underground guards, or drivers, who keep peppering their everyday conversation with the names of stations – “Just got some fertiliser to put on me dahlias – Yeah, turn ‘em green, that will (Turnham Green). Well, it made me laugh anyway. It’s funny the places your mind will drift off to when all it has to concentrate on is keeping your legs moving.

Eventually Edgware Station hoves into view, and I realise that I am now looking at the work of Stanley Heaps, in his own distinctive style before Frank Pick became quite so taken with the work of Charles Holden. I’m not quick to form an opinion about this particular mish mash of styles. I have nothing about columns per se, but using classical columns here just seems to me to be writing a cheque that the rest of the building can’t cash. Okay, there is a fairly appropriate cornice running the length of the building above the columns, but then above that, an ordinary raked tiled roof. There’s nothing the least bit classical about this, and it’s a shame because it dominates the building, and it means you have to look carefully before you start to notice that there are actually some rather nice details in the entranceway below the roof. The actual entrance is set back, several feet behind the columns, and this forms a nice shaded colonnade. It does overshadow the windows somewhat, but I do like the ornamental pilasters set into the wall, and the metal gates. Shame about that roof, though. Thinking about it, I believe I understand why Pick would look to Holden, who was designing stations at the southern end of the line, rather than Heaps. Essentially, Holden’s designs looked forwards, while this station harks backwards.

Hmm, I think to myself, that’s quite a serious observation. But then, to me, the Northern is quite a serious line. I’m not entirely sure why I have this feeling about the Northern, but suspect it may have something to do with the fact that the Northern line is black on the map. Colours are important. Whenever I’m teaching children about imagery in texts, the ‘language’ of colours isn’t a bad place at all to start. Now, here’s a thing you may already be aware of. The colours of the different lines on the tube map haven’t always been the same. On Frank Pick’s original map, for example, the Bakerloo Line was red, while the Central Line was orange, although not quite the bright ginger of the overground lines on the modern map. However, to the best of my knowledge, the Northern line has always been black.

In an effort to lighten all of this Northern line seriousness, I promise myself that I will try to improvise a limerick based on the next station name. Thankfully the map informs me that this will be Burnt Oak, and while waiting on the Edgware platform I rattle off

“A rather intelligent bloke

Is waiting to go to Burnt Oak.

While limericks making

His feet won’t stop aching

But long for an old fashioned soak.”

Yeah, not particularly funny, is it, although I do allow myself a wry smile as I realise that the phrase ‘an old fashioned soak’ is a pretty good description of my late father. But my smile soon fades and I blame Northern line seriousness for this. A stray thought reminds me that the nickname of the Northern line is ‘the Misery line’, and again, I come back to the unfortunate choice of mourning black for the colour of the line on the map.

 I have another go at lightening my mood, by letting my mind wander over the name, “Burnt Oak”. Does it, I wonder, hark back to the days of strange druidic rituals? Well, no. As I emerge from the station entrance, Wikipedia informs me that the earliest reference to the area by the name Burnt Oak occurred in 1754, and there is nothing to suggest that it ever referred to anything other than a field with a burnt oak tree within it. How down to earth. How serious. How Northern line. Well, at least the appearance of the station itself lightens the mood a little. I may have mentioned once or twice that I’m from Ealing, and parts of Ealing have some large and expensive looking housing from the first half of the 20^th century. This is exactly what the station reminds me of, and the entrances look like twin garages. It’s the sort of tube station you might have made out of lego during your childhood.

With the prosaic nature of the name of the previous station, I half expect to find that Colindale is named after a man called Colin Dale. Then I have a brief flight of fancy as I imagine Colin Dale as a dim witted cousin of Alan A Dale, who would have been the least merry of Robin Hood’s merry men, always wearing his codpiece around the wrong way, and taking from the poor to give to the rich. Hoping, but not expecting this to be the case when I engage google as I leave the station I find out that Colindale does actually take its name from people, but from the Colindale family who owned land in these parts a few centuries ago. Ho hum. The station itself, well I remember visiting it quite a while ago, when visiting the Colindale Newspaper Archives to see if I could find any local news papers reports concerning the suicide of my 3x great grandfather in 1888. Now, that’s an activity strangely befitting the Northern Line, if you want my opinion. The research, that is, not the suicide. Back then it was a typical 60s entrance in a row of shops. Ugh, 60s architecture. Why is it that a decade which was celebrated for its fashion, films and music produced such awful buildings? That’s gone though, and a, well, a box has replaced it. It’s neat and tidy, and looks very new, and there’s a bit of glass and stainless steel on the roof to catch the eye. I just can’t help being reminded of the kind of shops that you get in airport departure lounges, though. It looks plasticky.

This is not an accusation that can be levelled at Hendon Central Station. As I exit I’m struck by the classical columns, and think back to Edgware Road. Not without reason either, since this station, like that, was designed by Stanley Heaps. I think that the classical portico works a lot better here. It projects forward from the contemporary block it joins onto, which means that the cornice isn’t topped by an inappropriate tiled roof, but by rather elegant metalwork, similar to the gates at Edgware. This station, while it still harks back to the past, at least has a sense of confidence about it. With its elegant colonnade, it is unashamedly what it is, and I can appreciate that, even if it is rather out of character with the 1930s block it is part of. I’m not surprised when google informs me that the building is grade II listed.

Here's something else that Google confirms. It has occurred to me that I’m pretty sure that none of the other underground railway systems I’ve used actually uses black for the colour of a line. I check them all, Tyne and Wear, Athens, Paris, Barcelona, Glasgow, Prague, Budapest, Berlin, Madrid, Amsterdam, Stockholm and Vienna and find that although, with the exception of Glasgow they all use a map based on the London one, none of them colour a line black. Glasgow’s of necessity looks different, because the Glasgow Subway is one continuous loop, but it’s a fetching mixture of orange and grey. I make a mental note to suggest to the powers that be that they consider changing the colour of the Northern Line on the map in line with current European practice. Which brings about its own spectroscopic flight of fancy while I consider what colour it could actually be instead. All of the primaries are taken already, as are secondaries purple and green. Since the East London line passed over to the Overground, orange is not currently used for an Underground line. However, it is used for the Overground, which features in the map, and so is out of contention. Maybe a lime green which would be sufficiently lighter than District line green would work, in the way that the contrasting blues of Piccadilly and Victoria lines work.

Such thoughts are abruptly ended as the train pulls into the grade II listed Brent Cross station. The name Brent Cross may irresistibly conjure up a view of bright and shiny retail outlets, but the station is another expression of Stanley Heap’s preferred ‘suburban classical’, and I have to say that it’s a station which rather highlights the schizophrenic nature of this particular medium. The entrance itself is a nice interpretation of a stripped back neo classical style, with a fine colonnade which is, if anything even more impressive than Hendon’s, but oh, that suburban 1920s thing with the tiled roof going on behind it just jars completely. Google throws up one interesting fact about the station. When it was originally planned before the outbreak of World War One, the planned name for the station was Woodstock. No idea why, but it certainly wouldn’t fit with the Northern line’s staid and serious image now.

I have never been to Golders Green before, and to be honest my only knowledge of it is as the site of a famous crematorium, and also for being home to a large Jewish community. Not that I think this has any bearing on the station. Up until the opening of the station at Brent Cross in 1923, Golders Green was the end of the line, and the station building, I believe, dates back to 1907. There’s a difference between seriousness and importance, and Golders Green station looks important. The station reminds me a little of some of the older stations at the Eastern end of the District line. The layout is completely different, but the orange brickwork and some of the ornamentation is similar. Apparently the station was built as part of the Charing Cross, Euston and Hampstead Railway, back in the days when railway companies believed that you had to put the name of every station in the name of the company. This railway was one of the ones bought by the UERL before World War One.

The Underground is home to a number of ghost stations, that is, stations which were closed down. A significant number of station buildings of these do still exist, while others still have traces that can be seen from the tunnels. As far as I know, though, there’s only the one ghost station that was never actually opened in the first place. Between Golders Green and Hampstead there was originally supposed to be another station, which would have been called either North End or Bull and Bush. I believe that platforms were built, and the remains can be seen.

Hampstead does exist, though, and glory be, it’s our first Leslie Green station of the day. You know where you are with Leslie Green. Which is a funny thing to say since there are Leslie Green stations all over Central London, but you know what I mean. Even the Northern Line’s natural serious mien cannot stop the spirits rising with my first glance of ox-blood terracotta tiling. As Leslie Green stations go this is a relatively modest affair, with just the two semi circular windows on either side, and another over the entrance. I have no idea if counting the semi circular windows is the official way of assessing Leslie Green stations, but hey, it works for me. Google chucks up a plethora of facts about this station, not the least of which is that the tunnels are the deepest on the network. One thing I was surprised about as the train pulled into the station was that the tiling on the wall actually spells out the station name as Heath Street. Wikipedia tells me that the station was originally going to be called this, but the name was changed to Highgate before opening, but after the tiling had been completed.

The next station we visit, Belsize Park, is also a Leslie Green station. This one has a façade with 5 windows, and the whole thing looks beautifully proportioned. Which goes quite nicely when you think about it, since the name ‘Belsize’ is taken from bel assis in French, which translates as well situated. Which sends a thought racing across my mind that there is a Belsize Avenue in Ealing, very close to Northfields tube station. Why it was named that, I have no idea. Coming back to Belsize Park, as with pretty much all of the Leslie Green stations I’ve yet encountered it’s well kept, and attractive. Suddenly a second rogue thought forces itself to the front of my brain. The song “Kayleigh” by Marillion, which was playing when Mrs. C. and I went on our first ever date in 1985, contains the line “Loving on the floor in Belsize Park”. One can only hope that it wasn’t the floor of the station. Mind you, this being the Tube, had it actually been the station, nobody would have probably said anything unless Kayleigh and her beau had lit up for a post coital ciggie.

I’ll be honest, Chalk Farm, as a name, is one of the more inscrutable on the network. After all, what is a chalk farm? It conjures up mental pictures of an honest son of the toil scratching his head, wondering why all of those chalk sticks he’d planted and watered had failed to grow into chalk trees. I briefly consider the possibility that it’s named after a farm owned by a Mr. Chalk. Actually, research suggests that this is by no means as silly as it sounds, since the area seems to be named after a land owning family, the Chalcots, and one of their properties. The station itself is well worth looking at, a beautiful Leslie Green construction boasting no fewer than 8 semi circular arched windows on its ox blood tiled façade, beating our previous record holder, Caledonian Road, which only had 6. What is particularly striking is that its built on a corner which forms quite an acute angle, and so the two sides angle towards us, in a way that recalls the famous Flatiron Building in New York City. It’s a tremendous piece of work, probably my favourite Leslie Green station so far. Chalk Farm is, of course, the station in front of which Madness pose on the cover of Absolutely. The story goes that they wanted to be photographed in front of Camden Town – as in the song – but there were too many people around.

I don’t hang around much longer, though, because it’s time to strike out cross country to Warren Street. It’s only noon, but that mean’s I’ve been going for 6 hours. To be fair, a lot of this time has been spent standing outside stations, googling details and noting them down in my little book. The sun is only just over the yardarm, but I don’t care, it’s sandwich time. I use the fact that I’m eating as an excuse for the fact that my pace rarely rises above that of an amble, but I’ve already broken the back of today’s trip, so I don’t mind. Although there’s still 7 stations to go today, 3 of them have already been sketched on previous trips.

By the time I arrive outside Warren Street station I feel as if I’m back in Central London. The current station was built in 1933, at a time when escalators were installed, and it was designed by – be still my beating heart – Charles Holden. The ground level entrance is unassuming, but the semi-circular block above it is very striking. I don’t know if this was a later addition, but I doubt it since the design of the block seems contemporary with the station.  As I stand on the platform waiting for the next train, I can’t help noticing that this is another of those stations which displays a certain uncertainty about naming. The station has been called Warren Street for all bar one year of its existence, but for the first year it was called Euston Road, and that’s still what the platform tiling says. That's not necessarily such a problem, however if this was repeated in the next station, then I think that this might cause some weapons grade confusion.

Yes, it would cause real problems if Goodge Street station still had its original name on the platform. For a little while after the opening, the station was actually called Tottenham Court Road, while what is now called Tottenham Court Road was called Oxford Street. Well, Goodge Street it became, and this name ultimately derives from a Mr. John Goodge who owned land in these parts back in the early 18^th century. To be honest, Goodge is a name which could have stepped straight out of the pages of Charles Dickens – maybe it might have been what Scrooge changed his family name to after he reformed. The station building is another little Leslie Green gem. The two semi circular windows top the two entrances, and give the building a pleasing symmetry. The block on top of it is of a similar style, although not faced with ox-blood tiles, and the fact that the buildings on either side of the station are shorter just adds to its appeal.

Tottenham Court Road station is a short walk away, but walking doesn’t even enter my head, bearing in mind that I’ve already sketched the station on a Central Line trip. So the next time we stop its at Charing Cross. When I first started at Uni, I always used to take the East London Line from New Cross or New Cross Gate, but I soon discovered that National Rail from either of these stations was far quicker and more convenient, and thus Charing Cross became my station of choice. Well, a lot of water has flown under the bridge at Charing Cross station since then. As I stand outside the mainline station by the reconstructed Cross, Google starts to churn out chapter and verse about the complicated history of this station. The biggest change that I notice about it since the mid 80s is that the Jubilee Line don’t stop here any more. The much repeated truism about this station is that it’s quicker to walk from here to Embankment than to take the train, and certainly the Underground station here is a station of long corridors and walkways. Well, there we are, tube stations at mainline termini aren’t often much to write home about.

We’ve already bagged Embankment, and so it’s straight on to the last station of this trip, Waterloo. The entrance that I’ve sketched really caught my eye as it is so clearly inspired by the work of Leslie Green, although carried out in modern materials. I like it as an act of homage, although I’m not saying I’d want to see every station rebuilt in this fashion. But hey, it’s mid afternoon, and my work for the day is done. Yes, when you get right down to it I’ve only bagged another 13 stations, but today wasn’t so much about quantity. Today is about taking care of every station on the trailing arms, and on the Waterloo branch, which I’ve. This means that the 33 stations that remain form one continuous line. When you go on the trains themselves, the lines are usually represented as horizontal lines, and so far my inclination has been to travel from left to right, so that pretty much concludes that the next trip will start from High Barnet.

Coming back to this trip, though, one of the reasons for my excitement at reaching Waterloo is that I’ve as well as completing this trip, I’ve also just completed a bonus line, the Waterloo and City. Alright, it only has two stops, Bank and Waterloo, but I don’t care, it’s done. I first used the ‘Drain’ in the 70s, when it was actually run by British Rail, and had trains which looked like tube trains, but yet were different from those running on other lines. Completing a bonus line should happen again with the Circle Line, but I should be a lot closer to completing the whole challenge when this happens.

Central Line Section 3: Wanstead to Epping

I start at Wanstead, bright eyed and bushy tailed. I’ve never travelled on the Hainault loop before – in fact I’ve never visited any of today’s stations before, and so we have the excitement of the new if nothing else to sustain us through today’s trip. 

This is an excitement which even the rather run down and depressed appearance of Wanstead station does little to dampen. I use my phone to google the station on Wikipedia and I’m surprised to see that it’s a Charles Holden design. Maybe I shouldn’t be, bearing in mind the tower, which thus far has seemed a feature only used by Holden and followers of his style. I suppose it’s the drab colours, and the lack of glazed panels – although there are some on the other side of the tower that I discover when I take a quick walk around the outside. Like many Central Line extension stations, this one was started before, but not finished until after World War two. Before reaching the station, we went underground, which I really wasn’t expecting this far out of the centre of London – it’s one thing for a tunnel to continue out into the suburbs, but quite another for one to start like this.

Thus prepared by the previous station, I’m pretty ready to identify Redbridge as the work of Charles Holden. For one thing the red brick tower with the glazed panels is clearly either the work of Holden, or of someone consciously using his style. Then there’s the glazed circular booking hall rising above the entrance – it isn’t as imposing as Arnos Grove, but then few other stations are. I’ll be honest, it’s a very short journey from platform to street level considering that this is a ‘tube’ that is deep level station as opposed to cut and cover, which it feels much more like. Still, let’s concentrate on the exterior. The canopy with the station name and the entrance underneath it both gently curve around the booking hall, and all in all it creates a very pleasant and harmonious appearance. I’m not surprised when Google coughs up the information that it is in fact a listed building.

I have a lot to say about Gants Hill Station, very little of it about the exterior though. Basically the station is underground, with entrance made via pedestrian subways from the roundabout above. That’s it. However, inside, that’s far more interesting.

This is one of the last stations designed by Charles Holden. Now, going back to the 30s, the engineers of the Moscow Underground, now the busiest in Europe, were very interested in getting ideas from London, and I believe that Charles Holden himself was consulted. Okay – one result of the Russian engineers’ visits to London was that the word ‘voksul’ was adopted for metro stations in Russian. Why? Because, allegedly, they believed that Vauxhall, as in Vauxhall station, meant station. I’ve yet to find any proof to the contrary of this idea. Holden himself was inspired by the designs of the station interiors on the brand new Moscow metro, and this bore fruit with the interior of Gants Hill. The spectacular barrel vaulted concourse with its art deco uplighters immediately transports me back to memories of bad spy movies, and I half expect the gentleman sitting on the other end of the bench to sidle up to me, and whisper “I hear that in Leningrad the weather will be clement.” in an Eastern European accident. I’m mildly disappointed when he doesn’t.

However, it’s hard to be disappointed when the sun is shining outside in the world above, and each station is offering something different. This is certainly true of Newbury Park station. Now, strictly speaking, the interesting concrete structure isn’t all the station entrance, but rather a bus shelter containing the station entrance, and more importantly a grade 2 listed bus shelter. Now, I’ve no idea how many bus shelters are listed buildings, and if you know, please don’t write in and shatter my illusions. But I will admit that when I hear the words ‘listed’ and ‘building’ , then bus shelters are not what are usually conjured up in my mind’s eye. This is a remarkable structure though. Designed, not by Charles Holden, unsurprisingly, but Oliver Hill, the concrete arches hold up a copper covered roof. Now, I’ve very sorry but I do like a copper covered roof, which probably has something to do with the fact that the church in which I was christened, St. Thomas the Apostle in Hanwell, has one. I love the shade of green that copper goes when it reaches a certain age, as shown by the Statue of Liberty in New York. Many people don’t know that it’s made out of copper sheeting over a steel frame, and that for years after it was first erected it was actually copper coloured. Coming back to Newbury Park, the building was originally designed in the 30s, and seems a remarkably futuristic design. Oliver Hill himself had designed other wonderful art deco buildings, including the masterpiece Midland Hotel in Morecambe. Newbury Park is our second station to have won a design award in the 1951 Festival of Britain, probably because it wasn’t completed until after World War Two.

If this part of the Hainault loop had a motto, it might well be – and now for something completely different, since Barkingside, the next station, is precisely that. Well, completely different from the stations that have preceded it anyway. It’s very much the oldest looking station we’ve encountered so far on this particular trip. Barkingside looks like an Edwardian national railway station, which is exactly what it started life as. Google coughs up the gobbet of information that it was opened in 1903, and probably designed by the Great Eastern Railway’s chief architect, W.N. Ashbee. What’s not to like here? Well, the concrete rendering which reaches about a third of the way of the wall of the main part of the building doesn’t do much to enhance the appeal, but other than that, it’s the kind of thing that’s always pleasing to my eye. I especially like the cupola on the roof directly above the entrance. The whole thing is just a little reminiscent of my primary school. I shouldn’t be really surprised about this, since there was a spate of school building in England and Wales during the last few years leading up to the First World War. Both my primary school, and two of the blocks in the school in South Wales in which I taught for almost 30 years were built in 1913. And having loved my time in both of these schools, looking at this kind of architecture brings on a pleasant glow of nostalgia.

In a way it’s a bit of a shame for Fairlop that I visit the station straight after Barkingside. I alight under beautiful white painted wooden Great Eastern Railway canopies, and my expectation is that this is going to be my second Edwardian railway station in a row. Stepping outside this prediction is confirmed, and it’s a perfectly nice little station, other than the fact it’s not as impressive or quite as decorative as Barkingside, which we’ve just visited. It’s a bit of a shame, since the platforms themselves are amongst the nicest I’ve seen on the Central Line at all. Everything looks freshly painted. The iron work holding up the canopies is gorgeous, and for a moment I am tempted to start acting out a scene from The Railway Children. My Jenny Agutter impression hasn’t improved with age, I’m afraid.

Well, after such a run of fine and interesting stations, we had to be brought back to earth at some time, and Hainault achieves this. It’s not that it’s ugly, but just that it’s nondescript, which makes it difficult when you’re trying to descript it. To be fair, it’s difficult to think of any of the stations I’ve seen which has really benefitted from being built on the side of a viaduct or a raised section of line. I liked Greenford for example, but I don’t mind saying it might be even more appealing if it was completely free standing. Coming back to Hainault, its layout and materials resemble a Charles Holden entrance hall, but without the benefit of a trademark Holden ticket hall. The cast iron bridge casts over half of the entrance in what I’d guess is a perpetual gloom, and although the façade is brightened by the map and several posters, it doesn’t have any windows, which is a shame. I’ll tell you something else which is a shame. I always thought that this part of the world took it’s name Hainault through some connection with Queen Philippa of Hainault, wife of King Edward III. Apparently not. The spelling was changed from Hyneholt in the 1600s because of a false connection to her. Hyneholt, well, I’m not sure about the Hyne bit, but I know from my days studying Old English at University that holt – as in Northolt – means wood.

Talking of evocative names, the next station, Grange Hill, brings back memories of a long running school based TV drama series, with which it sadly has absolutely no connection. My meagre research has thrown up a couple of facts about the station itself. Work started in 1938, but wasn’t completed until after World War II. Heard that before? Of course. Well, how about this one. The station was hit by a V1 flying bomb ‘doodlebug’ in 1944. Another thing to add to the long chapter one could write about the London Underground in wartime. As it stands today, the station looks Holdenesque, ersatz rather than genuine Holden. I was unable to find out who actually designed it. From the canopy down, it’s Holden, but the ticket hall rising above and behind the entrance just doesn’t look quite right. It’s a little too low, and has windows all around rather than the glazed panels you’d expect from Holden. It’s perfectly alright as a building, but sadly, by following a Holdenesque plan this ends up just drawing attention to how it just isn’t quite as nice as a Holden station.

Well, from ersatz Holden we move now to another original 1903 building, but this time in a quite different style from Fairlop and Barkingside. The name Chigwell, to people of a certain age probably conjures up images of Sharon, Tracey and Dorian from the long running BBC sitcom ‘Birds of a Feather’ which was set in Chigwell. This sets me off on a train of thought, as to whether it would be possible to construct a Comedy Line linking underground stations which have a connection with comedy programmes. Immediately East Acton comes to mind – it was nearby Wormwood Scrubs prison which was used for the prison exteriors on the opening sequence of the 70s sitcom Porridge. Shepherd’s Bush for Steptoe and Son, and Tooting Broadway for Citizen Smith followed fairly hot on it’s heels. Reluctantly I drag myself from this pleasant reverie, and file it away for something to amuse me back on the walk from Roding Park to Buckhurst Hill. Which is not to say that Chigwell Station is not worthy of attention itself, because it very much is. Built for the Great Eastern Railway in 1903 I doubt very much that its changed much in the interim. I can’t help wondering whether the window frames are original, because they look very plain for the era. That doesn’t really bother me though, because above the canopy the façade has a pair of matched dutch gables. I love a dutch gable on an Edwardian or late Victorian building. So you can imagine, I was like a pig in clover on a  recent visit to Amsterdam. Even though I’ve never visited the station before, if I was to make a list about stations which have been connected to important things in my life, I would include it, because this is where Miss Walker lived – the area, not the station – before she became Mrs. Clark.

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my journey around the Hainault loop, but I’m quite happy to leave the train and begin my walk at Roding Valley. Actually the sooner the better, since Roding Valley station itself veers more towards the eyesore than the sight for sore eyes end of the attractiveness of stations scale. It’s a single story, orange brick building, and like a lot of the Central line extension buildings it was commenced in the late 30s, but not completed until the 40s. It certainly looks like a 1930s building, but with a style such as modernism or art deco, because the buildings are relatively minimalist in terms of decoration compared to earlier public buildings, the details are vitally important, and if you get one thing wrong it can spoil the appearance of the whole building. So having a window boarded up has a really poor effect on this one.

Thankfully I have neither the excuse nor time to stand around looking, as I step off towards the main eastern arm of the Central Line, and the next station, Buckhurst Hill. There’s a definite spring in my step. The sun is still out, I’ve eaten my packed lunch, and there’s just five more stations to see before I can add the Central Line to my completed list. This is a mood which a leisurely half hour walk, and the sight of Buckhurst Hill station does nothing to dispel. It’s a very pretty little W.N. Ashbee Great Eastern Railway station from 1892, the oldest on this particular trip so far. Certainly when I visited the façade looked to be immaculately maintained with some gorgeous ornamental brickwork around the shallow arches of the windows. I’d lay odds that these windows aren’t original though, but hey, you can’t have everything you want all the time. I’m tempted to make an on the spot sketch of this little gem like building, but in the end decide that it would be more sensible to rattle off the next four stations in good time.

Even having a decent knowledge of the underground, as I like to think I do, I’m still capable of being surprised by what I see sometimes. My ignorance about this end of the Central Line, works to my advantage as I exit Loughton station and find I’m absolutely blown away by its design. It is unlike anything I have seen on any of the trips I’ve made so far, and I strongly doubt that there is another station on the network that is quite like it. And yet . . . Then it strikes me, the huge semi circular window above the entrance, in a rectangular block is a little reminiscent of the façade of King’s Cross station, albeit that has two windows, and towers at either end. Here’s the funny thing. The façade of King’s Cross is much, much older than Loughton, yet Loughton was actually designed by the LNER’s architect, in the 30s, John Murray Easton. King’s Cross, of course, was the main terminus for the LNER in London at this time. It isn’t what I would call a beautiful station, in the same way that King’s Cross is not a beautiful station if you’re comparing it to the yardstick of the Great Midland Hotel looming over neighbouring St. Pancras. But it is striking, almost magnificent in a way.

This rather makes me fear for Debden station. I just can’t seeing it living up to Loughton, and so in a way I’m quite pleased when I exit the building to see that it doesn’t really try. Its façade, which is something of an elongated shed with a flat roof, is at least enlivened by the raised ticket hall. However this itself is so low that it tends to peep rather apologetically over the station canopy. It’s glazed all around rather uninterestingly, and I can’t help wondering for a moment or two whether it might in fact be a later addition to the station. Taken all in all, the air of the station is of a building mumbling ‘nothing to see here citizens, get on with your lives.’ That’s fine by me, and I take advantage of this good advice, since the next station has one of the more sonorous and intriguing names of any station on the network, and I’m looking forward to seeing if the station building can live up to the promise of the name.

Having studied French, after a fashion, to A Level I’d always pronounced the Bois of Theydon Bois as ‘bwah’. It made sense to me. Bois is French for wood, and the next station is Epping, as in Forest. Some time ago, though, I was reliably and authoritatively informed that in the name of the station, Bois is pronounced to rhyme with noise. As I walk out of the train onto the platform I find that I am unable to stop myself from singing “Theydon Bois, Theydon Bois, laced up boots and corduroys.”A gent who looks to be of a similar vintage to myself smiles at me. For those who aren’t of a similar vintage to myself, I suggest you ask your parents, or failing that, your grandparents to explain that reference. Speaking of which, according to Wikipedia, the village has always been pronounced Boys or Boyce, and derives its name from the family who held the manor in the 1300s. Interestingly it was the railway which fixed the spelling at Bois. When the Great Eastern built their station here, the local parish clerk suggested this would be the best spelling, bearing in mind nearby Epping Forest. I apologise to those of you reading this who are currently thinking “I don’t need to know that, kindly leave the stage” but the fact is that I love finding out these little obscurities.

As for the station building itself, I can’t for certain say when it was built. Looking at it, I somehow doubt that it’s the original, since the window frames and the ornamental brickwork on some of the corners suggest a similar vintage to the 1903 stations we saw on the Hainault loop. It’s a pleasant place, although I can’t help wishing that the two storey building on the right had been left its original red brick rather than being painted with the brilliant white that it sported during my visit.

Epping is a name I once used in a long poem I wrote at University. Without going into too much detail, Dream Vision Poetry was a genre of poetry practiced in the 14^th century by Chaucer and some of his contemporaries. It inevitably involved the voice in the poem being spirited away in a dream, often to an idyllic, Eden-like setting which we would call by the latin term – locus amoenus. Got that? Okay, so in this poem I wrote,

“I looked to try and see where I was stepping.

I guessed locus amoenus, maybe Epping.”

This was more for the rhyme than anything else, since I’ve never been to Epping before and have absolutely no idea whether it’s a locus amoenus, a locus horribilis, or something in between. Actually, that’s still true, since I confine my perusal of the surroundings to the station buildings itself. They’re rather nice, rather reminiscent of Theydon Bois, although something of a mirror image since the two storey wing is on the left this time. Once again, I’m unable to conjure up any specific dates of construction, or architects’ name on the phone, but as with Theydon Bois I’m pretty happy that it’s Edwardian or late Victorian, which would make it originally a GER station. Which is where the line ends, or at least, where it has ended since 1994. In that year, London Transport ended the single track service between Epping and Ongar. I was always intrigued by this on the map, as I have memories of it being represented by a read and white line, and looking for all the world like a horizontal barber pole. The memory my be cheating me on this one, I admit. There have been short lived attempts to run services by private companies from Epping to Ongar since, but since that’s not part of the underground network now, I don’t concern myself with it.

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Three cheers for the Central line! The longest journey you can make without changing trains anywhere on the network is from West Ruislip to Epping, which is slightly more than a whopping 34 miles. This makes me even happier that I didn’t make a rule that I have to walk between every station. If that were the case then this challenge would take years rather than the months I’ve allotted for it. It has the 4^th greatest number of stations, after the District, Piccadilly, and the Northern line which boasts just one more. Not including Osterley and Spring Grove, which is no longer a station, I’ve now sketched 155 stations. That’s 57.4% or 31/54. I think a small celebration might be in order.

It’s fairly obvious which line I need to tackle next. There are 50 stations on the Northern Line, only five of which I’ve already visited on other lines. That splits nicely into three trips, and more importantly, it should take me to 200, leaving only a measly 70 to do on the remaining lines.

Central Line Section 2: Bond Street to Woodfiord

Central Line – Section 2 – Bond Street to Woodford

I had to give this one some thought. At the eastern end of the Central Line it makes that nasty little complete loop before it joins itself back and continues to Epping. I had a think about how I could avoid having to double back on myself. The first solution that I came up with was to do the 16 stations to Woodford. Which would have worked for the last trip if it was possible to go directly from Roding Valley to Epping. It ain’t. However, it is possible to walk between Roding Valley and Buckhurst Hill station in about 20 minutes. Bingo. So for the second section, Bond Street to Woodford it was.

Looking at the line there were two fairly innocuous walking routes which occurred to me. Firstly, Bond Street to Tottenham Court Road via Oxford Circus, and secondly Chancery Lane to Liverpool Street. Fatigue and time permitting I decided to try to give both a go, but deferred a final definitive decision until I reached Chancery Lane.

I passed by the Marylebone Road entrance to Bond street, which I believe was opened as recently as 2017. The first time I passed by New Bond Street, when I was a kid, I was really surprised how insignificant it appeared, bearing in mind its preeminent position amongst the mighty dark green properties on my beloved Monopoly Board. It was only years later that I found out that Mr. Waddington, who had licensed the original Monopoly game from the USA, didn’t know London at all, and he only spent a very brief time on a visit deciding which London properties he could replace the original Atlantic City ones with. Hence the inclusion of Marlborough Street – which I believe only ever existed as Great Marlborough Street. It might also explain why the south of the river is even more poorly served by the Monopoly board than it is by the Underground – only poor old Old Kent Road , which to add insult to injury is also the cheapest property on the board.

I’ll be honest, I’m glad that I’d decided to walk this section. Oxford Circus is one of those stations which is better off being looked at than actually used. For one thing, you can only exit through the station buildings. To enter you have to use the stairways on Oxford Circus. For another thing, while the Leslie Green and Harry Bell Measures exits are picturesque, and both of them are listed buildings, they’re not always adequate for the number of people trying to exit the station at the same time. It’s not really surprising. The station opened before Harry Selfridge opened his little shop on Oxford Street, and maybe it was the proximity of the stations which pushed him in that direction. Whatever the case, the proximity of Selfridges, John Lewis and other top stores to the station has meant that it has had a pretty heavy footfall for longer than I can remember. At the best of times Oxford Street itself is crowded, but at least I find that I’m carried along with a wave of humanity to the end of the street, and the next destination.

Tube stations come thick and fast in this part of Central London. It’s only a short walk along the Charing Cross Road and Tottenham Court road to Leicester Square station, and Goodge Street on the Northern Line is only about 5 minutes’ walk away in the opposite direction. I used to use Tottenham Court Road station to visit Foyles,

one of my favourite London bookshops in the early 80s, and the original Forbidden Planet, my absolute favourite bookshop of the early 80s. All of which is, I suppose, a way of stalling for time before I pass comment on the new station which was opened in 2015. Cards on the table, it doesn’t do as much for me as, for example, the modern station at Hounslow East. Still, there has at least been some effort to here to give the eye something to latch onto. The profile, gentle sloping downwards from the apex appeals far more than a flat block would have done, and having the whole of the façade above the entrance itself made of glass panels is all to the good. I do think that glass panels on the side of the building might have helped, though, and I wonder what the place will look like in another 10 or 15 years time, especially if the maintenance budget is cut. Probably better than the nearby Centrepoint Tower from the 60s.

In the course of my Piccadilly Line and District Line trips I ended up sketching 5 stations which are also on the Central Line, and the next, Holborn, is one of them. So we’ll pass over, while just noting that one of the better known ghost stations, the Central Line’s British Museum station, was actually killed off by Holborn. There’s no overground trace of where the British Museum station entrance actually was – well, I couldn’t find one, anyway. So I’ve read, the original Harry Bell Measures station building survived until the late 80s. The platforms are gone, and so am I, moving swiftly on to Chancery Lane.

As is not uncommon with London Tube Stations, Chancery Lane is only close to the thoroughfare from which it takes its name, but not actually on it. The lane itself takes its name from the old court of Chancery. I studied English Literature at University, and have taught it since, and am a lifelong fan of Charles Dickens, so the name inevitably conjures up one of Dickens’ greatest novels, “Bleak House”, with the seemingly endless court case of Jarndyce v. Jarndyce winding its way through the court with glacial slowness. There is a station building on High Holborn, but it’s disused. It certainly looks like the work of Harry Bell Measures, but my brief research didn’t reveal if this is actually the case. The current ticket hall is accessed via staircases which looked pretty similar to those of Notting Hill Gate.  

Time looked fine, and I still had the hwyl necessary for the job, so I walked from Chancery Lane to our next station, St. Paul’s. Now, here’s a fact about the station you might not know. When it was first opened, this station was actually called Post Office, since it was close to the headquarters of the General Post Office – where novelist Anthony Trollope worked for part of his career. Now, look, if I’m being honest I’m probably too quick to mourn London’s lost buildings, but I do think that it’s a shame that the original GPO headquarters, a magnificent neo classical design by Robert Smirke, was demolished not that long after the station opened. Still, one thing you can say about the area immediately around St. Paul’s Station is that you’re not short of an imposing building or two. Which brings me to Temple Bar. In the 1870s, Christopher Wren’s original Temple Bar gateway was removed from the strand to make way for the Law Courts. In the early noughties a long standing campaign to reinstate the arch, which had stood in Theobald’s Park in Hertfordshire in the interim, came to fruition. The bar was reerected at the entrance to Paternoster Square from Fleet Street. And sadly, in my opinion, it is absolutely dwarfed by the buildings on either side, and not seen to its best effect. I saw the Bar in Theobald’s Park a day or two before demolition started, and it’s difficult to believe that the Bar now isn’t a smaller scale model. Back in the park it was rather dilapidated, but it stood in solitary majesty, while now, it’s been splendidly restored, but can’t help looking a little sorry for itself in its position.

We called in on Bank when we visited Monument station on the District, so I don’t let it detain me much. I can’t help liking this part of the City though. Everyone should walk through the financial district of the city on a weekday lunchtime, and then walk through it at any time on a Saturday, so they can marvel at the ghostliness of the place at the weekends. Besides, Liverpool Street, where I plan to get back on the train, isn’t far away at all. When I’m this close to London Bridge I can’t help an irresistible urge to spout facts about it. For example, the closest church to Liverpool Street station is St. Botolph’s, Bishopsgate. When the original stone London Bridge – the one which had buildings on it until 1760 – was demolished in 1831, the railings from the Bridge were placed around the churchyard. I don’t think they’re the railings there now – maybe they were melted down during world war II.

As you know, Liverpool Street is also a mainline railway terminal, and while the entrance to the tube station isn’t as understated as Victoria’s, it’s not as flamboyant as the District station at Paddington, or the new station at King’s Cross. The street entrance is curved around a corner, which is probably its best feature, and a pair of unadorned columns either side of the entranceway support the curved canopy. The yellowy slabs above the canopy really don’t do a great deal to enhance its appeal. However, it’s a station I rather like for another reason, since it also ticks off a station for both the Hammersmith and City Line and the Metropolitan. I don’t mention the Circle Line, since all of the Circle line stations will be covered when I’ve completed all the other lines.

In well over 100 stations so far we’ve seen a very small number of stations whose sole entrances are Bethnal Green is another of them. Sadly, Bethnal Green station’s claim to fame is as the scene of the biggest ever loss of life on the Underground. On the evening of 3^rd March 1943 an air raid warning sent people rushing to the shelter. A woman and a child tripped on the stairs, causing others to fall around her, as the crush of people pressed downwards. 173 people lost their lives that day, and 60 others were injured. News of the tragedy was hushed up due to wartime restrictions, and there was no enquiry until after the end of the war. I first became aware of this when taking my now grown up daughters to visit the nearby Museum of Childhood – another benefit to London brought through the 1851 Great Exhibition via the V and A- and read the plaque which stands as a memorial in the station.

via stairways down to holes in the ground, but

So it’s in still rather a sombre mood that I pass through Mile End station. I don’t emerge this time, since I’ve already visited on the second of my District Line trips. I ended that second District Line trip there, but I’ve Stratford station building wasn’t just before the 2012 Olympics, it was also before the Jubilee Line extended its tendril this far, back in the 80s. Now, everything about what I was actually doing in Stratford has faded from retrievable memory, but all I know is that the station is unrecognisable now. Which is hardly surprising, since this was where masses of people arrived during London’s great 2012 showpiece. In fact masses of people still use it. It’s a hub which connects with Overground and also with national railways, which makes it the 6^th busiest station currently on the network, and more interestingly, the busiest station outside of the Central London area. I have to say, though, that I rather like it. The curving roof makes all the difference. Yes, okay, it’s a little reminiscent of a new city centre shopping mall, but it’s the kind of place I can see keeping its appeal.

still got over half a dozen stops to go on this one. The next of which is Stratford. The last time I emerged from the

I tried to find some appeal in Leyton station, but I’ll be honest, I found it hard going. I’m reliably informed that there were plans to extend the station buildings for the Olympics, but it never happened. As it is now, well, it’s a rather featureless shed. It’s desperately crying out for a little relief in the shape of some windows in the façade, and without these its appearance tends to act as something of a real depressant to the spirits. It doesn’t surprise me when research reveals that the original name of the station, when built for the Eastern Counties railway was Low Leyton. They had it right with the original name.

Thankfully the next station, Leytonstone, has quite a bit more going for it. Work began at the dog end of the 30s, as you can see from its modernist, art deco design. However the war put paid to attempts to finish it in 1940. Still, finished after the war, this at least looks like it belongs on the same line as stations like Greenford, Perivale and Hanger Lane. Back in the mid 80s, when I was courting Mrs. Clark, or Miss Walker as she was known then, we would often end a date on the platforms of this station, as she would continue along the loop to Chigwell, and I’d either carry straight on to see family at South Woodford, or head back into town, and make my way slowly to Lewisham. But I have to say that all the times I used the station, I really had no idea that the exterior was this nice.

Well, I have to say that I wasn’t expecting Snaresbrook station to be quite like it is. I’ve passed through on many occasions but had never stepped outside the building before. I get the feeling that Snaresbrook station could be something really rather special if it had just a bit of a makeover, or failing that, a bloody good clean. It has the appearance of an old Victorian townhouse gone to seed a bit, rather like the road in Lewisham in which I lived as a student. It’s a shame, because if the panels in a couple of places were replaced with windows, and the whole place brightened up a bit it could really be something. The window arrangement at the moment though is rather lopsided, and from straight on it looks as if the house is grinning drunkenly, which I’m sure is unlikely to have been the intended effect.

Well, thence to South Woodford. This is a station that I had stepped out of before, in fact on many occasions. My uncle, aunt and first cousins live in the district, and I spent a lot of time with them while I was at uni. The station sits at the end of George Street, which at the time had a nice variety of shops, in particular I remember a very old fashioned and rather grand tailors. As for the station itself, well, it’s rather more on the old fashioned end of quaint, but a much more welcoming façade than Leyton, having preserved the red brickwork, and the original wooden and cast iron canopy. This is a station which feels well looked after, and it makes all the difference to the casual sketcher.

I had never before taken the line past South Woodford, so I was quite looking forward to pushing on to Woodford, and the completion of this penultimate trip on the Central Line. As I emerged, the design of the station irresistibly reminded me of the shelters in Elthorne Park, Hanwell, from when I was a kid. These structures saw 4 elegant, narrow cast iron poles supporting a rather large tiled roof.Okay, the columns are really only there to support the roof where it extends out over the main entrance, but hey, this is my trip, and my memory, and that’s what the place brought to mind. My research suggested that there is a decoy owl hanging somewhere to scare off pigeons and the like. Maybe, but I couldn’t see it. Possibly this was just tube fatigue, having come to the end of this particular trip.

A trip which, incidentally, had seen me reach and pass the halfway mark at Leyton, I think. From here on in I have fewer stations left to visit and sketch than I’ve already done.