Right in the pivotal centre of Soho, there is a time machine. Walk along Bateman Street until you see a café painted as the Italian Tricolore. You really can't miss it. It looks like it's closed, doesn't it? It probably isn't. Try the door. Is it open? Yes? Well, step right into 1955. Welcome to the Lorelei – one of the last survivors of 'real' Soho. The first thing you'll notice is that the decor is a curious mix of village hall and alpine hut. The second thing is the mural of the naked mermaid that takes up an entire wall. I've never seen the odd-looking light fittings switched on to illuminate it.

From the Formica tables, the lino floor, to the faux-leather banquettes round the walls, almost everything is as it was the day it opened. In the little kitchen area, the elderly proprietor quietly produces the best pizza in London – the genuine Italian flour for these is stacked up by the front door. Watching the vintage grey-green Cimbali coffee machine operated is akin to seeing Handel himself playing the organ. That's the sound of real coffee being made. Chips come cooked to order, always on an ancient glass plate. A little mound of hot golden matchsticks, sweet and crunchy.

How a place so comically un-modern still exists in the centre of this ever-changing city is a mystery. Need the loo? It's in an outhouse down the yard – primly segregated into 'gents' (hand written in gloss paint on a brick) and 'ladies'. Even the plumbing is original. There's never any piped music on – although the dusty old speaker still on the wall no doubt once pumped out Tommy Steele. You bring your own atmosphere. It's the eye in Soho's storm.

There's no need to book a table. The staff always seem a bit surprised when anybody walks in. At night, when the window is streaked with condensation you can watch people stop to scrutinise the menu, their faces yellow from its sodium light. They rarely come in, perhaps preferring the bright lights and familiarity of better-known restaurants. They don't know what they're missing. The world needs character as much as it needs wipe-clean convenience.

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Posted by Gareth on March 25, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (8)

Morecambe, it’s fair to say, could almost be the resort Morrissey had in mind when he wrote ‘Every Day Is Like Sunday’. It really does have the feel of a place they forgot to close down. The town’s heyday is long past. Looking at the flyblown bargain stores and low rent accommodation that line the seafront, it’s difficult to believe that Morecambe was once considered a more ‘select’ destination than Blackpool further down the coast. Even so, the place does have a certain appeal. There are gems like Brucciani’s unchanged 1930s tea room. There’s a special quality to the light which has attracted artists for decades. Large areas of the promenade have been given a sensitive makeover. The magnificent art deco Midland Grand Hotel is under restoration, and the Stone Jetty behind it is a great example of regeneration with a human touch. The bollards lining the Jetty are topped with witty sculptures of seabirds (incidentally, the patterns for casting them were made by my dad).

Between the Grand and the Jetty is a wind-blasted open square of concrete flagstones – the Arena Funfair. All that remains of this small fairground are two buildings glowering at each other like a couple of punch-drunk boxers. On one side there is the former fairground café, a squat bunker-like building with JUG OF TEA £1.50 carefully hand written on the front. Opposite the café is what was once an open stage. The only performances these days are by vandals and pigeons. Next to the stage is an empty shallow pool, coated in flaking cobalt blue. Painted by the same hand as 'JUG OF TEA £1.50' is a sign announcing REMOTE CONTROL BOATS. The stunning sunsets that Morecambe Bay is famous for only enhance the melancholic appeal.

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Posted by Gareth on January 07, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

High above the industry of Yorkshire’s Aire Valley is Shipley Glen, a long shoulder of heathland below Baildon Moor, studded with boulders left there by the ice age. The Glen has been visited for generations, and was a very popular destination for the Whitsuntide Walks of the late 1800s and the first half of 20th century. Mill workers from Shipley, Bingley, Saltaire and Keighley would enjoy the open air in their hundreds. Local farms often converted a barn to a makeshift tearoom – some of these barns still have a faded TEAS still visible on their walls or roofs.

Many of these visitors would walk up the wooded hill from Saltaire, and In 1895 a local entrepreneur built the Shipley Glen Tramway to help get them up the slope. it’s been delighting the residents of West Yorkshire ever since. This cable-hauled funicular railway trundles the quarter mile from Saltaire Park at the bottom to the Glen at the top. At each end is a miniature station with a tiny ticket office run by an affable volunteer. Pass though the barrier and find a seat on the carriage – you may have to flip the back of the seat over to face the right way. When ready, a klaxon will sound, there will be a slight jerk and you’ll start your journey through the woods, clunking along through a tunnel of green at about the speed of a trotting horse. At exactly half way, the carriage from the other end will zip past in a flurry of bunting and waving arms.

Until a couple of years ago, the Tramway was part of a tiny theme park which included Britain’s oldest fairground ride, the Aerial Glide, built around 1900. Sadly, despite a campaign to save it, all that remains of the ‘Pleasure Grounds’ is a charming semi-decrepit (but happily functioning) dodgems – complete with marvellously unrestored cars – near the gate to the Tramway’s ‘top’ station. Next to the dodgems is a pleasing little souvenir shop selling ice-creams and sweeties. Further up the wonderfully named Prod Lane is a tea room and pub, and then the Glen itself – still a great place to explore, walk and relax.

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Posted by Gareth on June 21, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (5)