Streets of London : A little gypsy trading in Knottynghull

After nearly a week of socialising, lunching and chatting in various pubs and cafes of London with folk from other parts we met up with in town, we are back to walking this week, and today it was the turn of Notting Hill Gate: a name which possibly comes from a very old reference to a toll gate that existed in the area around the 1300s, for folk passing through the place, prettily called 'Knottynghull".

For once this area was not owned by the church originally. Yet it was to a church we first walked to get to the core of early Notting Hill: St Johns, on a little incline. Not because of its religious history, but for its location. St John's now sits at the very heart of what once was a Hippodrome, built in 1836 by John Whyte, an entrepreneur, who thought he might make money by building a racecourse in this area that rivalled Ascot and Epsom. He bought land from the Landsdowne family, the main local landowners, who themselves were trying to build homes in this rural countryside to attract crowded wealthy Londoners westwards.

John Whyte built his oval racecourse, and for a time horses roamed the land, and the few folk who did live in the area became increasingly put off by the restrictions his course put in their way. They no longer had the freedom of access they once had, before the racecourse railings were raised. Nature stepped in and solved the problem before too much conflict could erupt. The earth around here is clay. It is good for bricks, not for horse racing. So, as the course was constantly bogged, and the horses knee deep in mud, John Whyte soon went broke, and his racecourse eventually became filled with houses. White ones, in the main, to reflect the era: what is known as the Regency era: one of my favourites, actually.

What is rather beautiful about the homes in this part of the suburb is that John Whyte left his mark in a way that he might never have expected. Part of the layout of his old circular Hippodrome remains. Houses were built along the curves of the course: like a split semi-circular land pie, cut into roads and lanes to making pretty curving streets. The layout is just beautiful and lends itself to the building of long bowed streets of elegant white houses. Topped with feature homes at the corners. Many of the streets, groves and crescents have 'Lansdowne' in their name, echoing the name of the early owner and developer.

Some developments, too, are of raw brick from the very clay beneath our feet that bogged the horses. These came from the land further downhill where the clay deposits settled. And, which, in the 19th century, became a busy haven of clay and brick works with surrounding yards of stacked and stored red bricks for construction. One of the old pottery kilns still exists in one of the lovely little back lanes we walked. Today it is quite picturesque with a wee green park opposite, beside a lovely little nursery school, with a cute title: Miss Delaney's Nursery School.

So, it has become quite residential now. Further on from the park and heading back up the hill we come across some of the many mews developments in the area. Around here, very close to all the pottery yards were the piggeries that had been shunted out of the Marble Arch area as development closed in, and for a time were here. Before development edged them further on, too. So Notting Hill's early history was fairly humble: with piggeries and brickworks and a bit of a market down a road we came to next.

The road was named after a good sized farm that once existed here: Portobello. Quite a few things were named such, after an English naval admiral captured a port in the Gulf of Mexico that used to ship treasures off to Spain, which made headlines. The name became a bit of a fad, and Porto Bello Lane lane leading to Porto Bello Farm at the top of a slight hill here became a gathering place for gypsies and traders, who met to sell horseflesh and herbs on a regular basis. Today there are market goers with customised dog buggies. A little different.

The market operates still, though it is at its busiest on Saturdays. We've had our fill of crushing weekend markets this weekend, though, so we're pleased this is a quiet Monday market in Portobello. And, probably because of that, and the freedom to wander and explore, we found one of our best eating experiences in London to date. In a little Italian eatery, tucked down the back of a building that bears a great retro lamp sign. It does not even have a name. It is just labelled Italian Cafeteria and advertises that the food is home made. It draws a constant crowd of locals, as I am fairly sure not too many visitors would ever find it.

The eatery is through a darkened market arcade, in a space at the back that opens out along a wall filled with hanging hams and grissini, home made platters, bottled Italian oils and dressings along a bench top, all open to the public, where the owner and chef prepares all the food at his trestle high bench. Wonderful food. He is smitten with food and everyone who comes into the place knows and hugs him, and takes his advice on what to eat for lunch today.

We sat and were immediately given an amuse bouche of a delicate layered zucchini frittata, complimentary to all today's lunch guests. I could have lunched solely on that it was so delicious: so much nicer than anything like that that we have ever made. And we try so hard. Our antipasto came and was torn fat buffalo mozzarella over delicious char grilled eggplant, zucchini, smoky tomatoes, caramelised onions and artichokes topped with fresh basil and delicious olive oil. The mozzarella arrived just this morning from Naples, he said. Only just. We were lucky. We knew that. The bread, the flat, thin bits of crisp bread that look and feel as if they should float on air, come from Sardinia. He uses it always. That is the best, he said. We believe him. We remember it there and have failed miserably trying to replicate it at home. Our mains were home made merquez and parma with rocket and more of that fresh buffalo mozzarella, so difficult to find at home. He reckons that with our beautiful dairy industry in Australia we should have such a mozzarella. And we should. One day, hopefully, that will soon happen. Our dessert, another house recommendation, Pastiera Napoletana was the perfect finale. We left promising to return. Such places are special.

We passed the Electric Cinema further on and were able to photograph a little of the inside, which is like walking back into the early part of last century: very retro. Seat prices for the cinema were extraordinary: up to £40 for an armchair on Electric Sundays, or £45 for a two person sofa. Seats, we were told, were completely booked out this week until Friday. Amazing.

The cinema is famous for having stones thrown at its theatre manager during the war. He was German, and some of the residents at the time believed he had to be turning lights on deliberately directing Zeppelins on their bombing forays. Not so, of course. The projectionist there during the war, has his own story. He later turned out to be the notorious serial killer, Reginald Christie, who lived in one of the streets nearby. He actually gave evidence that hanged one of his tenants for the killings, but later evidence points to Christie as being the one most likely responsible for six murders in the house, including his wife.

We passed more and more Notting Hill homes: more of the mews developments, too, that are quite prized here here: we are seeing so many of them. This mews was where Paula Yates was found dead from an accidental overdose not long after Michael Hutchence's suicide. Some of the houses are painted the colours of ice cream sherbet. Some are small and stylish. Some with interesting garden art climbing the walls. Others are barely there: more skeleton and bone and supporting structure, than actual buildings, yet, as every second or third home on some streets had builders or decorators in-house doing repairs. And many of the stylish shops in small shopping hubs were smart interior design shops, thanks to the movie Notting Hill, which lifted the profile of the suburb so dramatically that it has since became one of the most sought after suburbs in which to live.

And along with the parks and the mews it has become very attractive to families. Although while there are some thirteen parks in Notting Hill: most of them locked. One, in the sixties, was opened after a public outcry that there was insufficient room for children to play, and it has not closed since, which is good. That one is opposite The Tabernacle, famous for the Stones and Pink Floyd rehearsals and gigs. So, a colourful and interesting suburb is Notting Hill, but young yet, still building its traditions and history compared with some closer to the heart of the city.