Today we walked Soho, thankful for its closed-in streets and small squares, as the air grew chillier as the day wore on. It is hard to imagine that this was ever a rural spot away from the noise and bustle of the heart of the city but in medieval times it was farmland, leased out by the church, until Henry V111 began using it as hunting grounds, and the hunting call, So-Ho! likely contributed to its eventual name. The wealthy followed, building houses around little squares and symmetrical streets, but given its proximity to the city it soon became a habitat for immigrants. First came the Huguenots, fleeing persecution in France, driving the wealthy Londoners further west, and becoming known as 'Petty France', verbal slings beginning early here between the English and the French.
Other immigrants followed: Greek: one of the streets at the heart of Soho is now named Greek street; Italians, Germans, Jews and the Irish. In recent times, the Chinese have moved in. Of all the places we have visited so far this trip this suburb reminds us so much of many of the 'burbs in New York that it is difficult maintaining the realisation that we are actually walking around London, when it feels so like New York.
Casanova lived in Greek Street once. As did his lover, Theresa Cornelys, a society doyen, who threw magnificent Venetian-style masked balls here in Soho, but took time out to have his illegitimate child. Theresa's house is now a Catholic church, which is a little ironic, and there was mass there on this St Patrick's Day, the church filled to capacity. Around the corner so, too, was the pub, St Paddy's day celebrants overflowing into the street. The church, appropriately named St Patrick's, has charming white and gold carved Stations of the Cross, that are a lovely feature. I think Theresa might have approved. These days the church is kept busy looking out for the homeless.
And battered women seek shelter in the old Georgian mansion just a few doors up the street, which has been offering this function since the mid 1800's. It still uses an ancient alms slot for penny contributions to its cause.
So, Soho has grown colourful, edgy: a tattoo, lip ring, studded leather kind of suburb attracting artists, musicians, writers, satirists, political agitators and rebels with a cause. Bohemians, many of them were called. The Boho in Soho.
Karl Marx lived here with his wife and four children in desperate straits whilst writing Das Kapital. All the while their poverty was crippling and the family was tormented with illness, disease and death until Engels helped out financially, and, later, a family inheritance allowed them some relief.
Here, too, is the headquarters, of the satirical Private Eye magazine.
Left wing politicians like Michael Foot were drawn to the place and found drinking holes in many of the street corner pubs. As did the alcoholic journalist, Jeffrey Barnard, whose column was often empty given the simple excuse that, "Jeffrey is unwell". The Duke of Edinburgh held his Thursday Club here and folk like Peter Ustinov, David Niven, and even Kim Philby, came for drinks and laughs on a regular basis. Princess Margaret brought her off-beat royal crowd here for many a night on the tiles. The place sizzled. And sometimes literally.
Upstairs, on the floor above what is now a favoured coffee hangout Bar Italia, the first ever television was transmitted in 1925. John Logie Baird, evicted from other premises after he'd caused an explosion with his tubes and transmitters, finally had success transmitting from here. He'd paid a young office boy downstairs 2s 6d to be his test case and young William Taynton's face has gone down in history as the first ever televised. Luckily, as leading up to this event local street prostitutes were threatening to take action against Baird, as they thought he had secreted camera equipment upstairs and feared he was furtively filming them. Bar Italia is like something out of the 1950s, and today there was even a Marilyn Monroe look-a-like posing indoors while we were taking a quick coffee break.
Tucked away behind Soho square is tall slim building that was the extraordinary Trident Studios where the Beatles recorded Hey Jude, Bowie - Ziggy Stardust, and Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody. Those were the days. I bowed deep at the doors. Paul McCartney still has close ties here in Soho. His company, MPL Communications Ltd, which has operated his businesses since he started Wings, is in a lovely retro building facing Soho Square. We didn't see him this time, tho' we've scored a wink or two from him in previous visits when we have accidently crossed paths.
We finished our Soho jaunt the next day, but other than walking all over Chinatown Soho admiring the prowess of the steam dumpling makers and smelling Jasmine rice wafting over the streets our only other engagement was to became engulfed in another street demonstration. Every day someone is marching against something here. They really do get out and protest. Loudly.
Today it was an Anti-Racist March that we knew nothing about until we were in the midst of it. But it covered all things from Anti-Fascism to Anti-Trump protests. Small pockets of protest started early, when we were still at the coffee stage. We followed Swat Police who must have known there was to be a face-off between pro and anti Immigration groups in Piccadilly Circus under the statue of Anteros. There was.
The police had to come between the two jostling small groups to keeping them from belting each other, but there was a lot of noise, from the fellows in black gear and black masks, shouting loudly and rhythmically: "Nazi Scum Off The Streets!" A little frightening, as they were all so angry. By mid-afternoon, the demonstrators had gathered all over the city and some 30,000 marched loudly down Regent Street, protesting immigration restrictions and racism. That was less frightening, and somehow more promising. I have not seen so many demonstrators in one place since the '60s crowd wanted to 'Make Peace, Not War'. What goes around, comes around.
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