Derelict Spaces

On my way to the British Museum the other day, I went down a side alley called St. Giles Passage. I’ve always wanted to go down there because of the thing that I’d seen in the distance.

Urban jungle.

See, London has a lot of public greenspace, and I like to walk around in them. I pass by this alley every day on my way to school, and I never have time to duck down it. So this time, I did. And what I saw looked like something out of the better class of old-fashioned children’s literature. It was like a modern-day secret garden, with thick, choking rose briars reaching out over the bars of the fence.

All it needs is a dragon.

There were signs of activity in this garden, a garden that claimed to be open all the time but was firmly padlocked shut.

A wheelbarrow, full of recent culls.

A garden that looked both forgotten and tended at the same time.

Dead grasses, yet to be pulled, and flagstones with edges overgrown by tiny bryophytes.

It’s actually not a derelict space at all. It’s a thriving place, the only one of the seven original Covent Gardens Community Gardens left. It’s just locked up. But for a little bit, before I read the sign, it felt I’d come across something that time had forgotten- a little bit of magic in a big city.

 I love that feeling- that tingly rush that comes when you find something that captivates and enchants you. I felt it once in Stratford in Ontario, at the garden of Tir na nÓg. I feel it at museums. And I feel it when I pass by places that look like time forgot them.

Am I being stupid and sentimental? Maybe.
Do I care? No. I’m too busy falling in love with padlocked gardens.