Growing up in Hanwell, my childhood topography was delineated by the Uxbridge Road to the north and Boston Manor Road to the west. The former - into West Ealing and the shops. The latter - across the road and into Elthorne Park, beyond which ran the railway line and the Grand Union Canal. Trumper's Way connects Boston Manor Road to the canal; the railway, which ran from Southall to Brentford. As a child, my mother forbade me to go beyond Elthorne Park, which made that which lay out there all the more alluring.
Until I was eight and had eye surgery, I had a strong squint which affected my distance vision. As a result, I could not see the far end of Elthorne Park clearly; I somehow felt it stretched out west all the way to America. The M4 motorway had not yet been built; Windmill Land and Osterley Park were out of sight.
For my tenth birthday, I received a big boy's bike - a Hercules Jeep, 24" wheels but no gears. Once the mudguards, chain guard and saddlebag were removed, I had a decent mount on which I could bomb down Trumper's Way and ride along the canal towpath (don't tell my mum!). All of a sudden, my horizons were expanded and I could explore territories further afield. A canal-side warehouse, a great looming shed, triggered anomalous qualia memories, especially at dusk, as did the walled-off towers of St Bernard's mental hospital - the former County Asylum. Images of late Victorian/Edwardian England, more the Midlands than the Home Counties.
Another part of Hanwell, just over a mile from home that clicked with my imagination is what's now the Hanwell Community Centre, but was once the Central London District Poor Law School (whose most famous former pupil was Charlie Chaplin). Again, at dusk, towards the end of the school summer holidays, this would be a place with atmosphere, its clock tower and brick structure rising above Cuckoo Park.
In between the two stands Isambard Kingdom Brunel's Wharncliffe Viaduct, spanning the Brent Valley. I recall playing with friends in Churchfields recreation ground to the north, one late summer's evening and watching a works train crossing the viaduct, grey and ghostly.
These places flash back to me in my memory still, living a thousand miles away - and indeed I've not been back there for over two years now. Spirit of place is strong; it lingers, it becomes part of one's consciousness. Part of personality, an intrinsic part of who you are, wherever you are - whenever you are.
In the same way that I have been experiencing anomalous-memory flashbacks all of my life, I am certain that some future incarnation of my consciousness will have flashbacks to Hanwell in the 1960s.
[Some photos from my childhood Hanwell in this post from 2015]
This time last year:
Brooding, moody sunsets
This time two year ago:
Town and country in summer
This time three years ago:
Across the Pilica to Strzyżyna
This time five years ago:
tRUmp flies into Warsaw
This time eight years ago:
Making Poland's railways safer
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