By choice. That's how. As a proud Londoner, and a person keenly interested in not just the city's history but the myths, mysteries, and folklore that are entwined within that history I had been curious to learn that Sunday 12th January 2020 would see the annual ceremonial blessing of both the river Thames and all of those who make their living on it.
I'd read that the event would took place at 1245pm but that it would be preceded by the removal of flowers from Fishmonger's Hall on the north side of the bridge and a brief, perhaps more solemn, ceremony there first. That's because on the 29th November 2019, less than seven weeks ago, three people (including the perpetrator) lost their lives during a terror attack just outside the building. Usman Khan had taped knives to his wrists before threatening to detonate what turned out to be a fake suicide vest. Bystanders had fought him off using a fire extinguisher and, famously and fantastically, a narwhal tusk but not before twenty-five year old law and criminology graduate Jack Merritt and twenty-three year old former Cambridge student Saskia Jones had been killed.
It followed on from an even more deadly event that took place on the other side of the bridge on the 3rd June 2017 when eleven people (including all three perpetrators) lost their lives in another terrorist incident which consisted of vehicle ramming on the bridge itself and multiple stabbings in Borough Market. A busy place most evenings but on a sunny Saturday in summer, undoubtedly, rammed full of people socialising, eating, and drinking and, you'd like to think, with thoughts of death and murder far from the forefront of their minds.
So, you'd think - if you were a believer, London Bridge (and the area) could do with a blessing or two. My mind was on more quotidian concerns as I took the train three stops from Honor Oak Park to London Bridge station. I'd recently had my third bout of gout and though it was, thankfully - it's fucking painful, in remission I'd been catching up on sleep missed with the condition and had only enjoyed a very slight repast of two Kingsmill scotch pancakes (admittedly, smeared decadently with Wensleydale cheese) for breakfast.
I was hungry and knowing that a new branch of Greggs had opened in the fancy new whizz-bang London Bridge station (it used to be a miserable place to change but now with shops, restaurants, and shiny new architecture it's quite pleasurable) and I was steeling myself for one, maybe two, of their delicious vegan sausage rolls. I've not tried the vegan steak bakes yet but they'll have to be amazing to dislodge the sausage roll from the apex of my affections!
But they were all out of vegan sausage rolls and I didn't fancy anything else they had so I headed out on to the bridge with an empty stomach but a head full of expectation. It looked like a very ordinary January day out there. Windy, grey, (if not particularly cold) and, thankfully, dry. I took in the dragon bearing a shield that welcomes you to the city, marvelled at the wide expanse of the river itself, and took in some of the surrounding architecture while I waited for something to happen.
I saw the security gates that were installed following that first terrorist attack, I looked east towards Tower Bridge, west towards Cannon Street station and SimpsonHaugh and Partners' 52 storey One Blackfriars near Blackfriars Bridge (apparently, Wikipedia informs me, nicknamed either The Vase or The Boomerang), and I observed the various buses using the bridge. Alongside the standard red service buses and open top tourist buses there was a dark and fancy looking coach bearing the legend 'bustronome' which was serving haute cuisine to that peculiar breed of people who feel their dining experience is enhanced by motorised perambulation.
Each to their own. Also on the bridge (as with many bridges, high spots etc; now) there was a 'TALK TO US' sign for the Samaritans emphasising the fact that we do not live in the happiest of times. Poverty and homelessness, too, are both easily observable in this area of London as they are in many others. Sleeping bags, some with people in, in doorways are testament to the fact that the gap between the rich and poor, especially under the last decade of Tory rule, is getting wider and wider.
It'll be cold comfort to anyone sleeping rough (even if, like me, they're fans of tall buildings) that London Bridge, now, is flanked on either side by the two tallest buildings in London. To the south the 87-storey, 1,016ft tall Shard has held the record for nearly eight years now but to the north a new contender, 22 Bishopsgate (aka The Pinnacle, 62 storeys, 912ft high) has pushed One Canada Square in Canary Wharf down to third place. Many bemoan the march of the tall buildings, some even move out to avoid them, but I have no problem with them per se. The homelessness and equality is the problem and that would still be so if the buildings weren't tall, or if they weren't modern.
I was getting plenty of time to observe London Bridge and its surroundings but there was still no sign of any religious processions, crosses, or anything else that resembled a blessing. I looked south to Southwark Catherdral (with Strata in The Elephant & Castle towering up on the hazy horizon behind it) and north to Wren's St Magnus the Martyr and still .... nothing.
Will anyone bless this damned river? Would I have to do it? I decided to take a walk around Fishmonger's Hall and see if anything was happening. It wasn't. But I took some more photos, walked a very brief section of the Thames Path, and was given a refresher course on the lyrics to London Bridge is Falling Down (which I was worried it might do if nobody blessed it soon) before returning to the centre of London Bridge where, presumably, the action would be taking place.
I'd later learn that the flower removal had taken place at the Monument. Very nearby but not somewhere I'd thought of looking. I was about to give up and go home (after making a crude cross from fag butts and performing my own river blessing) when I spotted a couple of vaguely officious looking people in hi-viz jackets. From the north of the river I saw a procession heading towards me. This was actually going to happen.
St Magnus the Martyr may have been first out of the blocks but as a South Londoner I was proud to see that Southwark Cathedral had come with a stronger squad. Their ornate gold cross shimmered against a dismal sky with 20 Fenchurch Street (aka the Walkie Talkie) and the rest of the London skyline a none too shabby backdrop.
The two congregations, flanked by assorted parishioners, well-wishers, and the generally curious like myself met, shook hands, and exchanged pleasantries before, using a painfully weak PA system, a few recitals and prayers were read out by various church dignitaries all of whom meant nothing to me.
Despite this I was mildly impressed that the Bishop of Bath and Wells was putting in a guest appearance. For some reason, I imagine he's a big deal on the ecclesiastical scene. Many joined in the service or at least added their own personal 'amen', a cheeky young cyclist passing over the bridge shouted words to the effect that "it's all a lie" which, if he meant religion rather than rivers, was true. But I kept my solemn counsel. I didn't join in the amens but I observed my own personal silent vigil and let the believers have theirs.
Life's better that way. Following a five/ten minute service with various readers (none of which I could hear very well - the combination of strong wind and a weak PA saw to that), a very basic wooden cross was lifted over the edge of the bridge and dropped into the water. I wondered if the river police are informed to keep boats from under the bridge at this time as even a flimsy cross like the one used in this ceremony would probably hurt should it fall on your bonce.
And that was it. There was lots of ceremony but not all that much pomp. An official from Southwark invited attendees, believers or not, in to the cathedral for free food and drink but I declined. I still had those Greggs vegan sausage rolls on the mind.
We walked back to our various sides of the river. I mildly limped behind the Southwark congregation satisfied that the Thames had been blessed for another year, glad I'd attended, and not feeling any particular need to do this more than once in my life. When I got back to London Bridge, there were no still vegan sausage rolls in Greggs. Perhaps they can bless that one day! Amen!
No comments:
Post a Comment