Neon Jesus and 234 Singing Bowls

On Sunday morning, I strong-armed Jason into going out with me on an adventure. He is, for the most part, extremely unimpressed by adventuring and has to be lured, usually with the promise of good food. He nearly always has a lovely time when he allows himself to be lured, but we do the dance: ‘Will you, won’t you, will you won’t you?’ In this scenario I am the Whiting and Jason is the Snail.

We reached an agreement. I would go with Jason to Leyton B&Q so he could buy a saw and he would come with me to God’s Own Junkyard in Walthamstow so we could have fun. I will spare you the details of B&Q, but Walthamstow was great.

God’s Own Junkyard is a unit in a small industrial estate where apart from one place that still sells tyres, everything is hipster central. There’s a couple of micro breweries and a gin palace and God’s Own Junkyard which displays, rents and sells neons by an artist called Chris Bracey. Chris has been collecting vintage neons and making his own for nearly forty years now and has made pieces for films, fashion shows and other artists. It’s a wonderland of kitsch with the biggest disco balls I’ve ever seen.

My favourite piece is a plaster statue of the bleeding heart of Jesus with neon pistols in his hands. It’s a kind of living embodiment of the work of the band Alabama Three. Well at least I think it is, anyway. I’m also a huge fan of the old, Soho sex show neons that are liberally scattered around. They are splendidly old school sleazy. It’s a place that’s loud, tasteless and entirely wonderful. Don’t go with a hangover. Do the gin palace and micro breweries afterwards.

We mooched down into Walthamstow Village and had lunch at Orford’s fish and chips, which are delicious if eye wateringly expensive. That area is extremely bougie and we had a great time watching the well heeled world go by. We were sat by a small child wearing a Nick Cave t-shirt bearing the legend: ‘Don’t let them tell you that there are no monsters,’ which was pretty deep for a five year old eating a Smarties ice cream.

I went into a Japanese shop that sold macarons in the shape of bear’s faces. They had loads of cute, tiny things but the prices were neither cute nor tiny. There was a teeny weeny ceramic worm for £28, or you could have an enamel sushi badge for £18. They had some great posters, but I couldn’t begin to find £250 for a Godzilla poster, no matter how brilliant it was. Across the way was a kid’s toy shop that had giant Miffy lights that I wanted, but when I saw that they were selling teething rings in the shape of artichokes for £30 each I decided not to enquire about the Miffy lights. It was very clear that I was shopping in the wrong street. I needed to get back to Poplar and Poundland.

When we got back, I left the boys to do whatever they had bought a saw to do. The good thing about living on a small boat is that you cannot do work by committee. There is no room for everyone to get involved, so I buggered off to figure out how to get to the stretch of the Thames nearby that wasn’t Canary Wharf.

After a couple of false starts I cracked it, walking through a new development that also housed the Zero longitude line and found the water again. I walked past what had once been Virginia Wharf, which was the point where the first settlers set sail to conquer the new world and give people peacefully minding their own business small pox, servitude and short change. It seems somehow fitting that this historic place is now a row of Wimpy homes.

Further along I wandered into East India Quay and basin, which is now a nature reserve with some of the only remaining salt flats in the south of England. It was heaving with bird life and I saw an egret which made me super proud of my spotting. I didn’t know it was an egret when I saw it, but it looked fancy and I managed to identify it by reading a large billboard aimed at children which had big pictures of a variety of available birds on it. Chris Packham may now be my friend, that’s all I know.

Walking on from there I discovered Trinity Buoy Wharf. Most of it is now an extremely tasteful housing estate where once was one of the poorest and most deprived areas of East London. It’s quite eerie because the wealth has moved in and up but the wealthy have not, so a lot of it is empty of people. Right at the end though, is a place of wonder and magic that was made more magical by the fact that I found it entirely by accident.

It’s a kind of artist’s enclave I think is the best way to describe it. A mix of shipping containers, old warehouses and repurposed boats house artist’s studios, spaces to rent for film and events, a cafe and entirely randomly, an eccentric prep school. Scattered between the buildings are sculptures of all kinds. There is a giant lunar clock that also measures tides, a strange musical instrument that has a long, snorkel like appendage that tips into the river and creates music from the ebb and flow of the water. There are metal figures propping up fire escapes or flying off abandoned jetties. It’s all rather surreal.

My favourite thing was something called Longplayer, which is an art project housed in a short, squat lighthouse where Michael Faraday used to do experiments back in the day. On the first floor is an exhibition of engraved brass singing bowls, which are used to create the piece. The artist, Jim Finer, came up with the idea of making a piece of music that lasts a thousand years. He took the music of 234 singing bowls in flight and created a composition that never repeats itself. It started playing at midnight on 31st December 1999 and will finish on the last day of 2999. If you head up to the top floor there are chairs where you can sit and listen to the music. It’s weird and strange and wonderful. Of all the many, many things I have managed to see since we moved here, this is by far my favourite and it was entirely free to get into, which was an added bonus.