Back in Camden Town

When what was once so familiar leaves you feeling a bit homesick.

I’m in London for a week of work. Out of sheer coincidence, the company I work for in Chippenham has taken on a new studio space in Camden, the epicentre of most of my years in London. I lived in Mornington Crescent, Tufnell Park, Camden and Archway. I walked through here on a daily basis. I once had an interview for a job in the very same building I’m working in when it was owned by a different company. For a very short time, I worked in a running shop a couple of streets over. I went to yoga classes here - literally 30 seconds walk away - upwards of three times a week just to get some respite from noisy neighbours, lie down somewhere quiet and process a hard break-up the best hippie way I knew how.

Even when I lived East or West, Camden drew me back. And yet, I started this week feeling a bit homesick.

I can’t actually place why - this area of London should be more familiar to me than almost anywhere else in the world. But it’s changed, I’ve changed, and maybe we never really knew each other anyway. We never asked the right questions of each other and kept our correspondences at a surface level. I was always passing through and as the new, flashy, Boxpark development shows, it was always passing me by.

Let’s be fair, Kentish Town always suited me better. I love the cafes, pubs, the Owl Bookshop, that big view over the railway tracks, the indie beer and wine shop that actually stocks my favourite cider - a smoky little Breton number that they serve at my favourite pub, the St John’s Tavern in Archway. It’s bustling, sure, but it’s quieter. I spent time here. I made a point of going here.

Camden has been my transitionary place. It was home to my uncertain Undergraduate years, walking to seminars on Regent Street with music in my ears. I barged through groups of tourists, rolling my eyes as they gave money to the punks sat on the canal bridge wall. It’s been my emergency Pret, my Argos order, my haircut, a few great nights out. It’s seen me grow from counting out pennies in Lidl for instant noodles to buying wine and an M&S meal deal for dinner.

It is familiar, yes, but it was never mine. I think that’s why I felt homesick. So I did what I’ve always done, and I ran.

I moved house nearly every year that I lived in London and I always ran to settle into my new surroundings. I worked out the new routes and thereby saw how all the streets connected, what the other neighbourhoods were like, what were the nicest ways to walk to the station as opposed to the most direct. By putting a mental map on a place I asserted a tracing paper level of ownership over it.

On Tuesday this week, I ran “home” from Camden. I am staying in South London - which I don’t know at all - so I ran on autopilot as far as London Bridge and then relied on a map on my watch to guide me the rest of the way. I took in my surroundings as best I could, almost with the intention of being able to follow this route again without a map, and made a mental note of the streets I liked, repeating their names over and over again out loud. I listened to the quiet of Burgess Park and compared it to the roar of Peckham High Street. When I was finally at Nunhead, I recognised streets I had run with a friend a couple of years ago on the hottest day of the year and the pub, The Waverley Arms, where we stopped for a Lemonade and a Coke. Then I was flung back into newness until I was fully back on the road I am staying on, in sight of the Co-Op my friend and I had visited the night before.

And guess what, when I ran the following morning, I recognised some of those streets from the previous night. That’s how it works. That’s how you feel at home. I know this place, we have a history together. I got back to the flat and got ready for the day feeling more settled. I would pass through Camden for the day, as I had done so many times, before returning home.

After work on Wednesday, I walked up to Kentish Town. I went to the Lion and Unicorn pub which was always eye-wateringly expensive, but now a pint of cider is a whopping £6.95. It won’t be long until it’s over £7, will it. We move on, London moves on, but I knew it would be like this. And that particular walk is so familiar to me I fell into the old groove I’d been hankering after.

I’ve got a funny feeling that by the end of the week, I will feel strange about going back home-home. But after I’ve been out for a run on my trails, I’m sure I’ll be back in that groove, too.