Crowdy, noisy, multi-cultural and vibrant. This is Brixton and I love it. I would never have moved here from Surrey if it hadn’t been for friends who settled here and during my frequent visits I fell in love with the place. I fell in love with the resturants, and the clubs, and the corner sofas for sale in the market, but I also fell in love with the people who are in love with the place - it’s a truism that people who live in Brixton truly love Brixton. There’s a real community feel, a defensiveness and pride.
It’s also a happening place. As I write, there’s a County Show in the awesomely spacious Brockwell Park (with it’s pools and hidden gardens, and the best lido in the country) an art show at the end of the road. Paintings of every size and sort, hung onto railings and gates and trees, the annual Josephine Avenue art fair, rivaling anything you’d find in Paris. For weeks before the event, the council deliver huge skips so residents can trim the lush greenery that marks the leafy street as one of London’s finest. The gorgeous architecture harks back to a more genteel era, and is vibrantly overlaid with sounds of reggae and steel drums and samba emanating from the now many flats. You can almost always hear music in Brixton. It’s communal and celebrated and loud.
Add to the sounds the delicious smells. Incense pouring from the stand that is always by the station. Smoke pouring from the jerk chicken shacks, the waft of Caribbean food, the market brimming with fruit and fish. OK, in hot weather the fish isn’t always the best smell. But it’s alive. The bustle, the buses, the market stalls, the calling, the bursts of music, the laughter, the costumes and the fancy clothes, the gospel (always someone preaching the gospel) and high fives and chatter. Brixton, for me is a place for the senses.
Something strange has happened since I got here. I used to yearn to travel - epic and expensive journeys to places with sounds and smells and noise and action, diversity and differences. But oddly, I no longer yearn to escape. Because not only is Brixton home, for me is the world journey with the smallest carbon footprint. Every sensual experience I’ll ever need, neatly the end of the Victoria line.
It’s also a happening place. As I write, there’s a County Show in the awesomely spacious Brockwell Park (with it’s pools and hidden gardens, and the best lido in the country) an art show at the end of the road. Paintings of every size and sort, hung onto railings and gates and trees, the annual Josephine Avenue art fair, rivaling anything you’d find in Paris. For weeks before the event, the council deliver huge skips so residents can trim the lush greenery that marks the leafy street as one of London’s finest. The gorgeous architecture harks back to a more genteel era, and is vibrantly overlaid with sounds of reggae and steel drums and samba emanating from the now many flats. You can almost always hear music in Brixton. It’s communal and celebrated and loud.
Add to the sounds the delicious smells. Incense pouring from the stand that is always by the station. Smoke pouring from the jerk chicken shacks, the waft of Caribbean food, the market brimming with fruit and fish. OK, in hot weather the fish isn’t always the best smell. But it’s alive. The bustle, the buses, the market stalls, the calling, the bursts of music, the laughter, the costumes and the fancy clothes, the gospel (always someone preaching the gospel) and high fives and chatter. Brixton, for me is a place for the senses.
Something strange has happened since I got here. I used to yearn to travel - epic and expensive journeys to places with sounds and smells and noise and action, diversity and differences. But oddly, I no longer yearn to escape. Because not only is Brixton home, for me is the world journey with the smallest carbon footprint. Every sensual experience I’ll ever need, neatly the end of the Victoria line.
