SE3 - Jack Cades Cavern, Blackheath

Hello people,

At some point in history, somebody must have decided to name the area of land in SE3 between Greenwich and Deptford, as Blackheath. But why? Having the word heath in the title makes sense, the heath is awesome. Anywhere you can fly a kite, watch fireworks, visit the fun fair and get drunk for less the a tenner deserves all the recognition it gets. But where does the 'Black' in Blackheath come from? 

As I mentioned in my last post, since becoming a Dad I'm really struggling to find time to take photo's. So here's a couple of snaps from my family Facebook album. Above is Sophie and Jamie at the Blackheath fire works, ahh.

And here's my brother-in-law Harry. Difficult to see Blackheath as

the picture was taken at night, but doesn't he look happy?

Some believe Blackheath got its name when the common was used as a mass grave during the Black Plague in 1665. Others say the name derives from the old word Blachehefield, meaning dark coloured heathland. I have my own theory...

For there is a part of Blackheath where pitch black darknes forever resides. Where even on the most glorious summers day, not one ray of light can enter, and no, I’m not talking about Morden’s Wine Bar. I’m talking about Blackheath’s hidden caves!

There is a labyrinth of tunnels and caverns beneath Blackheath. Most people, including myself, first became aware of their existence in the summer of 2002, when the ceiling to one of the caves beneath a section of road near Blackheath Station, unexpectedly fell into itself, leaving a large void in the middle of the street. 

At the time, this sudden collapse raised some pretty serious questions. Why had this happened? What did it mean? Was it an omen from some higher power about us returning to the earth from which we came? Was it an attempt at communication from life forms on another planet? Was this a signal that dark spirits were rising? And what effect would all this have on the traffic from the A2?

This vast and ominously terrifying void or 'big hole' as the locals poetically called it, was clearly a problem. How could Blackheath's residents, and its many visitors, enjoy the basic human freedoms of sipping a Long Macchiato in the village delicatessen? Buying some organic kale from the farmers market? Or simply wheeling our travel systems along the narrow pavements, with the threat of our world literally collapsing beneath our feet at any moment?

A photo taken across Blackheath common by Rosie from the car on a rainy day (obviously, I was driving at the time). Note the traffic in the background. Now imagine this same picture, but with more traffic caused by the presence of a 'big hole' in the middle of the road at the far end of the picture. Chilling, isn't it?

After much consultation it was agreed by the council, and all of its residents, that the road would be strengthened, rebuilt, and that once the works were finished, no one would ever mention this potentially property price reducing incident ever again, on pain of death. If the Blackheath mafia ever read this blog, unlikely as that may be, then the consequences for yours truly, are unthinkable. If these are to be my last words dear reader, then please remember me as a man who worked tirelessly to reveal the truth… mostly.

In 1780 a builder whose name I wasn't able to discover (let’s call him Dave) had the bright idea of buying a house in Blackheath and calving 40 steps down into the chalk to gain access to the caves. Doing so, he created his own tourist attraction, which he charged a very reasonable 6p to enter. We must assume Dave made most of his profit on T-shirt and souvenir photograph sales. Originally Dave's Caves were a big success, with tourist turning up in there droves to see the mysterious world beneath their feet, and leaving Dave with more 6p’s then he could have imagined in his wildest dreams. But this success, was to come at a terrible cost. The caves and tunnels were poorly ventilated and tragically, a 19 year old girl name Lucy Talbot collapsed and eventually died whilst visiting the caves, as a result of the poor air quality down there.

One would imagine this heart-breaking incident would be enough to convince Dave to block up the entrance forever, but that many 6p’s are enough to turn any man’s head. Dave installed an air vent to allow some fresh air to circulate, and then underwent a re-branding exercise, possibly with the help of his wife (if he had one), who could have been named Chardonnay. Chardonnay’s vision was to turn Dave's caves into a high class nightclub/ creative events venue, with a bar carved into the chalk walls and a chandelier suspended from the cave ceiling. I assume Chardonnay insisted Dave change the name, as she felt Dave's Caves sounded like a dogging hotspot. After undertaking a lot of market research, Chardonnay (assuming she ever existed) probably felt that the name should reflect the history of the caves to add a bit of intrigue to the decor. For this reason she likely convinced Dave to name the new bar after a man called Jack Cade, who is thought to have used one of the caverns as a base to lead a revolt against King Henry VI in 1455. 

“Jack Cade was cool, he was edgy, he fought the King, he was for the people. He was also a bit of a Pagan which is very on point right now. Babes, no A-Lister is going to cross the river and trek all the way to Blackheath to be seen in a place called 'Dave’s Caves'. It’s 1780, we don’t even have Addison Lee yet.” Chardonnay may have said. More on Jack Cade next time, but I continue…

A photo of Blackheath pond, taken some time after last orders at the Princess of Wales pub, where I had been raising a glass in celebration of my sister Louise's 30th birthday. 

The popularity of Jack Cades Cavern grew and grew until around 1850, when the bar was closed and all the entrances blocked by the local authorities after it became synonymous with rowdy nights and naked women. To this day it is impossible to get into the caves, but there is no reason to believe that Jack Cades Cavern isn’t still intact, with bar, chandelier, and possibly even a few bottles of booze lying around.

Some say that on a quiet night in Blackheath, if you put your ear to the common floor, you can still hear the sound of people talking and glasses clinking. In all likelihood, these nutters with their faces in the dirt are probably listening to the drunks in the Princess of Wales complain about how much they just paid for a gin and tonic, and two white wine spritzers. But who knows? Maybe, just maybe, beneath Blackheath common, Dave is still tending his bar, serving customers, making a roaring profit, and thinking about that terrible mistake he made. I wonder if he’s happy?

Well that’s it, sorry to end on a downer, but what happened, happened. It’s not like I make this stuff up you know.

28D

A photo of genuine drunk people taken in Princess of Wales, an above ground pub on Blackheath Common.