Hello people,
A few months back me and my sister Louise attempted to climb the notorious Central Hill in the Borough of Lambeth, SE19. Without wishing to sound boastful, I consider myself an experienced, and talented climber, having scaled the formidable peaks of Shooters Hill, Maze Hill and all 5 floors of our old flat in the Arnold Estate, Bermondsey, whenever the lift broke down. I invited Louise on the advice of my therapist, who suggested a joint activity would improve our relationship. Tensions between us have existed ever since Boxing Day 1990 when I saw her sneaking out of our room with a pair of Roland Rat shaped scissors (the ears were the finger holes) and subsequently discovered all the wires cut at the bottom of my brand new Scalextric cars. She’s always denied the vandalism, but I’m certain she did it. Her motive? That I wouldn’t let her to play with my new Christmas present, not out of selfishness, but in adherence to the recommend age restrictions, clearly stated on the side of the Scalextric box, which she fell short of by more than 2 and a half months. Our climb, and the disaster which was to follow, has since become legend among fellow climbers.
This is our story.
Central Hill stands at an incredible 92meters above sea level. Accessible to man by only the No 3 bus, or a brisk 5-10 minute walk. As always I began the journey with one final check of our equipment. In my bag I had the tent, rope, helmet, harness, crampons for my shoes, ice axe, a 2 litre bottle of Iron Brew, and a pocket knife. Louise in her bag had Oyster and Debit cards, a picture of Matt and Sadie, a box of Cadbury’s Fingers, and some nail clippers. Once at the foot of the climb I tethered us together with the rope, a measure Louise felt unnecessary, she has always had a flippant attitude to health and safety, I remember her running and laughing with those Roland Rat scissors as I chased her down the hall and into the living room in a Scalextric rage. After a quick drink of Iron Brew and a short prayer, our assent began.
To climb, is to be nothing else, but a climber. All of your energy and focus is on your next handhold, next step. The howl of the wind and hum of electric mobility scooters passing you, become nothing but white noise. At the halfway point I remember shouting across to Louise that we should stop to camp, as we were quickly losing the light. To her credit she observed that the darkness was due to the helmet having slipped over my eyes. We stopped for a while so I could adjust my head protector and eat some of Louise’s Cadbury’s Fingers for sustenance. It was then that disaster struck. A passing pigeon spotted and swooped for the Cadbury’s Fingers. Louise, showing the reactions of a panther reached into her bag and pulled out the nail clippers to guard our provisions from the flying menace. Firstly firing a warning nip across its path, and when that was ignored, quickly following with three rapid strikes. She only managed to clip a feather, but it was enough to warn off the thief. Sadly the winged assassin had already sealed our fate, for during the affray, a stray chocolate finger had fallen to the floor directly onto the spot of my next footstep. Feeling for solid ground and finding finger rolling mayhem, I slipped, and toppled backwards till the rope that connected Louise and I, was as taught as the tension in the air.
I realised then I had two options, hang from the rope till gravity took us both, or cut the rope, save my sister and doom myself. I decided not to cut the rope. It was then that I saw Louise reach into her pocket, and pull out a pair of scissors, a pair of Roland Rat shaped scissors! “J’accuse!” I screamed in my best Spanish. Then in horror I watched her clasp the rope with one hand, position the rodent shaped shears above the rope with the other, and snip.
I feel like Icarus, falling, falling, falling, Louise growing ever distant, her final words to me “I’m sorry but I’m bored, I’m calling an Uber” expanding into the ever increasing void between us.
I rolled for what felt like an eternity, back down the 16 meters of hill we had traveled, and stopped at the trough between Central and Gypsy Hill.
Gypsy Hill got its name from the large Romani gypsy settlement which populated the area during the 17th and 18th centuries, back when Norwood was still large swaths of forest, known as the Great North Wood. The most famous of all the Norwood gypsies was a woman called Margaret Finch. She was a Romani fortune teller and people would come from all over to have their fortunes read by her. She lived from 1651-1760 a life spanning a staggering 109 years! It’s said that her habit of resting her chin on her knees meant that her body eventually contorted permanently into a sitting position, and that when she died she needed to be buried in a square coffin to account for her unusual shape. I wonder if she predicted that would happen?
Despite their long stay in this part of London, little is known of the Norwood Romani Gypsies. Even the term by which they are known ‘gypsies’ is incorrect. The Romani arrived in Europe during the Middle Ages, and came to be known by the term Gypsies because local people assumed they were Egyptians - or gypcian in the English of the Middle Ages- banished from Egypt for harbouring the baby Jesus when Herod was seeking the child to kill him.
In fact genetic findings suggest that the Romani originated from North West India approximately 1500 years ago. Some people believe the Romani began there nomadic existence in search of a better life. Some that they were an army of defeated Indian soldiers forced to move on. Others suggest they may have been taken from their home land as slaves. Sadly the origins of these people will forever be a mystery as so little is known of the history of the Romani. They have left no written accounts of their lives, the Romani language has for most part been an entirely oral language, and I guess when the history books were being written, few words were given to the Romani.
The Romani of Norwood would spend the summer months working on the farms for the harvest. During the winter months they would move onto common land in London, where they would go door to door selling lavender, clothes pegs and wooden flowers.
Despite living in a closed society these movements would often bring them in contact with the people of London, many of whom would also spend the summer hop picking in Kent as a way to escape the city, and we have adopted many Romani words into our own language, such as cushty, wonga and my personal favourite “Oi mush!” Meaning “Excuse me sir!”
The Romani lived in Norwood for hundreds of years till around 1800 AD when they were forced to move on by the authorities. Once they packed up the dome shaped tents they lived in, and left the place they’d called home for hundreds of years, there was no physical evidence they’d ever been their at all. But, as Gypsy Hill testifies, the impression they left on our culture could not be erased.
Perhaps one day Central Hill will be known as ‘Hannon’s Hill’ after Louise and my doomed exhibition? Perhaps the bottom of the hill will be remembered as ‘Cadbury’s Finger Fall Crescent?’ Who knows? All that is certain, is that despite the set backs, the Romani strive on, as will I.
I’m going onto eBay now to see if any Scalextric tracks are for sale.
Laters.
