The Camden Markets

Switching gears from the gold and glitz of the ungodly rich, I finally got on my hiking boots and trekked up to Camden. Not literally; I didn't hike there. And the aforementioned boots with their tall heels and decorative ties would hardly be suited for the 10 mile jaunt if I did, in fact, go on foot. So really the 'trek' was more of a leisurely weekend tube trip one misty afternoon. But hey, I needed to look the part when I got there, right? Camden is known all over and everywhere for its punk and goth scene (and may be the one place where dressing in your favorite Halloween costume is appropriate year-round). It's where [the late] Amy Winehouse made a name for herself, so what do you expect? So those boots were a necessary addition to my wardrobe that day, paired with plenty of black layers and heavy, dark eyeliner.

Oop! There she is! The real Amy Winehouse in one of Camden's African-themed food joints.

Geared up and ready to go, I found the famed Camden Market without difficulty. All you have to do is cruise with the crowd, estimated to reach 100,000 visitors per weekend, from the tube station and you'll be carried through the gates. Unless of course you're stopped like I was by a half-naked yogi trying to pawn religious books on the side of the road. It's good to note that you can only alight from the tube station on the weekends, to prevent dangerous overcrowding in the tunnels. To leave Camden, you have to take a bus, taxi, or (god forbid) walk a little until you find another tube.

First, you'll hit a colorful wash of narrow stores lining both sides of the street. These are mainly shoes stores and clothing retailers displaying the hottest new goth gadgets and costumes, with private tattoo consultations and piercings offered downstairs. Peek inside for some serious PVC and rubber clothing...all the rage this season, I hear. Pair that with a coffin-shaped handbag and mile-high lace-up work boots in patent leather black and you're sure to look totally and 100% stylin'.

Feel free to dress like this happy couple. Lookin' sharp!

Heading south, you'll cross the bridge over the locks of the canal, with stilled water closing in on complete stagnation, before you come to the walled-in Camden Markets on the left. Hidden behind the visual barrier of stone, the expanse of the market is beyond comprehension and knowing at first glance. It is deceptive, and more vast than you would ever expect.

 

My journey north from little Roehampton took so long I didn't reach the markets before nightfall...at 4:30PM. Lovely. But I wasn't about to let the combination of dodgy appearances and dim lighting deter me. No way. So throwing caution to the wind like the ash from the thousand cigarettes being smoked along Camden's high street, I hopped across the street in my little heels and breezed through the gates.

The first thing I realized was how bad an idea it was to wear those same heels. I didn't find it amusing in the slightest to be twisting both ankles, time after time, on the rounded, sloping cobblestones that made up every floor surface. But I pressed on, if not daintily for fear of full fracture. My second thought, after gracefully overcoming the first obstacle, was to browse the lanes first and get my bearings before I did any serious stall inspection. But not minutes into my wanderings I realized I was already completely turned around and it was unlikely I'd be finding myself back at my starting spot at any point during that evening unless it was by luck alone. Rarely do I lose my sense of direction but inside the walls of the market, while the lanes twist and converge and lead on and on to different levels, linking additional marketing areas and stalls and kiosks, I was admittedly quite lost. It felt like more of a hedge maze than a shopping center. 

Notice the roof, or lack thereof...

 Overhead, the lanes were only partially covered by tent-like overhangs from adjacent stalls that barely overlapped, when they did at all. The gaps let the blue-black evening sky peek through sometimes to the restless, moving hoards of shoppers. Often I found myself sidestepping them, the shoppers, as I slowly moved ahead on tiptoe to avoid catching a stiletto heel in the cracks, only to end up underneath a dripping, rainy sky, when one hadn't been there a moment ago, when I'd been protected by the white cloth of a tent.

As I walked I visually absorbed my surroundings (as people unaffected by blindness often do), and I began to notice a familiarity and an obvious repetition in the merchandise. Most stalls had sister stalls spattered throughout the market. And frankly, this trend was not cleverly disguised by the warning signs telling tourists 'Do Not Take Photos' placed in full view at the front, as if the items beyond them were highly prized, individualistic pieces. This wasn't always the case, however. Plenty of vintage clothing, record/music, and accessories stalls intermingled with their wanna-be competitors. And with the plethora of smoke shops I doubt anyone but me was clearheaded enough to notice these details, anyway.

The Stable Market was, by far, the most recognizable and interesting part of the whole...and of my entire evening as well, I'd have to say. After all, it's inside a giant, giant stable that was converted from a horse hospital (for the horses that pulled barges along the canal) to what it is now, a market using each separate horse stall as its own tiny shop. In there, chain stores are not permitted, I found out, and thus many of the 450 “shops” (just in this one market section, mind you, because there are 6 in total) choose to sell antiques, each stall specializing in one very particular kind of item....

Books, for example, or vintage suitcases made of hard brown leather, cracked from age. There were stalls selling only mink jackets at bargain prices right next to the hayloft room dealing in retro men's shoes. As part of the renovation, horse sculptures were installed...at least I'm assuming it was after the real, live horses vacated the premises. I can't imagine dozens of larger-than-life horse statues would have been necessary in the horse clinic's heyday.

As much as I loved horses as a child (oh, let's face it, I still do), I probably would've peed my pants with excitement in here. Though I do not recommend taking children here, actually. To do so would be a poor choice and demonstrate a serious lack of judgment and common sense.

And they all wear orange...

I am convinced that wherever people gather there will be food. And in the markets, where 100,000 people visit every weekend alone, like I said, you can imagine there's LOTS of food. People have this thing for eating, you know, to sustain life and all that nonsense. Me, I wasn't much interested in it at that time of day but its pungent presence was literally unavoidable. You're walking along, minding your own business when suddenly you hear, “Hello, darling,” coming at you from all sides, aimed at you and all the others around you, one hundred times over. You're not sure where to direct your attention, which “Hello, darling,” to attend to first. You're senses are mildly confused by the auditory repetition of that small phrase, which lingers in the air with forced continuity. And then, just as you've made up your mind to close your ears and run for it, there are skewers of chicken fluttering and waving under your very nostrils. “You want chicken, yes? Crispy chicken for you?” It's tempting when that food is floating within your grasp, smelling so nice, but don't take the sample unless you plan on buying....or else face the death stares that appear on the faces of what were, moments ago, cheery faces of teeny-tiny Asian girls.

And that's all I have to say about that.