The Groundwater Diaries: Trials, Tributaries and Tall Stories from Beneath the Streets of London. Tim Bradford
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about Highbury and Blackstock Road in the past, a semi-rural landscape of overlapping conduits and raised waterways, a Venice meets Spaghetti Junction. I am walking over deep crevasses covered by glass peppered with little red dots. Water flies through large glass tunnels, crisscrossing one way then another. Purple water froths over in a triumphal arch. It’s like some vaguely remembered scene from a sci-fi short story.
Arches are always triumphal, never defeatist. Why is that? Because, when you think about it, an arch is like a sad face. A triumphal face would be like an upturned arch. I email the dream to my new online dream analyst (‘Poppy’) to find out the truth.
An email arrives:
(In dippy American accent)
Hi Tim!
Dreaming of clear water is a sign of great good luck and prosperity, a dream of muddy water foretells sadness or sorry for the dreamer through hearing of an illness or death of someone he/she knows well. Dirty water warns of unscrupulous people who would bring you to ruin. All water dreams, other than clear, have a bad omen connected to them and should be studied carefully and taken as a true warning.
I had already noticed a pattern emerging in the California textured world of online dream doctors. Take money off punter then cut and paste a bit of text from a dream dictionary. After a couple of weeks I wrote back to Poppy but the email was returned. On her website was a 404 file not found. Perhaps the web police had raided Poppy’s dream surgery and found her in bed with a horse covered in fish scales.
After a bit of searching around I found a sensible new online dream doctor called Mike. He didn’t seem very New Age and replied promptly.
(Sensible Yorkshire accent)
I thank you so much for using our online Dream Diagnosis! I will interpret your dream as fast as possible. Thank you, and
God Bless,
Michael, Dream Analyst
A river called the Hackney Brook? You have to admit it’s a rubbish name. Some river names, like the Humber, Colne and Ouse, are thought to be pre-Celtic. The Thames is British in origin. Likewise Tee and Dee, and Avon. But the Hackney Brook? – the lazy fuckers just called it after Hackney. Didn’t they? Of course, mere streams and tributaries would not have been given the importance of big rivers. All the same, the Anglo-Saxons yet again manage to show how dour and unimaginative they can be. So what about Hackney? Where does that come from?
There are three possible origins for the name Hackney. Firstly, the word haccan is Anglo-Saxon for ‘to kill with a sword or axe, slash slash slash!’ and ‘ey’ means a river. Or it is a Viking word meaning ‘raised bit in marshland’ – perhaps because Hackney was always a well-watered area, with streams running into the River Lea. But the most likely explanation is that the area belonged to the Saxon chief, Hacka.
Proof for all this? For once I can offer some evidence. Here is an excerpt from the great Anglo-Saxon epic poem Beowulf. In this short section Hacka, the founder of Hackney, makes a brief appearance.
Came then from the moor
under the misty hills
Hacka stalking under
the weight of his river knowledge.
That Saxon pedant
planned to ensnare
the minds of men
in the high hall.
He strode under the clouds,
seeking Beowulf, to tell him
about the river he had found
near his new house.
Nor was it the first time he
had tried to name that stream.
And never in his life before
– or since –
did he find better luck!
For came then to the building
that Beowulf, full of wisdom.
(In E. L. Whisty voice)
‘Beo, there’s this river that runs
through my new gaff.
What should I call it?’
Quickly Beowulf’s brain moved
and he answered direct,
(in John Major voice)
‘Call your new home Hacka’s village.
And the stream shall be named
The Brook of Hacka’s village.’
‘That’s original and catchy, O great chief,’
said Hacka, much pleased. ‘Thanks a lot.’
As he went out, smiling.
He saw an evil demon in an angry mood
Pass in the other direction.
‘Evening, mate!’ said Hacka.
The demon had fire in his eyes.
That monster expected
to rip life from the body of each
one before morning came.
But Hacka didn’t notice –
He was too excited about his new river.
I never thought I’d turn into the sort of person who talked about the weather incessantly, but the rain round our way was definitely getting worse. Big plump drops, vertical sheeting, soft drizzle, aggressively cold splashes, wind-blown white scouring sleet, peppery eye-stinging bursts and, of course, dull, wet London showers.
Holes have been dug in the nearby streets and small Thames Water and Subterra signs have been erected. They are obviously doing ‘something’ to the underground rivers. Cutting a deal with them, perhaps, urging them to be quiet. Or diverting them further underground in case they snitch. Or converting the waters of the river into beer. I got through to Thames Water and tried to find someone responsible for underground rivers, but with no success. Then I’m back in a queue: ‘We are sorry to keep you. Your call is important to us. However, we are currently experiencing high call volumes. You are moving up the queue and your call will be answered as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience at this busy time.’
Floods. Snow. Christmas comes and goes. Under a young tree lies a charred pile of stuff – pieces of clothing, books, aerosol cans and a small stool. A pair of men’s shoes are still slightly smouldering. The aftermath of some apocalyptic festive break-up? Or perhaps a young graffiti-addicted accountant simply spontaneously combusted on his star-gazing stool while contemplating the sheer joy of life.
More lazy days in the library, looking at old maps of the area and the Hackney Brook valley. A book by a local historian, Jack Whitehead, shows the contours