Situated in a coastal café, battling with the girl next to me for that needed burst of electricity from the remaining power socket, I revel in the quiet and distinctive peace that I can easily find nestled between the cobbled streets of Falmouth. It is true for the most part that this place is a generational dream – the maritime town is idyllic and can be said to be the home of some of the best scones you can ever eat (even if you still don’t know which order they should be assembled). I can often be found slowly pacing behind the summer tourists – the precious faces of their equally as slow dogs being the only thing delaying my annoyance.
Basement bars and the optimistic independence of the colourful high street paint the seaside town in a light mist of sea salt infused charm. I am surely mistaken in thinking that I haven’t just seen plans for a new coffee shop to open its doors next week – will be a much-needed addition to the five that already surround it! It’s a bright Sunday morning and the distinct smell of dried Rattler cuts through the coastal air after a heavy night of student spending. It may only be March, but I am already in anticipation for the bus loads of tourists to be picked up and dropped off outside Trago Mills (Cornwall’s questionable version of Disneyland) for a day full of magnet shopping and impulse purchases of that last Poldark tea towel in the window. That lingering smell of Cornish cider intensifies as pubs fill with worldly characters. Little old Falmouth triples in size and becomes similar to that of Oxford Street with a view.
I’m currently 5 hours and 8 minutes away from the big ol’ smoke of London. Big smoke now becoming scarily accurate as the world sits amongst the smog of a less than healthy climate of change. My most recent trip to London saw me attending to last year’s talents at Graduate Fashion Week; it mainly consisted of me circling the newest collections and flicking through the endless pages of glossy portfolios, but the 6 hours that I was required left me with more than enough time to become the native Londoner that I always wanted to be. Hustling through the gratified streets of Brick Lane, I once again clock the endless streams of coffee shops – each promising a slice of cake for under a fiver. What a steal! I’m not a huge coffee drinker and living as a student has definitely diminished the once refined palette that I may or may not have had, Lidl’s finest instant has seen to that.
Brick Lane is as vibrant as they come, 100 years of cultural history distilled into a thin haven of eccentric art, vintage fashion and street-food heaven – showcasing the very best of East London.
Hanbury Street is often overlooked – my first pair of Dr. Marten boots were haggled for at the impressive Blitz, the biggest vintage warehouse I think I have ever got lost in. I find it ironic that I invested in an actual pair of the shiny patent classic (minus a shoelace) for £6. Ironic in the sense that prior to my purchase, I begrudgingly handed over an uncomfortable chunk of my budgeted funds for a flat white in an artisan coffee shop on the corner of E1. In my defence, it was described as ‘the best cup of coffee the whole of East London offers’. I can’t be certain that it was, but again, that was probably due to my lack of taste buds.
The bearded coffee shop owner boasted that same ‘artisan’ approach to grinding beans – a phrase that I again can’t be sure of, but the local art on the walls gave me something to ponder over as I sipped my cup of liquid money. I seem to have an angst towards overpriced coffee establishments. The immigration of cultural communities has provided Brick Lane with such a diverse and fluid identity and has epitomised what it is that truly defines the community of East London. Like anything, a change of landscape is going to spark some kind of revolt – big or small. From an angry middle-aged journalist documenting his hate for all things independent – to younger protesters smashing the window of the Cereal Killer café that sells a bowl of Coco Pops for £6 – this new landscape has all become part of the new age of life.
I drift back to my humble surroundings of a sun-kissed Falmouth and I’ve swapped my tepid cup of hot coffee with a slightly cooler pint of Cornish cider. The 5 hour and 8-minute drive becomes one distinctly familiar as I walk through the now tourist heavy high street. The local vintage shop is boasting a basket sale and the independence of the remaining shops display a heavy sense of a new generation. Taking a moment, the vibrant streets of Brick Lane don’t seem the whole 300 miles away as the local identities of the coastal residents are questioned. The £2 Lidl instant suits me just fine – but for the new influx of middle class palettes, only the finest ground beans will do in that abstract artist’s impression of a mug.
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