The Book of Enitharmon

I pass through Barrow Island every time I go into town, and the bus even does a little loop-de-loop around the block of tenements - officially Devonshire Buildings but I tend to call them the Little Gorbals - at its core. But until today I haven't felt the urge to get off the bus and have a walk round. I suppose it's because it feels a little menacing. Old Barrow, as it's sometimes called, always had a reputation as a rough-and-tough neighbourhood, although I suspect that it's rather safer than, say, central Reading.

My memory of it from childhood is of gaunt shipyard buildings, cranes, and railway lines wandering all over the roadway.

Explore it I had to, though, and as I had half an hour to kill and it turned out to be a lovely day after early drizzle I set off in search of something I'd never clapped eyes on before. The house at 6 Annan Street where my Dad was born in 1921 and spent the first twelve years of his life, though he never showed any interest in revisiting it (my Dad hated Barrow and couldn't get out quickly enough; he only grudgingly took us back for my Mum's sake.) And while I was there, I decided to wave the Nikoff about a bit. After all, there's the last remnants of Barrow's pre-war tram system to be found, and then there's the most delightfully unexpected little Moorish church. You can see more of my images of Barrow Island here.