London Through Their Eyes: A Family Adventure!

There is something magical about seeing London through the eyes of your children. 

Over the years, Erin and Keilyn have become quite the little explorers! Even Alysha, when she was their age, enjoyed visiting the sights. We have spent days checking off the 'big ones', like Buckingham Palace, The Mall and Horse Guards Parade, to the world famous museums, and some of the lesser known ones, too.

Slovakian Diary: What's in the Pot?

Shortly after my father, Joseph Anthony Gerard Morrissey, passed away in 2009, I discovered three handwritten diary entries on loose A4 sheets. He had already typed up and published many other entries on a Slovakian website, which is unfortunately no longer online. 

I do not know who wrote these pages or how to trace the author, 

so I am sharing them here to finish what he started.

If you have any information about these entries or recognise who might have written them, 

please get in touch by leaving a message or sending an email.

Enjoy reading.

What's in the Pot?

My partner and I use on our ancient wood-burning range—probably contemporary with our three-hundred-plus-year-old cottage—my long-departed 'aunt's' cooking pot and two skillets, one large and one small. The latter still have their original, detachable teak handles. They are extremely weighty, being made of heavy-gauge cast iron.

At first sight, when I unpacked them from a cardboard box they were far too heavy for, my partner pooh-poohed them. Understandably so, as these utensils are emphatically not for your Aga-owning bourgeois with a compulsory range of colourful, enamelled cast-iron casserole pots. My aunt, if she had known of these expensive kitchen accoutrements, would have heartily despised them.  

My partner dismissed them because, apart from being extremely heavy (the large pot and skillet, even without their lids, are a two-handed job), they had an encrusted interior due to four generations of deposits from the soot, smoke, and ash of countless campfires. They were often buried deep in the embers of a dying campfire without their handles—partly to conserve firewood, but much more importantly, so as not to betray the camp to the watching Japanese by building up a fresh fire with its tell-tale plume of smoke.  

However, for our ancient wood-burning range, they proved ideal. I showed, much to her surprise, that they were very functional and non-stick by virtue of having been cleaned from first use without detergent—just boiling water, and then, while still hot, the interior smeared with oil. This rendered them non-stick: better than any Chinese-made, Teflon-coated, aluminium frying pan guaranteed to last three years, but not four generations.  

It was the sight of these ancient utensils quietly bubbling on the stove that inspired this diary, which is a homage to my aunt's memory and her remarkable life.  

My mother's family was born into the Indian Raj and had lived there for generations. I was the last member of the family to be born there, in 1941, up in the hill station of Simla with its incongruous mock-Tudor bungalows and neat English gardens (no shortage of gardeners and water-boys, then or now). It is at the end of a narrow-gauge mountain railway and boasts a convalescence and maternity hospital because its elevation above the hot, teeming, dusty plains far below ensured a quiet, cool peace for the memsahibs, their babies, young children, and convalescing walking wounded. Both my grandmother and mother were born there.  

When the Japanese—'Nips', as they were termed in those oh-so-politically-incorrect times—invaded Burma and approached India proper, the women and children of the Raj, including my mother and me, were evacuated by convoy via Cape Town to Britain, as Rommel was then threatening the Suez Canal.  

Slovakian Diary: Dog Adoption, Dúbrava Style; or, The Shanghaiing of a neighbour by the village Press Gang

Shortly after my father, Joseph Anthony Gerard Morrissey, passed away in 2009, I discovered three handwritten diary entries on loose A4 sheets. He had already typed up and published many other entries on a Slovakian website, which is unfortunately no longer online. 

I do not know who wrote these pages or how to trace the author, 

so I am sharing them here to finish what he started.

If you have any information about these entries or recognise who might have written them, 

please get in touch by leaving a message or sending an email.

Enjoy reading.

Dog Adoption, Dubrava Style; or, The Shanghaiing of a neighbour by the village Press Gang

I have previously mentioned that after virtually every Christmas, one or two dogs are abandoned in the snow on the lane to our village. Their ex-owners, tiring of their Christmas pets, having no interest in the long-term responsibility of owning and training a puppy, and with their children back at school, simply drive up to our village and unceremoniously dump their dogs like so much Christmas wrapping.

The village, again as previously mentioned, has an extravagant collection of dogs, and this is an eyewitness account of how this heterogeneous pack came to be.

Last week, a little puppy was found abandoned, freezing, and starving to death—its ribs starkly standing out—trapped deep in a roadside snowdrift. It was found by a good neighbour and was temporarily given to us to feed and warm up. We have, for unknown reasons, by far the warmest cottage in the village. It was very affectionate and desperately anxious to please, though, as we soon discovered, completely un-housetrained—which, whilst speaking volumes about its original owners, kept us busy.

The next day, the finder of the puppy and some friends came round to discuss what was to be done with it. Most of the permanent residents are animal lovers. Between the half-dozen of us in our cottage that morning, I calculated that we had a grand total of five dogs (most of them abandoned outside the village), four cats, five goats, and three sheep. I have lost count of the chickens and rabbits, which count for eggs, meat, and cash, and are therefore not counted as pets. The former all answer to individual names and are fed by hand. Oh, I forgot: there are a few million bees, who clearly 'know' their keeper.

Slovakian Diary: The Potravini Bench

Shortly after my father, Joseph Anthony Gerard Morrissey, passed away in 2009, I discovered three handwritten diary entries on loose A4 sheets. He had already typed up and published many other entries on a Slovakian website, which is unfortunately no longer online. 

I do not know who wrote these pages or how to trace the author, 

so I am sharing them here to finish what he started.

If you have any information about these entries or recognise who might have written them, 

please get in touch by leaving a message or sending an email.

Enjoy reading.

The Potravini Bench

There is a small village General Store at the bottom of the three-kilometre lane from our village to the parent village of Hronská Dúbrava. In front of its steps is a dilapidated bench, lurching under a bedraggled conifer. In front of the bench are two used car tyres which, once upon a time, must have contained flowers. However, currently they contain nothing but assorted weeds and a million-or-so cigarette butts. These giant vehicular ashtrays are surrounded by dust in the summer and a quagmire of mud in the winter. In clement weather, the bench is occupied by a small congregation of out-of-work drunks, who gather there with their dogs, fags, and the cheapest bottled beer in the village. In our village, you can buy a bottle of beer, drink it outside, and return the bottle for the deposit, which is put down on the next bottle. Of course, the beer is supplemented by surreptitious bottles of home-distilled Slivo.  

Our village drunk and executive is Jay, a regular. The most regular regular. The bench has the inestimable advantage of being adjacent both to the nearest beer for Jay and, just a few metres away, the village graveyard, where his late partner lies buried. So Jay can kill two birds with one stone—or should I say, two kidneys with one beer. He can deposit an armful of half-dead flowers higgledy-piggledy on the grave and guzzle a bellyful of beer at the same time.

By some miracle, Jay gets a 4,000 Koruna pension. This after a lifetime's non-contribution to any known, or unknown, pension scheme. Jay had, on the death of his partner, discovered religion, but not the attributes that go with it, like sobriety; he asserts to all and sundry that his undeserved pension is a blessing from God to his deserving, 'returning to the fold' sheep. He has got the Bible-thumping, self-justifying jargon of the born-again down to a tee.  

He ought to run for the American presidency: his ignorance, stupidity, and incompetence, together with his cunning, should have him in with a good chance. His main handicap is that he can speak in complete, syntactically correct sentences when not drunk. It is clear to the rest of us that his pension is the result of some monumental, post-communist, bureaucratic cock-up. Not divine intervention.  

Tower Hill Sundial

The Tower Hill Sundial is a unique, ground-level horizontal dial located just outside the Tower Hill Underground Station in London. Functioning as both a functional timekeeper and an intricate pictorial history book, the monument details nearly 2,000 years of the city's past.

Commissioned by London Underground Ltd, the site was unveiled on August 3, 1992, transforming an empty plaza space into a designated public garden and seating area. The space was envisioned by landscape architect John Chitty, who conceived the idea of a giant sundial at its centre, while the renowned English sculptor Edwin Russell was commissioned to bring the historical reliefs to life. Today, the gardens serve as a circular, raised viewing platform overlooking the Tower of London, where tour groups regularly convene to take in the history over the road.

Design and Historical Highlights

At the centre of the dial, just below the large gnomon, sits a prominent bronze anchor, a nod to the dial's close proximity to the River Thames and the historic Pool of London. Radiating outward from this centre is a 3.7 metre (12.14 feet) high bronze band circumscribed by detailed high-relief sculptures.

This outer ring winds chronologically through the history of London and its transport system, stretching from the founding of the Roman city of Londinium in AD 43 right through to the completion of the Thames Barrier in 1982. The reliefs depict iconic milestones, including the construction of Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, the early omnibus services, and the devastating impacts of the Great Fire and the Blitz.

The River Thames: London's Silent Witness

I have been flowing since before this island had a name, a silver ribbon winding through the shifting clay, birthed from the quiet springs of the Cotswolds and pulled relentlessly toward the grey embrace of the North Sea.

Humans have called me many names, but it is Thames that they now call me. They think they mastered me. They built their stone walls to hem me in, threw their iron bridges across my back like saddles, and dug deep into my belly to hide their trains. But I remember when I was wild. I remember when the woolly mammoth stepped heavily into my shallows to drink, and when the first frightened tribesmen built wooden huts on my marshy banks, looking at my currents with a mixture of reverence and fear.

I am a river of secrets, the great liquid spine of history.

For centuries, I have been London’s silent accomplice. I watched the Romans plant their wooden pilings into my mud, bringing the noise of a distant empire to my quiet shores. I carried the grand, gilded barges of Tudor kings and queens, listening to the whispered court gossip that drifted across my waters. I felt the heat and tasted the falling ash of the Great Fire in 1666, my surface reflecting a sky turned blood-red while terrified citizens threw their treasured possessions into my depths for safekeeping.

Walking with Erin: Royal Air Force Museum, Hendon... and beyond

Tuesday April 7, 2026.

Sunny with clear skies 19°C (66°F).

Recently I had been going through some old photographs and realised that we hadn't visited the Royal Air Force Museum, Hendon, since July 2016. That was almost 10 years ago! Back then Erin was 5 and Keilyn was 3.

So, the three of us decided to revisit during the Easter holidays. Keilyn, all of a sudden, decided that she would rather stay home and play in the sun, while Erin was still up for a day out.

We took a taxi to Watford Town centre and made our way down the High Street, where we caught a 142 bus to Edgware. One of the great things about London Transport is that children travel for free and, providing you change to another bus, or tram, within an hour of boarding, you don't get charged a second time. This is perfect for those on a budget.

Arriving at Edgware we located as 'Greggs', where food and drinks were purchased, before we headed to a bus stop to catch the 303 bus to the museum. The 303 bus dropped us directly outside the museum, which, since our last visit, had gone through a major refurbishment with new hangars and displays. We made our way through the gate, stopping to take a photo of the Supermarine Spitfire Mk Ix gate guard, before entering Hangar 1, to begin our exploration. 

Hangar 1, RAF Stories and First to the Future

Hangar 1 has two exhibitions. The first is 'RAF Stories' and the second is 'First to the Future'. Here we learnt the story of the first 100 years of the Royal Air Force, from its inception in 1918 through to the present. Aircraft and vehicles from every era were on display, along with models, ejector seats and interactive displays.

"Why are there no roads within the City of London?"

The City of London was founded nearly 2,000 years ago, by the Romans, before they eventually left Londinium, leaving the City for nature to reclaim.

Over the centuries different tribes and groups moved to within the old City walls. Eventually these small villages coalesced into large hamlets and towns. And as they grew and expanded alleys, avenues, lanes, passages, pathways, streets, yards and walks were formed, creating thoroughfares. However, there were no roads.

This is because the Romans had streets, which comes from the Latin 'strata', making the word 'street' one of the oldest continually used words in the English language. 

It wouldn't be until the late 1500s that the word 'road' would enter the English language. 'Road' is derived from the Old English word 'rad', which means 'a riding journey, usually with hostile intent'. Hence the word 'raid'.

As the City of London had been around for centuries, before this, all of its thoroughfares were already named.

In 1994 everything changed, for the City of London. Boundary changes were put in place which caused the City of London to 'absorb' part of Goswell Road from neighbouring Islington. 

Ironically, Goswell Road was known as Goswell Street, up until 1864.

Goswell Road is over three quarters of a mile in length, but only about 100 yards of it falls within the City boundary. So, technically, there is still not a single entire road within the City of London.

Walking with friends: Waterloo to Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens... and beyond

Wednesday August 27, 2025.

Having arrived back from our family holiday, in Lanzarote, on Monday, I was itching to get back to walking London's streets and discover new places.

Fortunately, I still had some time off, before I return to work next month.

My friend and colleague, Steve, also had this week off from work, so we met at Watford underground station and set off for London. Our Metropolitan line train took us to Finchley Road, where we switched to a Jubilee line train to take us to Waterloo, where our walk would begin.

As the weather forecast said rain was due in the afternoon, we both had light coats with us 

Exiting Waterloo station, we crossed Waterloo Road and made our way to the Waterloo Bus Garage, where we would have breakfast at the Bus Cafe. Now, Waterloo Bus Garage is a significant place as it became the first fully electric bus depot, in Europe, in 2016.

On entering the Bus Cafe we grabbed an available table, before I ordered two Full English breakfasts, with coffee. We didn't have to wait too long before it was served to us. As we ate the rain, that was promised for the afternoon, suddenly released a deluge. 

After we had finished we got speaking with a man at a neighbouring table. It turns out he had just flown in from Canada and, on hearing about the Bus Cafe, had entered to try his first ever Full English breakfast. A mum and daughter, at another table, were also here on their first visit. The rest of the cafe was full of bus drivers on their breaks or preparing to start their shifts.

We left the Bus Cafe and headed down Waterloo Road towards the London Ambulance Service Headquarters, where we looked at the three ambulances preserved on the forecourt, taking photos and reading about the history of the London Ambulance Service.

From here we headed down Pearman Street, crossed Westminster Bridge Road and continued down King Edward Walk, crossed Lambeth Road and cut through Geraldine Mary Harmsworth Park to reach Kennington Road.

We followed Kennington Road until we turned down Chester Way, then Kennington Lane where we turned down White Hart Street. It was here, on the Kennings Estate that we discovered some ARP stretchers being used as railings. Eventually we found ourselves on Kennington Park Road.

From here we rejoined Kennington Road and made our way to 'The Dog House', as we had heard great things about it. Plus, we were getting thirsty. Unfortunately, the pub was late in opening, so we entered 'The Tommyfield', which stands opposite.

We ordered our drinks and grabbed a table, from where we checked out the pub. It turns out that this pub has comedy nights, where various comedy figures have played.

Suitably hydrated we crossed Kennington Lane and entered 'The Dog House'. And what a delight it was. We had entered into what, at one time had been the 'public' bar, where a glass cabinet held taxidermied birds, while teapots hung from the ceiling. A short corridor, covered in small movie posters promoting various horror and science fiction films.

Entering the 'Saloon' bar we discovered more taxidermied animals, while empty bird cages hung from the ceiling. The walls were adorned with random photos, prints, African tribal masks and so much more. A small snug had oriental parasols hanging above it. It is an eclectic place. After looking around as much as we could and having spoken with the landlord, about the building, we took our drinks outside to the beer garden and relaxed.

On leaving 'The Dog House' we passed the house where Charlie Chaplin had lived, from 1889-1978, before crossing Kennington Road and heading down Black Prince Road. We passed 'The Black Prince' pub and Venn Park, before reaching Tyers Street, where we stopped for a drink at 'The Jolly Gardeners'. 

Now, I have been here before and this pub houses a piano that was, supposedly, played by Charlie Chaplin Senior. It is stood in the corner of the pub, in a sorry looking state. There is no plaque or information that states its history, but it is still an intriguing piece to look at. After looking at the piano we sat in the open-air garden and sipped our drinks.

On leaving the pub we continued along Black Prince Road, where I pointed out 'The Queen's Head' pub, which is now a bistro. At one time, in its past, this pub was frequented by Charlie Chaplin as it was run by his Uncle. It was here that he drew inspiration for his "Tramp" character, after noticing a patron, Archibald Binks, who wore large loose fitting trousers and walked with a shuffle.

We continued our walk until we reached the 'Doulton' building, with its ornate office building, on the corner of Lambeth High Street. This is one of my favourite buildings in the area.

Turning up Lambeth High Street we stopped, so that Steve could have his photo taken with some firemen.

 

We then entered 'The Windmill Pub'. This is another pub that I had visited before and was eager to show Steve its wonderful interior and its amazing and entertaining 'If Places Were Faces, London' drawing. And Steve loved it, spending far too much time laughing at the names and faces on it. We then looked around the pub, before sitting to sip our drinks.

We then headed back down Lambeth High Street and back along Black Prince Road until we reached Vauxhall Walk, which we followed, passing the National Crime Agency building, until we reached Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. 

"Was this Piano played by Charles Chaplin Senior?"

While wandering around Vauxhall I popped into 'The Jolly Gardeners' for a drink. While chatting with the barmaid she told me that the piano, standing forlorn in the corner, was played regularly by Charles Chaplin Senior. 

I have to say that I was a bit disbelieving about this titbit of information, considering the state of the instrument and the lack of a plaque. Still, it was something that I would research later, just to see if there was any truth in it.

Although Charles Chaplin Senior was a music hall entertainer, beginning his career as a mimic, at the age of 24. Soon after he changed his act to that of a 'dramatic and descriptive singer'.

He was never inclined to learn an instrument, and I can find no evidence that he could play the piano.

He toured the United States of America, in 1890, and continued to pull in the crowds until 1897. His last appearance was at the Granville Theatre, Waltham Green, in 1900.

So far there is no information that suggests that this piano was played by him.

But... hang on.

Many of those in the music hall industry became alcoholics, as they were expected to encourage customers to purchase drinks. This was what happened to Charles.

His son, Charlie Spencer Chaplin, wrote in his memoirs that he would often wait outside public houses, where his father, being an alcoholic, could always be found.

Bell Building, Lambeth

Since 1560 this was the site of a public house, named The Bell Inn, with an address of 11 Church Street. St Mary-at-Lambeth church, which stood at the road's western end, was how Church Street got its name.

Following the street renaming process, which took place between 1857-1929, its address became 111 Lambeth Road.

Alterations were made, in 1930, when the building incorporated the refreshments room, previously a tobacconists, next door. 

This new building, built in the neo-Tudor style, opened in 1931, but ultimately closed as a public house in 1958.

It was redeveloped with residential flats, above, and offices on the ground floor.

It is believed that the Inn got its name from the bell that was rung to summon ferrymen to the nearby River Thames.

Tram Shelter, Southwark

A relic from a bygone era.

On the junction of Union Street and Southwark Bridge Road, there is a cafe bar that resides in a wonderful relic from a bygone era.

The building began life as a tram shelter and stands on a pedestrian island near Flat Iron Square. 

It is a single storey building with timber framed doors, a pitched plain clay tile roof with a ventilation lantern. A semicircular window, above the door adds to the charm of this 1930s building.

A tram shelter repurposed as a cafe bar.

Trams once trundled by this building on their way to the northern end of Southwark Bridge and, in the other direction, to the Hop Exchange, close to Borough High Street.

Like much of this area, in and around Southwark, a lot has been lost to redevelopment, so it is nice to see that this almost 100 year old building has been repurposed.

The two London Plane trees offer some shade to patrons who choose to dine outside in the summer months.

Marshalsea Prison South Wall

Angel Place is an alley that leads from Borough High Street to Tennis Street, passing St George's Churchyard Gardens.

The wall that separates the gardens from the alley is all that remains of the south wall of Marshalsea Prison, a notorious debtor's prison that stood, in one state or another, on this site.

Brief History

The first Marshalsea Prison, 1373-1811, was located at what is now 161 Borough High Street and housed men accused of crimes at sea, political prisoners and debtors.

Watch House, Rotherhithe

This Watch House, on St Marychurch Street, was used by Watchmen in the 19th century. 

Constructed in 1821 it was built as a twin to the Old Rotherhithe Fire Engine House, just a bit further along Saint Marychurch Street.

It has a single floor, above ground, and a basement level, which contained a cell.

The Watchmen who were stationed here would patrol the local area in an effort to deter criminal activity. If a watchman found someone acting suspiciously they would be brought back to the Watch House, where they were kept in a cell until either being discharged or imprisoned.

This particular Watch House backs on to St Mary's Churchyard. One of the jobs watchmen were called upon to undertake was the protection of the dead. Bodysnatchers, or 'Resurrection Men' as they were known, who stole corpses for for medical research at Guy's Hospital, often visited graveyards in an attempt to find 'fresh' bodies.

The former burial ground is now St Mary's Churchyard Gardens, and the Watch House is now the Watchhouse Cafe. 

The building is Grade II listed.

Charles 'Charlie' Rouse, circa 1850.

Being a Watchmen was originally an unpaid civic duty for the local townspeople. Eventually it would become a 'profession', with Watchmen receiving a small sum for their time.

Their local parish would set down the routes that were to be followed, which they would patrol from 21:00 to 06:00. 

They were known to call out the time and weather every hour, check for fires, ensure that the village folk had locked their doors, among other things. Occasionally, townsfolk would pay the Watchmen a small sum of money to act as a walking alarm clock, waking those that had paid at a specific time.

There are still some similar Watch Houses in and around London. like the one above which is at St Matthew's Church Gardens, Bethnal Green.

Fire Engine House, Rotherhithe

This front wall is all that remains of the Old Rotherhithe Village Fire Engine House, which was built in 1821. It forms a pair with the nearby Watch House, both of which are on Saint Marychurch Street, and back on to a lovely green oasis, called St Mary's Churchyard Gardens.

This engine house once housed firemen and a single hand-operated wheeled fire engine. It must have been a small appliance as the entrance takes up a third of the wall, while two small windows take up the rest.

A fire appliance was kept here until the 1870s.

Although only a facade, now, I am still glad that it remains in situ, as part of the wall surrounding St Mary's Churchyard Gardens.

Relics in a Forgotten Park, North Woolwich

Keilyn beside a giant anchor.

It was during one of my walks with Keilyn that we discovered a small park on the banks of the River Thames.

We had just disembarked from the Woolwich Free Ferry and were heading along Pier Road, when we noticed a giant anchor. It was set atop a concrete and brick base that was being encroached upon by bushes.

Keilyn and the Railway Crane.

The path meandered around the raised anchor, leading us to a wide, but narrow, concrete area beside the river. To our left was a Railway Crane, resting on a short section of rails attached to concrete sleepers. It was a fascinating thing to discover. There was no engine, nor cab, so I am unsure as to how it was powered.

A little further on we discovered benches, facing the river, another anchor and, towards the end of the park, a propeller and a set of steps led down to the foreshore. 

Keilyn standing on the smaller anchor.

This park had been designed, at some point, as a place that people could sit to watch the River Thames, while the trees acted as a screen, blocking out the sight of the industrial and residential complexes, springing up beyond Pier Road.

Keilyn standing on a propeller.

Raised brick borders may have been planted with flowers, but are now overgrown with uncontrolled bushes and weeds.

'Staff Letters' Postboxes

A 'Staff Letters' box on the Piccadilly line - photo © Keilyn J. A. Morrissey.

Normally I only spot interesting things when walking the streets of London. 

On this occasion I was travelling on the Piccadilly line when I noticed these boxes, as we stopped at various stations. As the boxes were never opposite where we were sat, it took a while to work out what was written on them. 

Fortunately, as we pulled into one station, the box was almost directly outside the carriage, so Keilyn jumped off the train, took the photo and jumped back on, all with a big grin on her face.

It took a bit of research, when we got home, but theses boxes are exactly what they say they are... Letter boxes for staff.

Greenwich Steam Ferry

The Greenwich Steam Ferry was an engineering feat, but also a commercial failure.

Ferries had operated historically from Greenwich, at Billingsgate Dock, Garden Stairs and elsewhere, to the southern tip of the Isle of Dogs, since at least 1333.

Billingsgate was the main dock in Medieval Greenwich and was home to the large Greenwich fishing fleet, which relocated to Hull and Grimsby in the 1850s. This relocation was, in part, due to the arrival of rail transport. 

The earliest ferry from the Isle of Dogs to Greenwich was called Potter's Ferry, which began in the 17th century. This lucrative route's rights were coveted by Watermen who wished to control the waterways.

Up until 1812, only foot passengers were permitted to be ferried across the River Thames. Following an 1812 Act of Parliament a horse ferry was established.

The building where the ferrymen waited between crossings.

The Billingsgate ferry was replaced after 1821 with one at Horseferry Dock, a little further down river. Billingsgate Dock was widened and enlarged, by an Act of Parliament  in 1850, to help improve the docks use by the public.

These ferries ran until they were closed by the Metropolitan Board of Works Act of 1883. Five years later, in 1888, the Greenwich Steam Ferry began operation.

Johnson's Draw Dock, north bank, close to the pier where passengers embarked on the ferry to Greenwich.

The Greenwich Steam Ferry was an innovative design whereby passengers and vehicles were transported down the foreshore on moving platforms to waiting ferries. This design, although unique in England, was used throughout America and overcame the problem of reaching the ferry at low tide.

Diagrams of the moving platforms and pulley system.

These moving platforms were pulled up and down on cables operated by engines in the cellar of the ferry terminal buildings. These landing platforms could be raised and lowered according to the tide, thus allowing the heavy cargo trucks and carriages to have a smooth access to and from the waiting ferries.

The north ramp for the Potter's Ferry.

Commercial and operational difficulties meant that the Greenwich Steam Ferry was suspended in the 1890s. Then, with the Blackwall Tunnel opening in 1897 and construction of the Greenwich Foot Tunnel, beginning in 1899, the Greenwich Steam Ferry finally closed in 1899.

The ferry terminal building, on the south bank, remained standing until the 1990s.

The ramp on the south foreshore.

Today, all that remains are the concrete ramps, on the north and south foreshores, and the walls on south terminal still retain the three cable ports, used to raise and lower the moving platforms.