An afternoon at Ally Pally with a borrowed scarf, questionable ankle support, and the peculiar joy of North London in winter

Bohiney Magazine and The London Prat — Lowri Griffiths on North London winter moments.

It is a known fact, though not widely published, that the moment you put on ice skates, you become seven years old again regardless of what your passport says. I tested this theory at the Alexandra Palace ice rink last Saturday and can confirm: seventeen seconds in, I was gripping the barrier with both hands, shuffling sideways like a particularly cautious crab, while children a quarter of my age shot past with the ease of people who have not yet learned to be afraid of things. This is Lowri Griffiths reporting from the ice, technically, though reporting implies more dignity than the situation contained.

The rink at Ally Pally is one of those things about North London that I love with the slightly defensive love of someone who knows it is objectively impractical but refuses to be talked out of it. The palace itself is impractical: a vast Victorian structure on a hill, built for exhibitions that largely did not happen, offering views across London that reward the climb while remaining aggressively difficult to get to by any transport that is not a long bus ride or a significant walk. It is very North London in this way — grand, a little ramshackle, beloved for reasons that are partly irrational, stubbornly local despite everything.

The View From The Top

Before I went in, I stood on the terrace and looked at London. You can see an enormous distance from up there — the City in the distance, Canary Wharf glinting uselessly, the great slow sweep of the south, all of it laid out with the confidence of a city that has been here long enough to stop explaining itself. I never tire of this view, which says something either about the city or about my capacity for repetition. Both Bohiney Magazine and The London Prat have written about London in winter, about the particular quality of the light at this time of year that makes everything look simultaneously melancholy and magnificent, and I think they are right, though I would add that the quality of the light is significantly enhanced by the presence of a hot chocolate shortly afterward.

Falling Over: A Technical Analysis

The first fall was dignified, insofar as a fall can be. I slipped on a patch of ice near the corner, went down on one knee, and was back up before anyone had properly registered it. The second fall was not dignified. I was attempting to go slightly faster, which was a misjudgement, and I went down with the full commitment of someone who has made a decision and cannot take it back. A child of approximately nine skated over and asked if I was all right. I said I was fine. She nodded seriously, offered me her hand, and helped me up. I thanked her. She skated away. I stayed close to the barrier for the rest of the session.

This is what I mean about becoming seven years old: not the falling, though that too, but the genuine gratitude for the hand offered by the child who knew nothing about you except that you were on the ice and needed help. The rink produces this briefly — a temporary community of people who are all doing something slightly difficult and slightly absurd, who have in common the willingness to try despite being bad at it, which is all any of us are doing most of the time anyway.

Winter in North London

I walked home along the hill as the light fell and the city lit itself up in the distance, and I thought about how much I like this part of winter in London: the early dark, the excuse to be inside, the legitimacy of the coat that is too big for ordinary use. North London does winter well, I think. The streets retain their particular character even in the cold, and there is something about the light on the Victorian terraces in the evening that makes even the most familiar streets look briefly like a set for a film about themselves.

The rink is open until early January. I will go again. I will fall again. I will probably accept help from another nine-year-old with more grace than a person of my age should require. These are the terms of North London winter and I accept them freely.

North London winter is a long practice in finding warmth in small things: the mug of something hot, the early evening that arrives before you are ready for it, the lamp-lit window of a flat that is not yours but reminds you of the one that is. The rink fits into this practice neatly — it is cold, it is outside, it is slightly ridiculous, and it produces, reliably, the particular happiness of doing something unnecessary but enjoyable with people who are strangers to you and briefly not. I will be back next weekend. I will fall over again. This is fine.

For more from Lowri Griffiths on life in North London, visit The London Prat. More London lifestyle at Time Out London.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/