Golborne Road Market

Golborne Road, for me was for years, just a cut through route on my way to Portobello Road. It is at the far north of the Chelsea & Kensington, and is probably the most non gentrified part of the borough. Tourist to Portobello Road market probably run out of steam before they can get to Golborne Road, especially if they have walked the distance from Notting Hill, to Portobello Road’s south. In a way, this probably adds to the charm of the Golborne Road market.
The markets itself has so many gems to offer, including antique shops and stalls. Some of these stores have their wares laid out on the pavement along the stretch of the market. There are also chic antique furniture shops, working alongside Moroccan rugs and bags sellers, independent boutiques and vintage clothes shops. There are plenty of delis and coffee shops including the established Lisboa Patisserie, the Golborne deli, and my new discovery 4 plus one coffee shop.
The market has a very strong Moroccan and Portuguese influence. It is often dubbed ‘Little Morocco’ as it has become home to the largest Moroccan population in England. The Moroccan street food stalls set up along a short strip of the street draw both few tourits, but also the local Moroccans who have settled in the area. Here you can enjoy Tuna, Calamari or prawns freshly cooked in front of you in the street, as you sit at a make shift table. Served a plate of rice and chips, plus a soft drink, all for £7! You can also have a Moroccan stew, which I’ve been told is great. It’s good fun to sit here with the locals, enjoying the skill of the chef as he cooks for his audience from his makeshift little tent.
You can see the road and market changing, with trendier stores and gastropubs moving in. Stella McCartney moved into a chapel on Golborne Road next to a curry house in 2002. I hope the pace of the trendy gentrification, does not strip Golborne Road Market of its unique feel.
I urge anyone visiting Portobello Road, to venture a little further north to Golborne Road. You will not be disappointed.
The market is closed on a Sunday.

George Orwell’s ghost stared irritably out the window of his former house (identified by a discreet blue plaque) at the flood of tourists below making their way to Portobello Road Market. «This display of conspicuous consumption is turning me into a Maoist,» he muttered. «If I see one more person exchange good money for an overpriced old biscuit tin or a mass-​produced Banksy reproduction paperweight, I’m going to have to head down to hell and chew the fat with Savonarola for a while.»
Becoming alarmed by his own mental state, he decided he needed to get out of the house fast, and flitted out the window and down the road. His mood lightened considerably as the stalls of overpriced junk and fancy antiques yielded to a genuine street market, with people flogging their interesting old clothes and furniture.
And then he turned right onto and into a road where whole families sat in the street on couches, bantering with each other and the other highly informal vendors. A road filled with the heavenly scent of Moroccan tagines being cooked outdoors and served at little tables on the sidewalk and in the street, while in the distance, like something from Blade Runner crossed with Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came, a huge and sinister-​looking modern building with what looked like a built-​in observation post at the top (but actually is not) brooded over the whole enterprise. A road where I got a huge old green pitcher that may be Edwardian or may be Staffordshire for a mere 5 pounds. I asked the 70-​something guy who sold it to me how old it was, and he said «Can’t be that old; it’s younger than I am and I’m not 21 yet.»
I lost track of Orwell’s ghost around then, which is just as well since my look of idiotic bliss would have annoyed him. Oh, and this place has everything – the pitcher was getting a bit awkward to carry, so for 2 pounds I picked up a sturdy orange Nike bag from a guy who was selling a pile of old gym bags on the sidewalk. Not till I removed the bag from the clean laundry back in Chicago did I notice the pair of old socks in it. These were socks that even after a brisk hot wash told a story so ripe that I decided to toss them even though they were a souvenir of a favorite place. Socks that should never have made it through airport security.