Victoria Orbit · No. 03
I come in from the Vauxhall side, through Victoria Tower Gardens.
Aged plane trees stand in a row along the river wall. It is Saturday and the park is nearly empty. With no traffic, the leaves are the loudest thing here. They wrestle against each other overhead. Under them comes the slow thrum of a tug pushing a barge up the Thames.
Victoria Tower stands at the far end of the grass. A beautiful garden lies against it and holds me off, gently. No sign. No gate.
It is not until I leave the park and stand on the road that I see what surrounds the building.
Guard houses. Metal gates. Metal railing. A small black plaque on each stone pier reads IN. Behind the bars sit a booth, hazard-striped blocks and a red STOP sign.
The railing runs on below the gable, and a sign reads Chancellor's Gate. People walk the pavement in front: a man on an orange scooter, a woman in a teal dress, a blue suitcase on wheels.
The railing fills the frame. Spikes along the top, a security notice bolted to the iron. The Elizabeth Tower clock shows through the bars. A man in a cycling helmet stands at the left edge, his back to me.
Westminster Abbey has its own iron fence around it.
At the Queen Elizabeth II Centre a striped arm lies across the entrance. A sign shows a walking figure crossed out in red. Black poles stand in the cobbles, and everyone who walks past is greeted by them.
I walk north up Horse Guards Road from Great George Street, past the Victoria and Albert Museum HQ and the Churchill War Rooms. A 20 sign hangs under the trees. Black bollards keep pace along the kerb until the street turns.
Horse Guards.
A rider crosses in front of me, a teal delivery bag on the back of his bike. Beyond him the gravel opens flat and wide. People sit on the concrete blocks along the edge.
This is the first place on the walk where the power faces outward.
I step onto the gravel. Two men cross toward the trees. Nothing else moves.
I leave through the arches and walk Whitehall back toward Parliament.
The pavement is full. A red bus waits at the lights, and a kiosk reads BUY YOUR TICKETS HERE. Iron railing runs along the building on my right, ribbed black poles down the pavement. All along the road it is the same poles, or ones like them, standing between the traffic and the buildings. The crowd moves between them, backs to me.
The gate at Downing Street, one of the approaches to the Prime Minister's residence. Black iron, spiked and scrolled. A sign on the corner reads Whitehall SW1. People stand at the railing, backs to me, and look through. A man in a red cap glances over his shoulder.
The gate keeps Downing Street closed to the public.