6/29/2023 0 Comments Northwest zadie smithIt sells cheese, but of the decently priced and easily recognizable kind-brie, goat’s, blue-as if the market has traveled unchanged across the channel from some run-down urban suburb of Paris. It sells French breads and pastries for not much more than you’d pay for the baked goods in Gregg’s down Kilburn High Road. It sells ornaments and knick-knacks and doo dahs, which are not always obviously French in theme or nature. It sells umbrellas and artificial flowers. It sells CDs of old time jazz and rock ‘n’ roll. Willesden French Market sells cheap bags. It was not even like going to one of these Farmer’s Markets that have sprung up all over London at the crossroads where personal wealth meets a strong interest in artisanal cheeses.īut it was still very nice. This wasn’t like walking a shady country lane in a quaint market town ending up in a perfectly preserved eighteenth-century square. We walked in the sun down the urban street to the concrete space-to market. The “French Market” was on, which is a slightly improbable market of French things sold in the concrete space between the pretty turreted remnants of Willesden Library (1894) and the brutal red brick beached cruise ship known as Willesden Green Library Centre (1989), a substantial local landmark that racks up nearly five hundred thousand visits a year. We wandered down Brondesbury Park towards the high road. Last time I was in Willesden Green I took my daughter to visit my mother. An 1894 drawing of Willesden Green Library
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