Back in August, I paid a visit to my hometown of Dartford for the first time in 15 years. I can’t say I was feeling especially sentimental (and I’ve never felt homesick for the place) but given my continued interest in places and their effect on people (and vice versa), it seemed like a good idea to wander down those misty, memory lanes…
The first thing I discovered about Dartford was that it now had its own identikit mall zone, called “Prospect Place”. Clearly this name was supposed to inspire some new confidence in the future of the town (and/ or the economy), and walking round what was the left of the town centre of my youth, I would soon see why. Standing outside the branch of TK Maxx nestled in PP alongside ASDA Living, Next Home, Carphone Warehouse, Matalan and all the other usual suspects, you could be in any number of places nearby : Thurrock, Lakeside, Westwood Cross…The same ‘range’ of stores, fulfilling the needs of the same range of people. I’m not going to bemoan the loss of local corner shops, just the lack of individuality and character in these places. You know what you’re going to get when you come to these places, but you probably don’t actually need any of it.
I can’t even remember what was here before this dull lump of commerce. Was it just another carpark? Across the road is X, the stationers, the first thing that I see that I actually remember. As children, we would kill time in there on the way home from school. I have no idea what the attraction was, but a part of me is pleased to see they have survived the passage of time. I will soon find out that so many of the places that made my childhood less tedious are now gone, gone, gone. I should have paid more attention to the sign in TK Maxx:
I’m not surprised to find that the video rental shop on x st has vanished, but there was a time when places like that were an oasis of dreams: all the VHS you could handle and more, all the films I was too old to rent, at least until I was tall enough and confident enough to blag it, the films a friends dad would have to rent for us (my own father never would). My brief nostalgia is kicked in the gut as we wander further down x st towards the high st, and I get the feeling of sadness and dread that I now get in places like Margate and Dover: the places that have been left behind. At least I have a reason to be here, what the hell does everyone else do, the people that still live here?
The rest of x st looks abandoned – the Co-op, which took up a huge swathe of space (so much so that it had entrances on two other streets), has closed and nothing has filled the void. The independent record shop I used to plunder on the way home from school has been replaced by an Army surplus store, which brings us to the middle of the high street, and the Victoria and Bull hotel, where we have been forced to spend the night.
It’s a hot, muggy, oppressive day and the High Street looks dead. I’m already getting funny looks, like they know I don’t belong here any more. This Dartford is downbeat, downtrodden, just plain down. The thing is, I don’t remember it being this depressing growing up here. It was just the place where I lived. I have to assume that I had never been anywhere better, or that all the surrounding areas were just as bad (Gravesend, Greenhithe, Bexleyheath, Erith) and never gave any thought as a child as to where I might actually want to live.
The remnants of the High Street I remember are the WH Smith where I used to shoplift, a Greggs, a 99p shop, Argos, a dull looking all-day café, a Primark, a Paddy Power...make of this selection what you will. In more than one dead shop window I see the legend “this store has closed. Your nearest branch is Bluewater.” No wonder the High Street is failing if all the action is happening elsewhere. There are numerous charity shops, but even these prove disappointing. As my girlfriend points out, you can generally judge the state of a town by the quality of its charity shops.
All the leaflets in the hotel are for other places – there is nothing in Dartford, nothing to advertise, nothing to come for. The film of dust on these leaflets suggests that no-one cares anyway. Even I am beginning to feel exhausted by the emptiness of it all, and my enthusiasm for this history outing is quickly evaporating…
To be continued…
