Deptford

Christopher Marlowe's dusty bones are in an unmarked grave in a churchyard near the Thames, and Samuel Pepys was full of busyness hereabouts, availing himself of Mrs Bagwell, whose husband was a ship's carpenter seeking an edge in pursuit of Navy work in the yards.

But the yards are long gone, as they are right along the south shore, and Watergate St ends in a cobbled alley with, as you might suppose, a gate and steps up from the stream. Warehouses crowd around, with a housing estate behind them and a small public space, Twinkle Park. Not far up river is the Pepys estate, an abomination of maisonettes.

Back across Creek Rd is Deptford High St, the route to the A2 at New Cross Rd. I've passed it on the bus many times, staring at the gaudy mix of former pubs, fast food outlets, places to make cheap phone calls and wig and make-up shops. It is grubby, it is shabby, it is lovely.

Not quite half way along is the railway station. Trains every 20 minutes to London Bridge. Under the viaduct the market begins - racks and racks of skirts and tops all on sale at £1 a time and women rooting through them. This is one of the parts of London where the high street chains don't reach, except for the bookie. Instead, there are halal butchers, African green-grocers, shops with huge sacks of rice, places with Scotch bonnets, okra and yam heaped up outside, a fish monger lugging boxes of ice, a stallholder with dried fish swinging in the breeze. All of which, in terms of sight, sound, smell, sensation, makes a trip to the supermarket seem like sleepwalking.

The market bulges off to the right, up the little street to the Albany theatre. It is a flea market now with skip salvage and tat on sale: even a London Transport Request Stop sign can be bought or, more incredibly, a cement mixer. Returning the High St, the market starts to thin out and there is an anchor marking its boundary and gates on to New Cross Rd.

I retrace the route, though on the other side of the street, and veer off to look at St Paul's Church, an Italianate Baroque magnificence in Portland stone. The interior is airy, with high windows behind the galleries, much panelling. Worship in the round. The Rector, Paul Butler, introduces himself and chats about its history and his congregation. He is very high church, though with a pony tail and a red star badge on his beautifully smart black and buttoned surplus. I like him immediately, the more so when he says that many Irish families "prefer us to Rome for their funerals". I look around as he sings devotions near the altar. Outside, derelicts are larking and declaiming on the church steps.

Finally to Albury St, formerly the best address for sea captains. It is very much in the style of the lanes close to Spitalfields with three-storey 18th century townhouses, shutters behind the panes, painted doors. There's a chap lugging old bricks in to his hall and a chance for a peep through to his hall while his back is turned. He is doing the place up and, indeed, they must be wonderful to live in when completed. Further along, one is for sale. I check on the internet later: £750,000. Wowzer.