HIstory of Mary Ann Buildings - Gardens

 

Not long after I first published my post about Mary Ann Buildings, I received a lovely message from a reader named Kevin, who kindly shared a personal connection to the place:

Hi Andy,

Following your post and pictures of Mary Ann's Buildings, I thought I would share a photo I found of my Mum — mid-50s, I think — standing in front of the gate shown in the second picture down on your post. You can see the sign above the gate in both pictures. Happy for the photo to be shared!

Best regards

Kevin

Kevins Mum.

Here is an indepth History of  Mary Ann Buildings. Theres a link below to the original post.

Mary Ann Buildings, Deptford: The Lost Street Behind St Paul’s

Nestled in the historic heart of Deptford, just behind St Paul’s Church and between Albury Street and Deptford High Street, lies a small cul-de-sac known today as Mary Ann Gardens. To the casual passer-by, this quiet residential corner may seem unremarkable, but its name preserves the memory of an earlier landscape — Mary Ann Buildings, a once-vibrant pocket of working-class housing that tells a story of London’s shifting urban fortunes.

A Georgian Neighbourhood Grows

The area around what became Mary Ann Gardens developed rapidly in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Deptford — then a bustling riverside town — was home to dockyards, chandlers, shipwrights and labourers. Streets like Union Street (now Albury Street) and Queen Street (now Lamerton Street) were laid out as part of a growing suburb that served the nearby Royal Dockyard and the Thames shipping trade.

Within this grid of narrow streets appeared Mary Ann Buildings, a modest terrace of small workers’ cottages. Their name followed a common convention of the period, when new speculative developments were often given genteel or personal names to distinguish them — perhaps after a family member or the developer’s wife, “Mary Ann.”

Life in Mary Ann Buildings

By the mid-19th century, census records and social surveys depicted Mary Ann Buildings as densely populated but industrious. Small trades flourished here — costermongers, labourers, and dock workers shared the cramped houses. According to social historians, the area was “well known for housing slaughterhouse girls,” referring to the women employed in the local meat trades that surrounded the market and High Street.

Like much of Deptford, the street reflected both the hardship and vitality of working-class London. Children played in courtyards while residents fetched water from shared pumps. St Paul’s Church — a short walk away — offered a spiritual centre amidst the noise of the High Street and the docks.

Decline and Clearance

By the early 20th century, conditions in parts of Deptford had deteriorated. Overcrowding, poor sanitation, and industrial decline left many of the older houses in disrepair. Urban reformers and local councils began to clear entire streets to make way for new housing schemes.

The Deptford High Street and St Paul’s Conservation Area Appraisal notes that Mary Ann Buildings, along with the southern terrace of nearby Albury Street, was cleared in the 20th century. The replacement was a low-rise post-war development, consistent with the planning ideals of the 1950s and 1960s, which sought open space, greenery, and light in contrast to the dense terraces they replaced.

Mary Ann Gardens Today

Today’s Mary Ann Gardens occupies roughly the same footprint as the former Buildings. The cul-de-sac comprises modest, mixed-tenure housing — low-rise flats and houses surrounded by mature trees. From the street, one can still sense the layered history of the area: Albury Street’s ornate Georgian doorcases stand a few steps away, and the spire of St Paul’s Church dominates the skyline, linking past and present.

Modern property data suggests that most of the current housing dates from around 1970, though the site retains fragments of earlier boundary lines visible on historic Ordnance Survey maps. It is a quiet corner, but one deeply rooted in Deptford’s working-class heritage.

Remembering the Lost Streets

Mary Ann Buildings may no longer exist in name, but its memory endures in the maps, archives, and oral histories of Deptford. It represents a familiar London story — of industrial growth, social struggle, and urban renewal.

In the words of one local historian, “to walk through Mary Ann Gardens is to tread on the ghost lines of the city’s hidden lives.” The surviving name on the street sign stands as a small but enduring tribute to the people who once made their homes in the shadow of the docks, shaping a neighbourhood that still bears their mark.

References & Further Reading

• Lewisham Council. Deptford High Street and St Paul’s Church Conservation Area Appraisal (2021).

• The City Within the City — Urban History dissertation, University of Central Lancashire (2019).

• Layers of London historic maps (Rocque, Greenwood, OS 1870 editions).

• Streetlist.co.uk — “Mary Ann Gardens SE8: Street and Property Data.”

• Old Deptford History blog (archival posts and photographic comparisons).

About the Author

By Andy
Andy is a historian and writer with a focus on South East London’s urban and social history. Their research explores the transformation of neighbourhoods like Deptford, Greenwich, and Bermondsey — tracing how working-class communities, architecture, and industry shaped London’s modern identity.

https://www.olddeptfordhistory.com/2014/05/mary-ann-buildings-circa-1960s.html

Lost Burial Ground

 

The Lost Burial Ground of Hughes Fields, Deptford

By olddeptfordhistory.com

Deptford has always been a place where London’s past meets the present. Dockyards, merchants, sailors, revolutionaries — their stories lie in the streets and buildings around us. But there’s one story almost invisible today: the burial ground that once lay beneath or beside Hughes Fields.

This is the tale of a field, a forgotten graveyard, and a changing city.

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📍 A Field with a Name and a Past

Hughes Fields (sometimes written “Hughs Field”) lay on the western edge of old Deptford, between Watergate Street, Benbow Street, and Evelyn Street. In the 18th and 19th centuries, this was open land — fields on the fringe of a growing riverside village. By the end of the 19th century, it became the Hughes Fields Estate, built to house working-class Londoners.

Long before that transformation, the land had another identity:
locals referred to a burial ground within or adjacent to Hughes Fields — a piece of parish ground that quietly disappeared from maps as development advanced.

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🗺️ A Glimpse on the Old Maps

Stanford’s Library Map of London, 1862.

The Stanford 1862 map shows the Hughes Fields area as open ground directly bordering the parish burial zones of St Nicholas and St Paul’s Church. While the burial strip itself isn’t labelled (typical for overflow plots), its location within parish boundary lines and its proximity to the crowded churchyards suggests the land was used for burials before redevelopment.

Ordnance Survey, 1890s. By the late Victorian period, this part of Deptford had changed dramatically. New housing covered the field, and the burial ground strip referred to in local accounts was no longer marked. This was common: small burial extensions were often absorbed into building plots, unrecorded except in parish registers or local memory.

Hughes Field 1895

⛪ St Nicholas & St Paul’s: The Overflowing Churchyards

Deptford’s population grew rapidly in the 18th and 19th centuries. Its two main Anglican parishes — St Nicholas (medieval) and St Paul’s (Georgian) — had busy churchyards that soon filled.

When burial space ran short, the parish acquired new land:

• St Paul’s expanded into what became Deptford Cemetery (now known as Brockley Cemetery) in 1858.

• Before that, smaller strips of ground were used for extra burials, likely including the Hughes Fields plot.

Nonconformist chapels in Deptford High Street also maintained small burial yards, adding to the patchwork of sacred ground in the area.

1850

⚰️ The “Strip of Burial Ground”

Local oral history and older written guides refer to “a strip of burial ground parallel to the new streets through Hughes Field.”

This suggests:

• It was probably an overflow plot associated with the parish church.

• It may also have included pauper graves or burials of those without family plots — common in Victorian London.

• The site was likely unfenced or minimally marked, unlike larger cemeteries.

When the Hughes Fields Estate was developed in the late 19th century, the burial strip was absorbed into the urban fabric. Many such plots across London were either cleared or simply built over, leaving no headstones and little trace above ground.

Additional ground, Wellington Street

This was consecrated and a wall built in 1765 (there is a commemorative tablet in the wall of Charlotte Turner gardens which incorporates the old ground). The ground was extended to the N in 1897 and widened to the West in the 20th c It is now a level park, north of MacMillan St.

¾ acre. This ground, belonging to the parish of St. Nicholas, was laid out in 1884 by the Kyrle Society, and is very well kept up by the Greenwich District Board of Works, who have lately acquired a piece of adjoining land to be added to the recreation ground. (Holmes)

🏡 What Lies Beneath

Today, Hughes Fields Estate is a residential area. The quiet lawns and walkways give no hint of what once lay here. But archaeological sensitivity remains:

• St Nicholas and St Paul’s churchyards are protected heritage sites.

• The wider area is listed by Lewisham Council as having archaeological potential.

• Any major groundworks would require watching briefs, in case human remains or burial structures are encountered.

For many, this is a poignant reminder: Deptford’s layers run deep. Beneath our feet are centuries of lives lived, and lives remembered.

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🕯️ Remembering the Unmarked Dead

The burial ground of Hughes Fields may be unmarked, but its story is part of Deptford’s fabric:

• It reflects a time of rapid urban growth, public health pressures, and parish expansion.

• It speaks to the lives of ordinary people — sailors, dockers, and families — whose graves may no longer be visible.

• It reminds us how urban development can bury not only ground, but memory.

As local historians, our task is to keep that memory alive.

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🧭 Visiting the Area Today

• Hughes Fields Estate lies between Benbow Street, Evelyn Street, and Watergate Street.

• St Nicholas Church and St Paul’s Church are a short walk away and open to visitors at certain times.

• Brockley Cemetery (originally Deptford Cemetery) offers an evocative sense of the scale of Victorian burial grounds.

When you walk these streets, remember: the ground beneath you once held a burial ground — a quiet resting place on the edge of a growing town.

📚 Sources & Further Reading

• Stanford’s Library Map of London (1862)

• Ordnance Survey Maps (late 19th century)

• Mrs Basil Holmes, The London Burial Grounds (1896)

• London Picture Archive & Layers of London

• Lewisham Council: Archaeological Priority Area reports

• OldDeptfordHistory blog and local oral accounts

The KIngs Arms Deptford. Another Ghost Story

 

 The Kings Arms, Deptford

A Ghost in the Dumb Waiter?

Deptford has never been short on strange tales. Its streets are layered with the footsteps of sailors, merchants, rebels, and rogues. But one story has persisted quietly through the years — the ghost said to haunt the Kings Arms, a centuries-old pub tucked along Church Street.

The Kings Arms was already listed in 19th-century trade directories, serving dock workers, shipwrights, and market folk near the bustling Thames. By all accounts, it was a classic local — a solid bit of Victorian brickwork, all dark wood, tiled floors, and low amber lighting in the evenings.
Pubs like this often gather stories as easily as they gather regulars, and the Kings Arms is no exception.
According to local lore, the ghost that haunts the Kings Arms is none other than a former landlord, a man who ran the place with a firm hand and a watchful eye. Nobody remembers precisely when he lived — and no official record has tied a name to the legend — but the story goes like this:
When a new landlord took over, the old spirit was not pleased.
Staff began noticing odd happenings. A pint left on the bar might suddenly tip over — or, more eerily, slide as if nudged by invisible hands. The dumb waiter, unused for years, would rattle or groan in the still of night. And then there was the bell.
It’s said the pub’s old service bell — long disconnected from anything practical — would sometimes ring on its own. Quiet evenings would be punctuated by that sharp, metallic chime, echoing down the hallway like a call from another time.
One of the best-known anecdotes repeats itself in pub folklore columns: one night, a glass slid clear off the counter and shattered on the floor. A barmaid swore no one had touched it. Another witness — a regular — claimed to have seen it “flicked” into the air.

Of course, skeptics have their theories:

• Uneven surfaces.
• Vibrations from traffic or the trains.
• Old fittings that creak and clang in drafts.
But others say it’s the ghostly landlord, making his opinion known.
The tale has found its way into several modern “haunted pub” lists and Halloween roundups. It’s simple, memorable, and rooted in real geography — the Kings Arms, Church Street, Deptford. That makes it the kind of local ghost story that clings to a neighbourhood for generations.
What makes it more mysterious is the lack of a clear record: no name for the landlord, no precise date for the events. Just whispers, a rattling dumb waiter, and a bell that shouldn’t ring anymore.
Many haunted pub stories are born from creaky buildings, tall tales told over a pint, and the delicious thrill of a good scare. The Kings Arms haunting seems to fit squarely in this tradition — half history, half legend.
But walk past the pub on a damp autumn night, when the air off the Thames is thick and the streets echo with your own footsteps, and it’s not hard to imagine that sharp ding of the bell cutting through the quiet.
Maybe it’s just old pipes and tired wood.
Or maybe, just maybe, the old landlord still wants to make sure things are being done properly behind the bar.

✍️ Sources: local folklore listings, Deptford pub directories (19th c.), Halloween feature, oral retellings. No primary documentation has been verified to date.

The Kings Arms, Church Street, Deptford, London.

Help for Andy: Trying to find the location and information of the Three Mariners in Lower Deptford

 

Three Mariners is an old sign, of which there are examples among the trades tokens, and which is still to be seen on two or three public-houses in London. There was formerly a tavern known by this sign in Vauxhall.

🌍 Help Find the Lost Location of “The Three Mariners” in Deptford

For years, I’ve been trying to track down the original site of a lost riverside tavern — The Three Mariners — mentioned in a famous 1673 Deptford ghost story. The haunting was said to have taken place “at the Three Mariners in Lower Deptford, by the King’s Yard” at the house of Nicholas Broadway. It’s one of the earliest printed ghost stories linked to the area, but the pub itself seems to have vanished without a trace.

Deptford’s riverside has changed dramatically since the 17th century, and many old inns have disappeared or been renamed. Finding the location of The Three Mariners would help preserve an important part of the area’s maritime and social history.

🕵️ Can you help?
If you’ve come across old maps, directories, parish records, or local photos that mention The Three Mariners, please get in touch. Any lead, no matter how small, could help solve this historical mystery.

👉 Read the original ghost story here: OldDeptfordHistory.com — The Ghost of the Three Mariners (1673)

The Ghost of Brockley Cemetery

 

The Ghost of Brockley Cemetery: A Deptford Haunting That Shocked Victorian London

A chilling night in Victorian Deptford

In the spring of 1888, the quiet edges of Brockley Cemetery — then often referred to as the Deptford Cemetery — became the scene of an event that sent ripples through London.

Newspapers reported that a young woman of about 18 years old had collapsed and died after what witnesses described as a terrifying encounter with a “man dressed as a ghost.” The British Medical Journal would later cite these press accounts, describing the tragic case as one of those rare instances in which someone had been, quite literally, “frightened to death.”

This was no theatrical story or whispered legend. It was a headline in real Victorian newspapers — and it captured a city already gripped by ghost panics, moral anxieties, and a fascination with the supernatural.

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Brockley Cemetery in the 1880s: on the edge of London

Brockley and Ladywell Cemetery (today managed by Lewisham Council) opened in 1858 as a burial ground for the parishes of Deptford and Lewisham.

By the 1880s, the area around Brockley Lane and Brockley Road was still semi-rural — a landscape of gas lamps, unpaved paths, and looming cemetery trees. Death was a visible part of daily life: funerals were community events, and graveyards were places of both mourning and superstition.

Victorian London was also home to a series of “ghost scares” — men and pranksters dressing in white sheets, sometimes with phosphorescent paint, to terrify pedestrians. These incidents were frequently reported in the London press.

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“Frightened to death”

The details of the Brockley Cemetery case emerged in early April 1888.

Newspapers (now catalogued in the British Newspaper Archive and cited in the BMJ of 7 April 1888) described how the young woman encountered a figure “dressed as a ghost” near the cemetery gates at night. She reportedly screamed and collapsed on the spot.

Attempts to revive her failed. The coroner’s report, according to the BMJ summary, concluded that shock and fright had likely triggered heart failure.

At a time when medical science was still entangled with moral and social ideas about fear, sin, and female “nerves,” the story became a cautionary tale repeated in both medical circles and popular newspapers.

“The young woman, startled by the sudden apparition of a supposed ghost, was seized with a violent terror, fell insensible, and expired shortly thereafter. A more melancholy result of such wicked folly can scarcely be imagined.”
— paraphrased from BMJ April 7, 1888

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Ghosts, panic, and urban legends

The Brockley incident wasn’t unique. Throughout the late 19th century, similar “ghost” scares were reported across London — from Hammersmith (1804) to Peckham (1875) and Lambeth (1890). Some were cruel pranks; others became unsolved mysteries.

What makes the Brockley Cemetery case stand out is that it ended in death — and that the medical establishment took notice. The BMJ’s decision to reference the case gives historians a solid anchor point in a field often filled with unverifiable folklore.

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Deptford’s haunted reputation

Deptford — a maritime district with centuries of layered history — was already rich in ghost stories. From the dockyards said to echo with the footsteps of drowned sailors to the St Nicholas Churchyard, long whispered to be haunted, the area was steeped in a supernatural atmosphere.

The Brockley Cemetery tragedy added a modern, headline-grabbing chapter to that folklore. It reflected both the Victorian obsession with ghosts and the very real dangers of fear in an age before electric light and mass policing of nighttime streets.

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Legacy and modern retellings

More than 130 years later, the 1888 “ghost scare” has become a staple of local hauntings lists.
Local history blogs like Brockley SE4 and Old Deptford History have revisited the case, pointing to the BMJ reference and speculating on how urban legend and actual tragedy intertwined.

The cemetery itself — now a peaceful green space with Grade II-listed monuments — still carries an air of Victorian melancholy. Ghost walks in the area sometimes reference the incident, though few realise it was once front-page news.

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Timeline of the Brockley Cemetery Ghost Scare (1888)

Date	Event
Early April 1888	Young woman encounters “ghost” figure near Brockley/Deptford Cemetery
Same night	She collapses and dies; local press reports the case
7 April 1888	British Medical Journal cites newspapers, labels death as “fright caused by apparition”
20th century	Story absorbed into Deptford ghost lore
2000s–present	Case revived in blogs and local history circles

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Conclusion

The Brockley Cemetery ghost scare of 1888 is more than just a spooky anecdote. It’s a snapshot of Victorian London — where folklore, fear, and real tragedy met under a gas lamp near a cemetery gate.

It reminds us how fragile the line between urban legend and lived reality can be, and how ghost stories often leave very real shadows.

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Sources & References

• British Medical Journal, April 7, 1888 – note on “frightened to death” case near Deptford Cemetery.

• Brockley SE4 Blog — “Ghost story at Brockley Cemetery” (modern summary of the BMJ and press coverage).

• Old Deptford History — Ghosts and local legends.

• British Newspaper Archive index — Deptford press reports (Greenwich & Deptford Observer).

• Lewisham Council history of Brockley & Ladywell Cemetery 

  
  

THE DEVIL IN DEPTFORD.

  THE DEVIL OF DEPTFORD.
BEING A TRUE RELATION OF THE STRANGE DISTURBANCES, LUDICROUS FEATS, AND MALICIOUS PRANKS OF AN EVIL SPIRIT IN THE HOUSE OF   MR. G., LIVING IN BACK-LANE AT DEPTFORD NEAR LONDON, IN APRIL AND MAY, 1699.
THE TRUTH WHEREOF IS KNOWN, AND CAN BE ATTESTED BY A GREAT NUMBER OF THE INHABITANTS OF THAT TOWN.
PUBLISHED TO PREVENT FALSE REPORTS.

Though the Sadducees and Atheists of this age have the confident vanity to deny the being of spirits, and affirm that all the stories concerning them, and the feats performed by them, are either fabulous, or else are to be ascribed only to natural causes; yet these fond opinions have been undeniably confuted by several learned and ingenious men. And as the examples of former ages, so the prodigious accidents that have happened in these, and some of our neighbouring nations, make it evident beyond contradiction, that there are evil spirits or devils, which do infest this lower world; and of which we have a fresh convincing argument in the following instance: All the particulars whereof were acted, not in the dark or at midnight, but at noon-day in the face of the sun, in the sight of a great many persons; and the effects thereof were felt by divers of the family.

I will not pretend to give an account of every little accident that happened, but only relate those that were most observable, and occurred to the memory of the parties concerned therein; which take as follows.

Upon Saturday, April 25, 1699, at the house of Mr. G., a gentleman well known, living in Back-Lane at Deptford in Kent, about twelve o’clock at noon, a stone was thrown against the parlour window next to the street, which, breaking the glass, came into the room. The boys that were in the street were charged with doing it, but they all denied it; when instantly another stone was thrown, which broke the glass likewise and fell into the room. Soon after, for many days together, a great number of stones were thrown against the back and side windows next the garden, seeming to come from the fields behind; which battered the glass and lead in such a strange manner as if torn and rent with a storm of wind or hail.

The stones still continuing to be thrown, the window-shutters were put to; but then the battery seemed to be renewed with more fury, and one of the shutters was shattered to pieces with a great stone. At length they nailed up strong deal boards on the outside of the broken windows; after which the disturbance ceased from without, but began within the house. One time all the china cups and glasses were removed from the mantelpiece in the parlour, and set on the floor. At another time several earthen plates and dishes were broken to shivers, which being laid together by the gentlewoman, were thrown at them with great force, so that they were obliged to carry them out of the house. Several pewter plates were seen to come out of the kitchen below stairs into the parlour of themselves.

An iron heater moved upstairs into the bedchamber, and was thrown at the gentlewoman’s head, striking her under the ear so hard that the blood came; and while she was surprised at the blow, it rose again from the floor and struck her on the other side of the head. After this the maid carried it into the garden, and about an hour after, they being at dinner, the same heater was seen by the gentleman to come in at the parlour door, and struck his wife the third time upon her collar-bone, which pained her a considerable time.

A small runlet or barrel of about four gallons came out of the cellar to the stair-head; a gentleman being there kicked it down again, but the maid going down soon after met the cask coming up again, with the head uppermost; and the cask was seen to move by the gentleman of the house, and another after it came up.

A candle and candlestick being left in the dining room, which was locked, was thrown upstairs; and they, looking out at the noise, found it there, and yet the door continued locked as before. A large book was thrown down two pair of stairs. Part of a loaf of bread was conveyed from its place, and after long search was at last found hid under a kettle in the cellar. Some butter in a pan was thrown into the dirt, and the pan broken to pieces. A little book came of itself out of a drawer in the chamber, and crossing the room about two foot from the ground, however all the way as if blown along, fell at the gentlewoman’s feet; who carried it back to the same place, but saw it immediately come out of the drawer again and approach her. This was repeated five times successively, she carrying it back and it still returning again; till at length it was gone out of the drawer she knew not how nor where; but sometime after found it in the corner of a closet.

A hat and hat-case likewise marched about the room without human aid. A small stool rose from the ground and fell upon a chest of drawers, and after some time jumped off again and stood upon the feet as before. Candles, tobacco pipes, and a head-block were likewise moved about visibly without hands. And some sausages or links being carried upstairs for security, on a sudden began to be on their march downstairs; a young maid seeing them stir cried out, “Stop the links!” and strove to catch them, but they were too nimble for her and became instantly invisible; but upon strict search were found in a corner of the cellar all over dirty; however, being well washed and fried, the gentleman and his wife made their suppers on them, and found no inconvenience, though they were dissuaded therefrom since it was not known through what infernal hands they had passed.

The gentlewoman one time opening her trunk where her clothes lay, something seemed to heave them up, as if a cat had been underneath. The like accident happened to the maid’s trunk and clothes, though nothing was to be found. The linen likewise in the chest of drawers was often rumpled, though laid never so smooth; and one day the whole chest of drawers was turned with the bottom upwards. The beds, though made in the morning, would be disordered, and the clothes thrown off two or three times in a day, and the pillows carried downstairs.

The gentleman walking in his garden with his hands behind him had a stone thrown therein; and the gentlewoman, seeing a stone coming toward her, caught it with her hand. They were often struck with the stones, but without much damage. It is computed there were no less than a thousand stones thrown into and about the house, within the month wherein this disturbance continued. They set watches about the streets, fields, and gardens adjacent to observe whether any person was seen to throw them, but they could perceive none; and yet at that same time the stones were seen to fly against the house as fast as before.

 

At first the gentleman got some friends to sit up all night, praying and reading; but in a few days they observed that the noise ceased every night about eleven o’clock, and began again about eight next morning, so that nothing disturbed their rest. They also found in the daytime, that the more company they had the less they were troubled. Some reverend divines were there to enquire into the particulars of this strange disturbance, and were fully satisfied that it could be only the effect of an invisible and supernatural power, and altogether unaccountable to human reason.

This disturbance began about ten days after one person came into the family, who continued there about five weeks, and then went away; the very same day all the disturbance ceased, and all has continued quiet, without the least noise or trouble ever since.

If any desire to be satisfied of the truth of this account, the whole town of Deptford, almost, will be vouchers for the reality thereof; and the ruins that this infernal battery has made on the windows are still visible to any that will please to visit the house. And what can we now imagine our witty infidels will object against this plain matter of fact, or how can they deny invisible powers, when the effects of them are so apparent. We may therefore conclude that they only pretend to be unbelievers in their own defence; and since their lewd lives make them doubtful of obtaining eternal happiness, they strive to fortify their minds against all the arguments offered to prove a future judgment: And because they live like brutes, only gratifying their sinful lusts and appetites, they hope, and would persuade themselves, they shall likewise die like beasts. But let them remember there is nothing more certain than that for all these things God will bring them into judgment.

Personal Pilgrimage Marked by Remembrance and Loss Hadlow, Kent — July 2025

Paul Moriarty

This July, I returned to Hadlow, Kent, for the first time in three years—a journey rooted in remembrance, as I visited my mother’s grave. It was an emotional pilgrimage, marked not only by reflection but also by reconnection with old friends. Yet the visit also brought sorrow, as I learned of the passing of my friend Paul Moriarty.

Paul died on February 2, 2025. To many, he was more than just a familiar face—he was a storyteller, a gentleman, and a beloved regular at the Carpenters Arms pub on 3 Elm Lane in Golden Green. I was introduced to him through his son, Mark, and over time, we formed a genuine friendship built on shared conversations, laughter, and mutual respect.

We would meet during Bank Holidays and around Christmas at the Carpenters Arms. Paul often shared stories about Deptford—tales full of colour and history, things I’d never known. He had a natural gift for storytelling, and his warmth made you feel as though you’d known him forever. I believe he may have visited the area as a hop picker in his younger days—a tradition rooted in the lives of many Londoners of his generation.

Born on September 23, 1938, in Deptford, Paul H. Moriarty lived an extraordinary life. Before finding his way into acting, he worked as a docker and had a background in boxing. It was during his time at the Surrey Commercial Docks that he caught the attention of a film crew who encouraged him to try acting—a twist of fate that changed his life.

To avoid confusion with another actor of the same name, he adopted the stage name P. H. Moriarty and went on to enjoy a long and distinguished career. His roles in films like Quadrophenia, Scum, and A Sense of Freedom are etched in British cinema history. His final film appearance came in Rise of the Footsoldier: Origins (2021), capping a career that spanned decades.

Paul’s television credits stretched back to 1978, starting with Law & Order, and included numerous gritty dramas that benefited from his authentic presence and unmistakable gravitas.

Hearing of his passing was deeply saddening. I want to express my sincere condolences to the Moriarty family.

“Paul was a true gentleman, and I feel privileged to have known him. He will be sorely missed.”

My visit to Hadlow became much more than a return—it was a personal journey of remembrance, reconnection, and reflection. Though marked by grief, I also found gratitude: for lasting friendships, shared memories, and the enduring legacy of those who leave their mark on our lives.

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Remembering Tommy Martin Heavy weight Boxer from Deptfod

Tommy Martin

Hello,

I found your website and I am in search of information about 1930's boxer from Deptford Tommy Martin and his family. He was my grandfather. Any information would be greatly appreciated. Seems like there were quite a few boxers from Deptford.  Sounds like it was a pretty tough area. My mom said that my grandfather, as a kid, was the leader of a gang of mischief. I know my great grandmother Annie Martin had 9 children and was probably so busy, it was difficult to keep up with him. I know they used to go around and put out the street lights as soon as they were lit! I was privileged to know my grandfather, his sister Phyllis Martin Saunders and my great grandmother Annie Martin... they all moved to St. Croix, USVI, where I was born and grew up. 

Many thanks 

Judy  McMann

https://boxrec.com/en/box-pro/34776

https://boxingnewsonline.net/remembering-tommy-martin-britains-brown-bomber/

Connections between Deptford and Greenwich for the Marsh Family

 

Hi, great blog in Deptford. 

My family moved there in the early 1800’s from Dorset. My great great grandfather died in the Greenwich workhouse. 

This picture of a family wedding shows my great grandmother Rose Marsh 2nd from left front row. 3rd from the right is my great grandfather who was blacklisted by the great western railways for union activity. He had 14 children and they lived in extreme poverty in a house in Edward street. 

At the back on the right nearly faded out are my grandmother who was born in Swindon but left school at 12 because her father a farm labourer was killed in an accident and they only paid for schooling to 14 for boys and 12  for girls so she was sent into  service in London. 

Beside her is my grandfather who worked for the great western railways in the maintenance yard as a tool maker. He had tickets from malnutrition as a boy so had a humped back but worked hard his whole life.

Right at the very back behind my grandfather is a fresh faced young man who is my Dad. 

He was called Richard Marsh. He left school at 14 to start work in stones foundry in Charlton but at 17 went to do his national service. 

After that he went to Ruskin college as a mature student, worked for a union for a few years and then became the MP for Greenwich and went on to become a cabinet minister and then the chairman of British Rail. 

Pretty good story of social mobility in action thanks to the Labour Party and the union movement. From a blacklisted labourer to head of the railways in 3 generations of marshes lol

Keep up the good work with the blog it’s brilliant 

 

Chris Marsh

Lord Richard Marsh

Richard Marsh was evacuated to Rodbourne from London during the 2nd World War, lived with his Grandmother in Redcliffe Street and went to Jennings Street School. He became Minister of Energy & Minister of Transport in Harold Wilson’s 1st  Labour Government from 1966 to 1970. He received a Knighthood and later a life peerage as Baron Marsh of Mannington but is addressed as Lord Marsh.  He is now a Cross Bench Peer in the House of Lords. A Cross Bench Peer is one that is not aligned to any particular political party. Richard says he was proud to have lived in Rodbourne and has happy memories of his time there. His fellow peers were puzzled by his choice of title as Mannington is now a trading estate next to a traffic island. When Richard told them that when he lived in Rodbourne this was only fields on the edge of Mannington Rec (Recreation Ground) where he had happy memories of playing with his Rodbournite friends, thus the choice of his title. We are proud to have had  him as an honorary member of the Rodbourne Community History Group.

 

Lord Marsh sadly past away in  2011 aged 83.