Help for Andrew from Crayford Kent

 

A Deptford Street, an Orange, and a Question of Place (c.1926–1930)

This photograph has recently resurfaced that captures a quiet, human moment from inter-war Deptford: a young boy — Andrew’s father — eating an orange, sometime around 1926–1930. It’s a simple scene, yet it opens up a much bigger question: where exactly was this taken?

Andrew, who brought the image to light, has already done the hard yards. He knows the family lived at various addresses around Hughes Fields, Deptford Green, and Creek Road, including No. 122 Creek Road during the late 1920s. He has searched hundreds — possibly thousands — of images at the London Archives, with little to show for it. Anyone who has tried to visually reconstruct pre-war south-east London will understand that frustration.

Although the photo itself is modest, it offers a few valuable clues:

• A pawnbroker’s shop on the left
  Pawnbrokers were common on busy working-class streets and were usually clearly signed. Their locations are often listed in trade directories from the period, which makes them one of the most promising leads.

• A building resembling a church hall on the right
  These halls were frequently attached to Anglican or nonconformist churches and sat slightly back from the street, often with plain brick façades and tall windows.

• Possibly a pub ahead on the right
  Pubs tended to anchor street corners or sit prominently along main roads, especially routes linking docks, markets, and housing.

Together, these details suggest a lively, well-used stretch of road, not a quiet back street — very much in keeping with Creek Road or nearby routes leading toward the river, The Stowage, and Deptford Green.

Why the trail goes cold

Andrew is absolutely right to suspect that much of this streetscape has vanished. Deptford suffered heavy bomb damage during the Second World War, followed by post-war clearance and redevelopment. Entire rows of shops, pubs, and small halls disappeared, taking with them the visual continuity that historians rely on.

Yet fragments of the old area survive. Around St Nicholas Church, for example, there are still pockets where the scale and feel of old Deptford linger. While these aren’t the answer in themselves, they help us imagine the kind of environment shown in the photograph.

How this photo might be identified

If this image is ever to be pinned down to a precise location, the best chances lie in cross-referencing, rather than photographs alone:

• Street trade directories (late 1920s)
  Look for pawnbrokers listed on Creek Road, Deptford Green, and connecting streets. Once a candidate street is found, nearby churches or mission halls can be checked.

• Fire insurance maps and OS maps
  These sometimes mark pawnbrokers, pubs, and halls distinctly and can be matched to the spacing of buildings in the photo.

• Local parish records
  Church halls were often tied to specific parishes, which may narrow the field further.

More than a location

Even if the exact street name never emerges, the photograph still matters. A boy eating an orange — an everyday pleasure in the 1920s — tells us about diet, affordability, and ordinary life between the wars. It’s a reminder that Deptford’s history isn’t only about docks, bombs, or redevelopment, but about people living their lives in streets that have since vanished.

Andrew’s search is one many families share: trying to anchor memory to place when the place itself has gone. If anyone recognises the combination of pawnbroker, church hall, and pub from old Deptford, this photograph may yet give up its secret.

Sometimes, all it takes is one pair of familiar eyes.

The Day the Sky Fell Silent.

 

The Day the Sky Fell Silent. The V-2 Strike on Woolworths, 

New Cross – 25 November 1944.

In the winter of 1944, Londoners had grown grimly familiar with danger from the air. Sirens, the rising whine of the V-1 “doodlebug,” the rush for shelter. But the weapon that struck Woolworths on New Cross Road brought something new and terrifying: death without warning.

At 12:26 pm on Saturday, 25 November 1944, a German V-2 rocket hit the Woolworths store in New Cross, south-east London. In an instant, a busy shopping street was turned into rubble. It remains the deadliest single V-2 attack in Britain.

A Normal Saturday, Shattered

It was lunchtime. The shop was crowded with local families, women, children, and staff, many doing their weekly shopping or picking up small comforts in a hard year. There was no siren, no engine noise, no chance to run.

The V-2 travelled faster than sound. People only heard the explosion after it happened.

The rocket struck directly, obliterating the store and collapsing neighbouring buildings. Brick dust filled the air. Trams and vehicles were overturned. Fires broke out. Survivors later spoke of an unnatural silence before the screams began.

The Human Cost

The scale of the tragedy was immense:

• Around 168 people were killed

• More than 120 were seriously injured

• Entire families were wiped out

• Rescue workers dug for days, often finding victims where the shop counters had been moments earlier

Many of the dead were never formally identified. In wartime London, funerals followed one another in quiet procession, grief often kept private and stoic.

Why the V-2 Was Different

The V-2 rocket was the world’s first long-range ballistic missile. Launched from occupied Europe, it arced high into the atmosphere before falling almost vertically onto its target.

Unlike earlier bombing:

• There was no defence

• No warning system worked

• No sound until impact

Psychologically, it was devastating. Londoners described feeling helpless in a new way—you could not hear it coming, and you could not hide.

Aftermath and Memory

The Woolworths site was later rebuilt and continued as a shop for decades. Today, the location is marked by memorial plaques on New Cross Road, quietly recording the names and the date.

People still leave flowers each November.

For Deptford and New Cross, the strike is not just a statistic of war. It is a deeply local memory—passed down through families, remembered by street names, scars in buildings, and stories told in low voices.

Why It Still Matters

The New Cross Woolworths disaster reminds us that:

• The victims of war are overwhelmingly ordinary civilians

• Advanced weapons don’t just change battlefields — they change daily life

• Memory is fragile unless it is deliberately preserved

The people who died that Saturday were not soldiers. They were shoppers, children, neighbours. Their lives ended not in a front-line trench, but under a familiar shop sign on a London high street. Visiting the site

If you walk along New Cross Road today, pause when you pass the memorial. Traffic moves on, shops open and close—but beneath the pavement lies one of the most tragic moments in London’s wartime history.

Lost Pubs of Deptford

 

Lost Pubs of Deptford: A Vanished Drinking Landscape

Deptford was once thick with pubs. Dock workers, market traders, railwaymen, and families all had their locals — sometimes two or three on the same street. Today, most are gone. Some survive as shells, others as betting shops, flats, or anonymous shopfronts.

This is a look back at a few of Deptford’s lost pubs, with historic photos that capture a disappearing streetscape.

The Deptford Arms

52 Deptford High Street

The Deptford Arms stood proudly on the High Street, its corner position making it a natural meeting point. It survived well into the 2000s before closing around 2010.

By the end, trade had thinned and the writing was on the wall. Like many Deptford pubs, it outlived its community but not the economics stacked against it. Today, only photographs show its former identity.

Red Lion & Wheatsheaf

45 Deptford High Street

Dating back centuries, the Red Lion & Wheatsheaf was one of Deptford’s oldest pubs. It closed in the early 1970s, a casualty of post-war redevelopment and changing drinking habits.

Its long, low frontage once anchored this part of the High Street. In photos, you can still sense how dominant pubs once were in everyday street life.

The John Evelyn

299 Evelyn Street

Named after the famous diarist, The John Evelyn was a solid Whitbread local serving the Pepys Estate area. It closed around 2010–2011 and was later converted into a betting shop.

Externally, the building remains recognisable — a familiar Deptford story where the structure survives but the soul does not.

The Beehive

72 New Street

Little remembered now, The Beehive served New Street in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Like many smaller back-street pubs, it disappeared quietly, leaving few photographs behind.

Its name alone hints at a busier, noisier Deptford — streets alive with dockland trade and foot traffic.

Dog & Bell (Historic View)

116 Prince Street

Although the Dog & Bell survives today, historic photos show just how different Deptford once looked. Formerly known as the Royal Marine, it stood amid a dense web of pubs, workshops, and lodging houses.

Its survival makes it a rare living link to Deptford’s pub-heavy past.

Why Deptford Lost So Many Pubs

Deptford’s pubs didn’t disappear overnight. Their decline came in waves:

• Dock closures and loss of local industry

• Post-war redevelopment and road schemes

• Rising property values and land speculation

• Changing social habits and licensing pressures

Where there were once dozens of pubs, only a handful remain.

Final Thoughts

Old photos of Deptford pubs aren’t just about drinking — they’re about community, work, routine, and belonging. Every lost pub marks a corner where stories were told, deals were done, arguments started, and friendships formed.

If you grew up in Deptford, chances are at least one of these places mattered to someone you knew.