Living in Hampstead: What No One Tells You

I have lived in Hampstead for eleven years. I moved here for the Heath and stayed for reasons I did not anticipate: the particular quality of Saturday morning light on Flask Walk, the improbable survival of the independent bookshop, the fact that the Holly Bush has not changed in a decade and shows no intention of doing so.

The Heath

You do not understand the Heath until you live next to it. It is not a park. It is a wild space that absorbs every mood: the 6am swim in January, the summer evening on Parliament Hill watching the city go pink, the completely private hour of fog-walking in November that resets something that needs resetting. Residents develop personal relationships with particular corners of it in a way that takes years and is, I think, genuinely good for the character.

The Village

The high street is expensive and unashamedly so. The independent shops — the bookshop on Rosslyn Hill, the wine merchant on Flask Walk, the cheese shop that has been there longer than anyone can reliably remember — are the reason people pay what they pay to live here. The chains are present, but they have not won. Not yet.

The Neighbours

Hampstead neighbours are a particular breed: educated, opinionated, and possessed of extremely firm views about planning applications. The neighbourhood association meetings are, by all accounts, exceptional theatre. People care deeply about the place, which means they fight about it constantly, which means it stays as it is. There are worse civic models.

The Honest Part

It is expensive. It is sometimes precious. The coffee shop queue on Saturday morning will test your equanimity. But on a Tuesday afternoon in October, when the Heath is empty and the leaves are turning and you have the whole thing to yourself, it is impossible to imagine being anywhere else.