Discovery Channel Magazine, March 2013
September 2, 1666. Fish Street, London. 1a.m.
I wake to the sound of bells ringing backwards. The peals are muffled, the chimes out of sequence; it is the middle of the night, not even a hint of dawn. I know what this all means. It means fire.
In London, 1666, this is how we call an emergency. I get dressed quickly, and in neighbouring rooms here, in the Star Inn on Fish Street, I can hear others doing the same, ready to investigate and to help. This isn’t all altruism. The fact is, if there’s a fire around the corner, you want to put it out so your own house doesn’t go up in flames.
I’m not panicking. I’m just lodged in this inn near the meat markets of Little Eastcheap to seek buyers for cattle, and my home and family are in the north. But as I emerge on the landing, there is a host of grizzled faces in bleary unease, merchants and workers pulling on shirts and heading out to the street.
Like every other city street in London, it is an achievement even to see the sky from here. The streets are narrow, and the houses and inns all jut outwards, bits of masonry tacked on to the upper floors, all eaves and gutters and jettied paraphernalia. Every house joins another, and another, in a jumbled timber terrace. But even here, so very late – one or two in the morning, they are saying, but who can be sure – it is bright. What little sky we can see is a vivid, flickering orange. The fire is behind us, a street away; Pudding Lane.
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