The Urban Villager

Written by Louise Evans

As an Urban Villager dwelling on the cusp of Kingsland/Morningside, I’m grateful that the spectacles of RWC are well and truly over. Now that calm has been restored, I can happily re-inhabit my territory and in this column, I’m presenting apictorial essay on the hidden gem that is Morningside/Mt Albert industrial estate - a few winding streets with iconic industrial architecture, that I regularly cycle through on the weekends.

One of the things I find most unsettling about a city is its inability to sleep - on the other side of the coin, this is the very reason why other people love the metropolis - however here in Morningside exists a tiny microcosm, harking to a yesteryear when people went home to their families on the weekend and the silent streets were left to their own glory.

Its concrete wonders and pastel palette make it a joy of urban design. During the nine to five, it is a temple of occupational ritual. The stair makers, carpenters, mechanics and seamstresses toil in their squat offices and warehouses, and the street is a stream of cars and pedestrians. The rhythm and swing of the day is played out here, hour after hour, decade upon decade.

And when everyone vacates, the very essence of the place, its beauty intensifies as the street rests. It becomes steeped in the melancholy of the suburban dream - a reminder of those spending Sundays with their family, tending the petunias, reclining at the beach, at the bach - anywhere but here.

A boat sits, pregnant with purpose, awaiting its final restoration, so far from the salty air; a converted telephone exchange, its potbellied corners dominating the intersection, stands like a solemn ghost of its former livelihood; the striped awning of the corner dairy, pie-warmer empty; the mechanic’s roller door steadfast and shut, the factory shop sign faded by dozens of summers.

Being an urban villager is all about being aware of the dynamics of your environment, the flow of people, the geography humans create, the communities that mushroom. As I cycle on I can see hundreds of stories of habitation, occupation, migration, the passing of time, all within a few kilometres. It’s good to be here.