런던 오디오 투어: 풀럼 이야기—궁전, 공원, 그리고 전설적인 현지인들

To spot the Golden Lion, look for a sturdy brick building with three floors, black signage featuring a golden lion, and a row of colorful hanging flower baskets right on Fulham High Street - you really can’t miss that proud lion staring you down! Now, let me spin you a tale that stretches all the way back to 1455, when the original Golden Lion was built - yes, long before Spotify, Netflix, or even the teabag. Imagine this street in the twilight gloom, the soft flicker of torches bobbing up and down, and suddenly, out of the mist, emerges the ancient Golden Lion pub, its windows glowing with candlelight. This wasn’t just any old watering hole; back in Tudor times, the Golden Lion was probably the grandest building on the street and maybe even played host to a bishop or two! According to local legend and a fellow named Faulkner, the original mansion was fit for royalty - or at least for Bishop Bonner, notorious in his day and said to have called the mansion home. Fancy a mansion-turned-inn where bishops and playwrights might brush shoulders? That’s the Golden Lion. James Dugham even called it a “princely residence,” not the sort of place you’d expect spilled ale on the floor or a rowdy group of locals singing sea shanties (though I bet there was plenty of that too). It was inside these walls, centuries ago, that William Shakespeare himself might have raised a cup with his old playwriting pal Fletcher, swapping lines and maybe even a few jokes. Imagine, the Bard of Avon, perhaps with ink on his fingers and a twinkle in his eye, whispering new inspiration to Fletcher over a pie and pint. The Golden Lion has long drawn curious souls - playwrights scheming, bishops frowning, and later, an entire meeting called the Bachelors Club (though you’d be forgiven for thinking it sounded more like a secret society for men who can’t fold laundry). The history does twist and turn: in April 1836, the original building was pulled down, but the spirit of the Lion refused to leave. A grand Victorian owner had it rebuilt, adding those now-familiar brick and black features you see today. For a while, the chimneys were inscribed and the magazine Gentlemen’s Magazine even featured the Golden Lion’s picture, proof that folks just couldn’t stop talking about the place. Deep beneath its floorboards, there was once a dark vaulted cellar, rumored as “Bishop Bonner’s Dungeon.” Picture a creaky trap door swinging open, a shaft of dusty light, and winding stone stairs into a chilling, brick-lined vault: the atmosphere thick with stories, secrets, and maybe a forgotten bottle or two. That’s enough to make anyone walk a little faster at night! And if you thought the story ended in the old days, you’d be wrong. In the 1970s, guitars and thunderous drumbeats replaced the whispers of playwrights as the Golden Lion transformed into a hub for rock musicians - including, believe it or not, members of Led Zeppelin who’d gather for a drink after recording at the nearby Manticore studios. The Lion would roar with music, laughter, and the clink of pint glasses long into the night. So as you pause here and look up at the sign, let the weight of centuries settle around you. Imagine this spot as it’s been: from grand mansion, to bishop’s home, to rambunctious playwright’s haunt, to a rock and roll sanctuary. You’re standing in a living, breathing piece of London history - and if the walls could talk, oh, the tall tales you’d hear. Be sure to wink at the lion sign on your way past - Shakespeare might have done the very same.

To spot Fulham Pottery, just look ahead for a big, round, bottle-shaped brick kiln with a wide base, black stripes, and a large sign overhead reading “The Fulham Pottery”-it’s tucked right up against the modern building, so you can’t miss its old-fashioned, squat silhouette. Step closer and imagine yourself three centuries back, standing in the bustling heart of the pottery yard. This place was once filled with the clatter of tools and the scent of wet clay. The year is 1672, and you’d be dodging workers carrying lumpen balls of clay while John Dwight himself hurries past, his Oxford education tucked beneath a streaky apron. There’s an air of excitement-after all, he’s just set up England’s most ambitious pottery workshop at the junction of New King’s Road and Burlington Road, just a stone’s throw from the river and not far from Putney Bridge. Now, here’s a twist: Dwight wasn’t your average mud-slinger. He once worked with the famous scientist Robert Boyle and loved experimenting. His goal? Elevating English pottery to something that could rival Germany and even China! Dwight’s kilns here roared day and night as he tried to perfect the mysterious art of porcelain-a mission so complex that he kept careful, coded records, as if he were working with secret formulas. Imagine the crackle and roar as he lifted another test piece, wondering if he’d finally created something worthy of a king. Long before Spode and Wedgwood, Dwight was sneaking little trial pots into the flames, working by candlelight. Here, brown and white salt-glazed stonewares piled up, with rough, German-inspired jugs beside smooth, Chinese-inspired vases. But pottery’s not all work and no play. Dwight was quite a sentimental chap at heart. Picture a family scene: he calls in a sculptor to create life-sized busts of his wife or tiny, hand-modeled statues of gods. The Victoria and Albert Museum even has a somber memorial statue of his daughter Lydia, made after she died tragically young. You can almost feel the hush and reverence as he places her likeness-full of love and sadness-into the flames to fire. After Dwight’s death in 1703, things got a bit more down-to-earth. His family kept the fires going, but suddenly Fulham Pottery was all about bottles, mugs, and jugs-the sort of sturdy fare you’d find in a noisy tavern. The walls echoed with laughter and the thud of tankards, and popular designs included hunting scenes and cheeky mugs decorated with scenes from William Hogarth’s “Midnight Modern Conversation”-sort of like the eighteenth-century version of a pub cartoon, really. Competition heated up, too! The Dutch Elers brothers set up just down the street, quickly giving Dwight a run for his money before heading off to revolutionize Staffordshire pottery. In the 1800s a young John Doulton, destined to become a pottery mogul, finished his apprenticeship here, learning how to throw enormous pots (and, I imagine, probably smashing a few in the process-oops). By the Victorian era, the old pottery was crumbling. Then along came C.J.C. Bailey, like the pottery world’s own superhero, swooping in to revive it with fresh ideas and swanky architectural ceramics. But the most impressive survivor is this gigantic bottle kiln-now Grade II listed and as stubborn as stone. From the flicker of candlelight and the clang of clay, Fulham Pottery pressed on, creating salt-glazed masterpieces until the 1950s. Even after the ovens fell quiet, artists kept sneaking in to fire new creations. You might’ve caught a whiff of excitement in the 1980s, with modern artists like Quentin Bell popping in to try their luck in the ancient kiln. If these oven-bricks could talk, they’d have thousands of stories-of vision, rivalry, heartbreak, and resilience-baked deep into their walls. So, as you stand beside this mighty bottle kiln, remember: you’re not just looking at a big old chimney. You’re standing where centuries of craftspeople dreamed, toiled, laughed, and sometimes wept, all in pursuit of turning simple clay into something magical. And hey, for all we know, one of those ancient experimental mugs might just be sitting in a London museum right now, with a bit of Dwight’s spirit still inside!

Look to your left and you’ll spot a row of honey-coloured stone cottages with charming pointed arches and detailed carvings just above the doorways-almost like something from a fairy tale book. Now, imagine you’re back in 1869-there are no planes overhead, but perhaps you hear the gentle clatter of a horse-drawn cart or the murmur of church bells from nearby All Saints. Before you stands Sir William Powell’s Almshouses, built with the noble aim of giving older women a safe, snug place to live long before “retirement communities” were all the rage. There are twelve cosy flats in total, and if these walls could talk, I bet they’d have some cracking tales! Built by the good Sir William, their unmistakable pointed roofs and patterned stonework shielded generations from London’s tempests. And here’s the twist-centuries later, they’re managed by the Sir Oswald Stoll Foundation, still embracing those in need. The real magic? If you stick your nose near a window (don’t actually do it, you might get some odd looks!), you might catch the scent of someone's tea brewing or a faint chuckle drifting out-a reminder that behind these historic doors, life is still bubbling along just as warmly as it did over 150 years ago. This place isn’t just stone and mortar-it’s a legacy of care. Let’s hope one day, “almshouse chic” makes it big on Pinterest!

To spot All Saints Church, just look ahead for a grand old stone building with a square tower flying the St George’s flag, topped with a clock face, and lined with intricate windows above a peaceful churchyard. Welcome to All Saints’ Church, Fulham-the heart of centuries of stories, secrets, and some fairly important burials. Imagine you’re standing here nearly a thousand years ago. Before all these houses, before the hum of the buses, this land was part of Fulham Manor, and the church you see was where the local lords-none other than the Bishops of London-prayed, pondered, and eventually, rested for eternity. Even now, you’re walking in the footsteps of bishops, adventurers, abolitionists, and the odd royal doctor. Let’s transport you back to 1154, the year of our first written record-though legend says worship was happening here much earlier. Picture weathered farmers and bustling townsfolk coming to church in the shadow of Fulham Palace, which stood just next door and served as the bishops’ home. The stone tower in front of you, with its clock slowly ticking away the years, began its rise in 1440. Everything else? Well, that’s the result of some fancy Victorian renovations in the 1880s. Sir Arthur Blomfield led the charge, crafting those Perpendicular windows and laying every squared stone. But old Fulham didn’t forget its past. Walk quietly and you’ll see memorials from the earlier church inside, alongside a plaque to the men of the 25th Cyclist Battalion who drilled at Fulham House. The churchyard, green and dappled with sunlight, is an open book of people who shaped Britain’s story-a map-maker here, a physician to King Henry VIII there, even the abolitionist Granville Sharp, whose tomb is Grade II listed. Oh, and a few bishops, too-eleven, in fact, with names like Humphrey Henchman, Edmund Gibson, and John Randolph, each with a story of faith and a lifetime of secrets lying just beneath your feet. Now, for some riverside trivia-this church is one half of Britain’s most unique bridge. Putney Bridge, stretching nearby, is the only bridge in the country with a church at both ends. Across the Thames stands St. Mary’s, so you could literally cross from church to church if your Sunday schedule is packed! And if you feel a shiver up your spine, maybe it’s not just the history; All Saints played a starring role in the creepy film “The Omen.” In one unforgettable scene, a priest is zapped by lightning and-spoiler alert-meets a rather sharp ending atop the tower. Luckily, there’s only drama of the musical kind during modern times: in 2017, the Christmas Day service here was broadcast to homes across Britain. As you stand next to the ancient stones and under the wide sky, maybe you’ll hear the echoes of Fulham’s bishops, the laughter of Victorian children, or the rumbling wheels of First World War cyclists-and remember, if walls could talk, these would probably demand a microphone.

Right in front of you, you’ll spot a large, boxy brick building with white-trimmed windows and a tall black iron fence along Fulham High Street - just look for the grand stone gate and leafy trees peeking out from behind the railings. Now, picture yourself stepping back in time to a Fulham that buzzed with ferrymen and bustling markets, when the house behind these gates was called Passors. Imagine the clang of coins in the hands of Ralph Warren, a wool merchant who went from trading fabrics to becoming Lord Mayor of London - you could almost hear the rustle of heavy cloaks and the shouts of traders along the riverbank. Later, the house passed to another cloth merchant turned mayor, Sir Thomas White, a man who shaped lives and founded St John’s College, Oxford. Even more intriguing, Sir Henry Cromwell, grandfather to the famous Oliver Cromwell, inherited these very walls. But the real transformation came in the early 1700s. The Fulham House you see now was built as a private mansion, and its halls have echoed with the laughter (and maybe a little gossip) of girls from the Fulham House School, which thrived here for nearly a century. You can almost sense the shuffle of books and the creak of old wooden desks. After that, it was home to the Parkins Hammond Jones family - imagine the clatter of family dinners and the thud of boots on the grand stairs. Then came soldiers, and the mood changed. In 1902, this stately house became the nerve center for the 26th Middlesex (Cyclist) Rifle Volunteers, with bicycles rattling and bugles sounding in the dawn air. Through two world wars, officers barked orders and telegrams clicked away upstairs. And even today, the echo of military drills, the stories of the London Scottish, and the silent watch of a war memorial remain in the air. So as you stand here, give a little salute - Fulham House has seen centuries of secrets, school-day laughter, and soldier’s courage. I’d suggest you ring the doorbell, but they’re likely to answer with a parade!

To find the Hurlingham Club, look for an elegant Georgian-style clubhouse surrounded by sweeping green grounds, nestled behind grand gates-it's impossible to miss the vast estate and manicured lawns standing out from the city bustle. Pause for a moment and take in the scene before you. Behind those gates lies not just a club, but a whole world of history, tradition, and-let’s be honest-some very fancy sandwiches. The Hurlingham Club first opened its doors in 1869, when top hats were all the rage and sporting gentlemen dreamed of a country retreat right in the heart of London. Back then, the club was the brainchild of Frank Heathcote and wealthy landowner Richard Naylor, who agreed that this spot in Fulham would make for a perfect playground for the city’s elite. Picture early members arriving in horse-drawn carriages, while a gentle breeze ruffled the emerald lawns--and you just might catch the distant flutter of wings from the crested pigeon, still the star of the club’s emblem to this very day. Now, if you like a dab of drama with your history, listen up! The club once hosted live pigeon shooting right on these grounds. Don't worry-today, pigeons are much safer, but their legacy lives on, embroidered across blazers and stamped on crests, a fluttering nod to traditions of the past. Royalty, too, fancied these lawns-notably the Prince of Wales, later King Edward VII, who helped give the club its sparkling reputation. Imagine the echoes of laughter and the air thick with tension during a high-stakes shoot as the clouds of pigeons took flight-. Sports-loving members helped make Hurlingham famous for more than just fancy hats. Ever heard of polo? Well, Hurlingham basically wrote the rulebook-literally! The club published the first official rules of polo in 1873, and hosted lightning-fast matches that drew fans from across the globe. In fact, the thundering of hooves and the clack of mallets have long since faded, but this was once the headquarters of British polo and even the scene of grudge matches between England and the United States. The polo fields here echoed with excitement, especially when the club hosted Olympic competition in 1908-imagine the cheers, the thrill, and maybe a few nervous horses! Hurlingham hasn’t only been about mallets and balls. World-class croquet has unfolded on these lawns, and for decades, the Croquet Association itself set up its headquarters right here. Cricket games, tennis matches, bowls, squash, and both indoor and outdoor swimming pools have all kept the grounds buzzing with action. And if you like your games a little quieter, you’ll find bridge and backgammon tournaments here too. Membership? Well, let’s just say you’d need more than a winning smile; it’s so exclusive you practically need to be born into it. With 13,000 members-only about 6,000 of whom have full voting rights-even celebrity hopefuls like Lord Fowler, Jeffrey Archer, and Trevor Eve have flocked here. But don’t try your luck if you’re infamous for the wrong reasons; in 2011, even a bona fide baron was denied membership due to past misadventures! So as you gaze past the iron gates, picture the clink of glasses at a garden party, the sharp crack of a polo ball, and the sweep of dresses across the perfect grass. The Hurlingham Club is a slice of English tradition, wrapped up in charm and more than a dash of old-school mystery-just the way London likes it.

Straight ahead, you’ll spot Hurlingham Park as a wide, open stretch of green grass, with people dotted about and tall, leafless trees lining the edges near the beautiful red-brick townhouses in the distance. Welcome to Hurlingham Park-where every blade of grass seems to whisper sporting secrets from days gone by! Take a deep breath and smell the fresh-cut grass, the same scent that’s greeted everyone from Olympic polo players to rugby fans and wandering comedians. Long before this was the public park you see now, it was known as the “spiritual home of British polo,” where the thunder of hooves and the cheers of well-dressed spectators echoed across the open fields. Can you picture Victorian crowds in top hats and flowing dresses, leaning forward as horses galloped by and mallets swung through the air? The park’s sporting heart beats loudly to this day, home to the Hammersmith and Fulham Rugby Football Club, and the site of countless football matches and athletic events. But did you know that, once upon a time in 1908, Olympic polo was played right here? That’s right-fierce international competition unfolded on these very grounds. Just imagine the tension and excitement when Britain took their place in Olympic history, with men and horses battling it out for medals, hooves drumming on the turf. But the story doesn’t stop there! During the Second World War, this open space became a battlefield for a different kind of survival-No. 1 Polo Ground was transformed into allotments, and the tall, elegant players were swapped out for determined locals digging for victory-there were peas and carrots where there used to be polo ponies. After the war, in the 1950s, much of the land around you was purchased by the council to make it a public park for everyone to enjoy, and that’s what you’re seeing now: a place for kids’ laughter, dog walkers, and, every so often, a mad stampede of rugby players. See that green open space? Imagine it filled with children giggling on swings, bouncing on see-saws, and getting dizzy in a maze-just like the crowd at the official opening back in 1952. And not far away, Field Cottage still stands, its stones rebuilt in 1856 and its history even older: at one time, it sheltered orphaned girls, run by the kindly benefactress Elizabeth Palmer. If this place seems oddly familiar, maybe it’s because you’ve seen it on TV! Monty Python’s famous “Upper Class Twit of the Year” competition was filmed right here in 1969-a parade of absolute silliness on these historic grounds. And in 2013, Hurlingham Park was awarded the Green Flag for being one of the loveliest parks in London. So whether you’re here to cheer at a match, stroll through leafy shade, or imagine flying polo balls alongside history’s greats, enjoy every step on this rolling field of stories!

Look for a large, pale-yellow house with perfectly straight black-trimmed windows and a striking ironwork entrance gate framed by tall brick pillars-it should be right ahead of you. Welcome to The Vineyard, a grand house with stories as lush as its legendary garden. Imagine you’re stepping back in time to the early 1600s: artisans shaping the sturdy walls, and carriages rumbling along Hurlingham Road. Later, the house grew even grander with 18th-century flair and a garden so massive, it’s the envy of the borough-seriously, it’s probably bigger than your local park! Fast forward to 1918, when the mighty Lord Beaverbrook swept in and made The Vineyard his palace. You can almost hear the echo of laughter and debate, as Winston Churchill-yes, the Winston Churchill-was a regular visitor. Imagine Churchill and Beaverbrook wandering through the vast gardens, plotting history while maybe getting just a little lost among the greenery. For 70 years, the Beaverbrook family called this place home, shrouding it in an air of importance and just a pinch of mystery. If these walls could talk, they’d likely boast about secret conversations and dramatic wartime decisions-maybe even complain about the drafty windows! As you stand here now, picture the grand parties, the whispered secrets, and the timeless allure of a house that’s seen centuries unfold.

To spot Broom Villa, look for a stately, creamy-yellow house with bare vines sweeping across its flat front, white-trimmed windows, and an inviting little portico at the center-right across from you on Broomhouse Road. Imagine standing here in the early 1800s, when this beautiful villa was newly built-before cars lined up outside, when perhaps a fancy carriage with big wheels would have rolled by instead! The house, now Grade II listed for its special charm, has seen generations come and go behind those stone walls. Picture the old wooden doors swinging open as ladies in rustling dresses and gentlemen with tall hats hosted grand afternoon teas in the drawing room, the scent of garden flowers sneaking in on the breeze. Maybe the old vines covering the front, now tangled and bare, once hummed with life-secretly listening to whispered gossip and clinking cups, or offering shade to a mischievous cat on patrol. In its long history, Broom Villa has watched Fulham transform from quiet countryside to busy London borough. So next time you walk by, imagine the echoes of laughter and secrets that linger in the air, and keep your eyes peeled-someone might be peeking out from behind the shutters, curious about today’s visitors. And if you ask me, even the bricks here have a few tales up their sleeves!

Right ahead of you, you’ll see a wide, open grassy field dotted with football goals and surrounded by towering leafy trees-just look for the big expanse of green framed by those grand old trees and you’ll know you’ve found South Park. Now, let’s take you back in time as you gaze across this sprawling space. Imagine you’re standing here in Fulham in the early 1900s-the air smells crisply of grass and maybe a little bit like cricket whites (if you can imagine what that smells like). This land, before it was a place of laughter and tennis matches, went by the names of Broom House Farm and Southfields Farm. Picture herds instead of footballs, fruit trees instead of nets-because until 1904, this was all part of the Sulivan family’s private land, even leased out to grow fruit for Chelsea’s finest nurseries. But Fulham was changing, and Lady Charlotte Sulivan, the niece of Lord Palmerston-yes, real aristocratic stuff!-sold the land to the local council at a price that screamed “let everyone play.” And so, on May 24th, 1904, South Park officially opened its gates to the public, promising a paradise of cricket, tennis, and all the games a London child (or grown-up, for that matter) could dream of. The local newspaper gushed about the entertainments here-what other park could boast a bandstand and a gymnasium, no less? Though, let’s be honest, that gymnasium must have looked a lot less like the fancy gyms of today, and a lot more like a plot of grass littered with some sturdy equipment, right on the corner of Hugon Road. Jog ahead a few years to the World Wars, and you’ll find South Park transformed not just into a playground, but a place of tension and duty. In World War I, soldiers from Fulham trained as Royal Field Artillery right on these fields, thunderous hooves and the crash of drills filling the air. Come World War II, the park turned into something of a sand mine-imagine, eleven thousand cubic yards of earth shifted to fill sandbags, all to protect London’s precious buildings. If you’d visited then, you might have found air raid shelters dug near the cricket pavilion-quite a different kind of team spirit from today’s football matches. But the park wasn’t all war and work. There’s a softer history here too. The first park-keeper, John Eckett, lived at the gardener’s lodge-can you imagine his daily commute across this green? His relative, Miss Gertrude Eckett, ran a refreshment room which later saw the laughter and naps of nursery school children instead of hungry sportsmen. Come 2004, the park celebrated its centenary. A hundred years marked by football boots, dog paws, and pram wheels rolling over ground that’s been shaped by everyone from Victorian benefactors to wartime heroes. If you take a seat on one of the memorial benches the Mayor gifted that year, just breathe it in-the past, the play, and all the quiet stories these fields still hold. So go ahead-take a walk round the perimeter, greet the trees, maybe spot a cricket match, and know you’re in the heart of Fulham’s living, laughing history. And don’t worry, if you think you see a ghostly soldier out for a jog, it’s probably just a fast-moving dog walker!

To spot the Castle Club, look for a striking red-brick building with spiky rooftop battlements and tall chimneys, rising just behind the brick wall to your left. Now, imagine the year is 1855, and right here stands a brand-new, almost castle-like school, its red bricks glowing in the sunshine and those tall, Gothic-style turrets practically begging for a few bats to flutter around them at dusk. This was no ordinary school: it was the Elizabethan Ragged School, paid for by Laurence Sulivan, whose grandfather once ran the powerful East India Company. He named it for his beloved wife Elizabeth-who, just so you can drop it into conversation later, happened to be the younger sister of the Prime Minister! Picture ragged-clothed kids shuffling in, their eyes wide with awe at the grand architecture-probably worried they'd have to joust at recess. Fast forward: the old classrooms once echoed with children's songs, but soon they were used for caring for sick children, those struggling with tuberculosis. You can almost hear the faint coughs and whispers of hope. Later on, the air was filled with the excited chatter of teenagers as it became the Eight Feathers youth club-a place of safety, games, and a little teenage mischief, I reckon. The Castle Club has worn many hats, but standing here, it still looks ready for a tale or two. If only these walls could talk… or maybe, after sunset, they do!

You’ve made it to the legendary Britannia Row Studios! You’re standing in front of what might look like just another Fulham building, but trust me, there’s enough rock history inside these walls to shake your speakers loose. Imagine the air just vibrating with guitar riffs and pounding drum fills. Yep, in the not-so-distant past, this place was a magnet for some of the most creative-and loudest-people in the business. Let’s rewind to the mid-1970s. Pink Floyd, after releasing their monumental "Wish You Were Here," decided, “Hey, why not build our own recording studio?” (I mean, if my garage band ever becomes world-famous, I’m totally doing the same.) They set up shop at 35 Britannia Row, and the rest is rock ‘n’ roll legend. Bands and artists poured in to record here. In fact, much of Pink Floyd’s "Animals" and parts of "The Wall" were born in these very rooms. Picture it: school kids marching in, nervous but excited, recording the unmistakable chorus to “Another Brick in the Wall.” Eventually, Nick Mason, Pink Floyd’s drummer, took the reins, and when the studio finally moved to Fulham in 1995, local brickwork got a little bit prouder. The place had two decades of pure musical magic-until 2015, when the amps went quiet and the studio transformed into flats. Rumor has it, if you listen very carefully, you can still hear an echo of a guitar solo... or maybe that’s just a neighbor playing their radio too loud. If you think the story ends here, you might be pleased to know the Britannia Row name lives on through an audio equipment company, spun off from the studio’s own legendary gear. Your favorite concerts? There’s a good chance some of that thunderous sound came courtesy of these folks. So take one last look-Britannia Row Studios might be peaceful now, but back in its day, this address was louder than life itself!