Manor House in all its glory.

Manor House in all its glory.

The Manor House landscape is quite unlike any other landscape in Britain. Or maybe it's the same but it just looks markedly different. When the old Woodberry Down estate came tumbling down like an enormous set of dominoes, most of the local residents around here looked on with a combination of breathless relief and perhaps a tinge of nostalgic regret. After all, most of the old flats had been there for as long as anybody could remember and it was a crying shame to see them go in one big, radical change for the better.

But now Manor House is gradually turning into a mini city, a huge, sprawling mass of million pound tower blocks, modern and soaring blocks of architectural virtue that look like the 21st century and feel like the 21st century. When my wife moved into Manor House in 2003 the whole of Woodberry Down resembled some fading post war block of flats that hadn't been touched since Churchill was a boy. They were never run down or derelict as such because I feel sure that the people who had lived in them were more than satisfied with their lot. It was a home from home, it had provided a roof over their heads but maybe they'd become too settled and the march of time had caught up with them and passed them by.

My mum has lived in the same house for over 51 years now and there is a sense that many of us develop a deeply felt emotional connection with the home we were brought up with. When my parents moved into their home our living room was roughly the size of a match box, a piano stood bravely in the corner of the living room and a small goldfish bowl that we called a TV rented from DER was tucked away unobtrusively in the corner just waiting to be switched off and on without the aid of a remote control. But hey we were happy. Of course we were happy.

Now 51 years later in a quiet corner of North London suburbia we are now surrounded by renewal, regeneration and just a hint of funky modernity. Around the corner to us there is a trustworthy post office, a Tesco Metro that reminds you of those corner shop supermarkets that once flourished in the 1970s and a cheerful newsagents. I can still see the much smaller, much cosier Sainsbury's next to Gants Hill station in Ilford, Essex where I grew up, with two aisles selling tinned food on the middle shelf and frozen food in the surrounding freezers.

 There were no big, bumper crops of food occupying huge acres of space, just a couple of meat counters, cheese slicing counters and quite the largest cash register at the front of the shop, a cash register with those lovely clunking keys.  It was, perhaps,10 shillings for cakes and biscuits,  20 shillings for a tin of baked beans and a loaf of bread would probably have set you back an extortionate 15 shillings. Everything seemed to be cheap back in the 1960s so these are just estimates. I'm sure you'll tell me that I'm way off the correct price but everything in those days seemed a couple of shillings, in let's say, 1965. How we lived life to the full back then but in retrospect this is the way we'd always shopped and in an age before rampant consumerism maybe we've lost sight of our material values.

 Today's giant food amphitheatre with its expansive walkways and giant price signs tends to lose its customers in some desolate wasteland. It is a world of detachment and isolation from the rest of the world that seems almost tragic in its way. Everybody knew everybody back then or maybe not everybody but it just seemed that way. The whole Gants Hill community was squeezed into this quaint looking corner shop that would one day become a giant supermarket with bells and whistles, immense choice and a superabundance of everything. We are now spoilt for choice and  maybe that's a good thing.

Anyway back in Manor House here we are in the middle of what seems like Europe's biggest building site. My wife made that observation and I have to tell you she's absolutely right. It is almost as if a brand spanking new community has popped up overnight. All of the residents knew it was coming and were powerless to stop it. You can never stop the rapid pace of progress, that sweet air of ambition, forward thinking and that vastly impressive hint of rich renaissance that has now transformed the whole of Manor House into a upwardly mobile community with new shiny flats and new everything.

Suddenly the professional classes have moved into Woodberry Down, aspirational dotcom businessmen and women, IT experts, high tech offices with high tech minds and high tech computers for good measure. They represent the future of London's new zeitgeist, its organic coffee drinking masses, its environmentally friendly neighbours. Suddenly Manor House is the fashionable place to live, the place for stretching out its influence on a global scale and growing together. The flats look scenically over the placid waters of Woodberry Wetlands with its great crested grebes, herons, kingfishers and herons. But then this maybe not be everybody's cup of tea.

Next door to us a wooden lattice fencing divides us from a world that so severely polarises opinion. For as far as I can see here is a scene of heavy industry, masses of building paraphernalia and everything that could possibly go into the creation of an exciting new world. None of us thought we'd ever see such revolutionary change, a stunning sense of evolution and a completely re-furbished new London suburb. But I think we've got to used to all of this upheaval and this is here to stay.

Here I can see what seem to be hundreds of cement mixers, tiny white Portakabins, burgeoning paths and tiny roads, a multitude of diggers and JCB's, huge bags of sand and cement, tall and imposing forklift trucks with yellow arms, knees, legs, shoulders and toes. All human life is not quite here but it does look the kind of place where everything is unceremoniously dumped and just forgotten about over the weekend. It looks very sad and neglected over the weekend when most of the men onsite are either supping their Sunday pint of lager or playing football at Hackney Marshes.

I think it's the yellow forklift trucks that capture my attention. They seemed to be sandwiched in between tiny mounds of sand that look as if they should be gracing a seaside resort rather than a dynamic housing project. There are tightly packed yellow bags accompanied by large grey bricks and breeze block bricks that must have been bought in by the local timber merchants. This is a very active and vibrant area where the dramatic housing re-development meets head on with go- ahead plans and a thrilling sense of innovation.

We could never have imagined that one day that an old fashioned council estate would one day become a super sized and glamorous housing phenomenon. The Woodberry Down estate is still there but some of the old currency has now gone and the millions of pounds that are now being poured into this residential paradise may not be the dream properties as described in the brochure.  My wife tells me that most of these new flats are disappointingly, much smaller than you would have thought. But there is a towering splendour about some of these new apartment blocks that do catch the eye.

Still here we are on a Sunday morning in early October and all is well with the world. A dark green boarding carefully protects the main building area. On the pavements yellowing leaves are scattered around like lost strangers with nowhere to go. The colour of the trees has turned a darker and distinctly duller shade. The leaves now look completely brown and, it has to be said sadder. They fall off the trees in dejected clusters, bowing their heads and then slumping to the ground in resigned acceptance.

Today is the Harvest Festival, a Christian tradition that used to be the cue for much merriment, song and applause at my primary school. Many was the occasion when the children at our school would be regularly requested to bring in tins of food, loaves of bread and mouth watering delicacies. Then one of our brilliant teachers would turn into a well motivated pianist and tinkle the ivories at the morning Assembly, a place where resounding hymns were reverentially sung. Oh happy days. For the Jewish kids such as myself a Jewish room would be set aside but the Harvest Festival was the equivalent of the Jewish succot so nobody questioned the status quo.

So there you have it. Manor House is quite literally singing from the same hymn sheet. All around us Sunday is the day for slowing down and taking it easy. On my run around Woodberry Wetlands, the whole community seemed to be strolling around the gravelled pathways with a noticeable calm and ease. There's no point in running after buses or trains because Sundays are still reserved for rest and recreation.

Next door to us, and most conveniently so, is our precious health centre, a doctor's surgery that looks completely out of character in relation to all of the brand new structures around us. It looks as if it was built at the beginning of the 1950s and inside the surgery noticeable improvements have been made but there is a sense even now that Cliff Richard had just popped into the surgery after an appearance on Oh Boy.

But it's now time to prepare for the winter ahead in London suburbia. It still feels as if summer has paid us the most fleeting of visits. Most of us have our considered opinions on the British summer and wherever you are and whatever your personal take may be Manor House is still alive and well, functioning purposefully and just switching the lights on 4.00 in the afternoon. Soon the all enveloping darkness will draw in and the gathering gloom will be relieved by Lithuania taking on England in a pointless World Cup qualifier. Life doesn't get any better. Life is indeed precious.