From 4:00 am trading chaos to heartfelt memories passed between generations, we reflect on the market’s rich cultural legacy as it prepares to move out of the city.
Among the bustling traders and familiar banter, Billingsgate fish market is rich with tradition, where generations have worked, laughed, and bartered — a London landmark soon to be lost.
At 4:00 am, the bell strikes, starting trading. A horde of restaurateurs, market owners, and personal shoppers descend on the market stalls to barter and buy the freshest catch at wholesale prices.
“Legs, please, mind your legs!” Someone barks as they rattle past me with a trolley stacked with fish. I dodge out of the way into the café inside the market.
It is all smiles and laughs in the kitchen so early on a Friday morning, and I am composing myself before heading back into the organised chaos of the market.
In 1699, this market officially became a place to sell “all sorts of fish whatsoever” – the café walls are lined with photos displaying the history of Billingsgate and its generations of fishmongers.
Its current iteration, a 1980s complex covering 13 acres in the Isle of Dogs, sits defiantly, but arguably outdated, next to the sheer glass behemoths of Canary Wharf.
In a couple of years, it will move permanently outside of London, alongside Smithfield and Spitalfields, the other historic London markets.
“My dad took me here first when I was twelve. I’m 71 now,” Dave tells me, standing by his van about to make the drive back up to Norfolk, where he has his own fishmonger shop.
“They were still carrying the fish around in wooden boxes on their heads! It’s an institution, it’ll be a shame to see this place go.”
My dad also used to take me here when I was a kid, with a flask of tea. I would climb into the passenger seat of his car, excited to be brought along. It was a memorable experience then, and the atmosphere does not disappoint all these years later.
There is a timelessness to these men in flat caps and white jackets whose jobs have not changed substantially for hundreds of years. Their banter and camaraderie are foreign to what you would find in the offices next door.
“Careful with him! He’ll break your legs, and he’s most wanted!” The police officer jokes with me as I take photos of two lads working at one stall. “Take a photo of him, he’s an ugly bastard!” One of them replies, pointing at their mate. “You’re going to need a new camera lens, though.”
When fish porters lost their licences in 2012 in favour of cheaper casual labour, this industry lost its stability as a sure career path passed down through generations, and today’s younger generations are looking at other avenues.
“I just finished uni, doing Biology,” 21-year-old Ben tells me. You’d think marine biology with this work. I don’t want to stay here long. The night shift is hard, but money’s money. I’ll be here till I get a proper job.” His mum walks past and rolls her eyes at me.
There is uncertainty about their future here, but there is no point worrying about it; for now, the fish have to be sold.
At 8:30 am, trading finishes, I watch Billingsgate, soundtracked to clacking trolleys and squeaking white polystyrene boxes, from my perch above the North dock.
Finished before most have made it out of bed.
All images by Jimmy Hughes-Brown.