That's one of the things I love about London, that you can suddenly become aware of the layers beneath the contemporary city. It's like a palimpsest (the loveliest of words).
Peter Ackroyd and Iain Sinclair are two exponents of the art of psychic geography, a discipline that is certainly more art than science. They're criticised sometimes for their disregard for literal truth and their indulgence of what the imagination can conjure up in its place.
Where we live - inner-city Islington - all the roads have religious associations. The area was the site of a chantry, where medieval monks would say prayers for the dead, helpfully nudging them on from purgatory. All swept away by the Reformation, of course, leaving just the street names and very occasionally an air of improbable and profound peace. The buzz of the city stops and all you can hear are the birds singing.