His own religion ... the Blake window in St Mary's Church, Battersea. Photograph: The Art Archive
Though I'm no expert on him, I've been aware of the influence and presence of writer, illustrator and self-publisher William Blake for some time.
Like most, I only know some of the basic facts about him, chiefly the famous story of how, at the age of eight, he was suddenly rapt by a vision of angels sitting in the trees of his local park when out walking with his mother.
It was this awakening of a belief in a life beyond the physical world, and all that was increasingly being explained away by science, that set him on the path of poetry and art. For Blake, this involved illustrating, financing, printing and selling his own hand-painted (as opposed to typeset) works, with an energy that pre-dated punk's DIY anyone-can-do-it fanzine approach by 200 years.
Blake was also a contradiction. He was a disciple of the Bible not averse to door-knocking to spread the word of the Lord and sell his wares. Yet he largely despised organised religion and instead aligned his beliefs with the mysticism that was informing the burgeoning Romantic movement of the time. "I must create a system or be enslaved by another man's," he once stated. For an atheist like me, there's something profoundly appealing about a Christian who hates religion.
Two-and-a-half centuries to the day since his birth, Blake remains a hugely inspiring figure. In 2002 he was voted the 38th Greatest Britain in a BBC poll, while in 1993, artist Stan Peskett was commissioned to paint a mural of Blake's vision down the road from where he lived, in East Dulwich; it remains one of London's only two memorials to this visionary, along with St Mary's Church in Battersea's stained glass window. On Sunday my local pub hosted an all-day poetry and music event entitled Bad Boy Billy Blake's Birthday Bash. More fun than darts, I'm sure you'd agree.
All that aside, the most exciting thing about Blake for me is that I live about 100 metres from the very spot where he saw his angels. Well, perhaps not the very spot - no one knows where he saw them exactly, but we do know it was in the trees on Peckham Rye. Since discovering this fact I've spent many an hour searching for the angels on the Rye and went there again yesterday.
Now, Peckham has a bad reputation. Everyone knows about the murder of Damilola Taylor and more recent gun crimes, but few people know it houses some of the best people, greenest open spaces and, fittingly, numerous enclaves of artists, musicians and writers drawn here by affordable rent and - maybe - the hope of seeing a mystical muse in the trees.
Down on Peckham Rye common I kick my way through the piles of leaves, pausing at each tree to search its bare branches for resting angels. I walk down past the empty paddling pool, the skate park (no angels there) along by the newly-opened rotunda café (no angels, but plenty of yummy mummies with mewling babies) then into the gardens where colourful feral parakeets scream and swoop from tree to tree, oblivious to the fact that they're not in Madagascar.
Just when I'm thinking of giving up, I suddenly see a movement. I pause and hold my breath. Sure enough, there it is, sitting on a branch without a care in the world. It's unmistakably an angel and I almost faint with surprise. It is about ten inches long, has wide brown eyes and is wearing a brown coat. It is eating what appears to be an acorn. I fumble for my camera but when I look back it has gone.
