
Some cities are planned. They expand in an organised way; they’re made up of straight lines, long boulevards and avenues.
Part of London’s charm is that it was never like that. It grew – and then exploded – organically. Look at a map of its older districts, especially the East End and the City, and it’s a tangle of winding streets, still following a centuries-old street pattern.
But amid all that chaos is one spot that stands out – a central circle, with clearly planned streets radiating off it. That oddity is Arnold Circus.
Now one of East London’s calmer and more beautiful spots, it was once the site of one of London’s most notorious slums – the rubble of which still forms the grassy mound at the centre.
This is the story of the UK’s first council estate, the campaign that led to it, and the uncomfortable questions it raises.
This blog is part of my Building of the Week series, where I explore a different story each week.
Old Nichol – one of London’s most notorious slums
This little part of East London with a colourful history started life as, ironically, the garden of a nunnery. After the Dissolution of the Monasteries in the 1530s it fell into private hands and was gradually built over. It became known as Old Nichol.
In the 18th and 19th century, East London’s population exploded, as people moved from all over the country and beyond in search of a better life. This saw the population around Old Nichol skyrocket, too.
Shanty style houses were crammed back to back, nearly 6,000 people in just a five acre area, in overcrowded rooms. Whatever those many people moving to London had a imagined for themselves, this certainly wasn’t it.
Many of the residents lived in overcrowded rooms, often spent their days working from the same space, making matchboxes or clothes to scratch together a meagre living. Mortality was extremely high, even for the era. Crime was rife.
When Charles Booth travelled London in the late 19th century to produce his poverty maps, the Old Nichol stood out as one of the darkest blue and black spots in the city – denoting areas with the highest levels of poverty.

And one of the most shocking aspects of the Old Nichol was the vested interests of many of the powerful in British society. The land was owned by politicians, churchmen and lawyers – and many were making huge profits on the slums. Given their links with power, this undoubtedly delayed change.
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A new Reverend arrives
In 1886, a man called Osborne Jay arrived at the Old Nichol slums. He was the new reverend at nearby Hoy Trinity Church – and this was to be his parish.
Shocked by what he saw and the conditions people were living in, Jay quickly set about working for the benefit of the comunity. He ran local clubs and shelters. He documented the levels of poverty and raised awareness.
But this wasn’t enough. He knew that something much more drastic had to change.
Jay’s timing was fortunate. London had just been granted a new form of local government, the London County Council, which had secured powers to purchase land and build housing.
One of its early chairmen, Arthur Arnold, was a radical Liberal who had spent years campaigning against landlordism. Initially he was against the idea, concerned that it would lead to the most vulnerable residents being forced out. Later, he was responsible for ensuring the new estate was built to the highest standards.
This was also the era of Jack the Ripper. Middle class London was being confronted with the realities of life in the East End.
Public interest in poverty was growing, fuelled by Charles Booth’s poverty maps and by writers like Arthur Morrison, who Jay himself invited to the Old Nichol. Morrison’s bestselling novel A Child of the Jago was a barely fictionalised account of life in the slum, cementing the Old Nichol’s notoriety in the public imagination, though by the time it was published the demolition was already underway.
With political will, public pressure, and new legal powers in place, the LCC made clearance of the Old Nichol and construction of a new public housing estate its flagship project.
So, we have a lot to thank Reverend Osborne Jay for, and he’s often revered as a key social campaigner. But his own beliefs were complicated, and reflected the opinions many had towards those in poverty at the time – even those who ostensibly were the ‘good guys’.
Just look at this quote from him, originally from “The London”, 12th March 1896 and sourced via the Jack the Ripper Casebook:
“The only method, I think, is to stop the supply of persons born to be lazy, immoral, and deficient in intellect. This can only be done by sending the present stock of them to what I will call a penal settlement…. The fact is, all men are not equal, nor can they be treated as such. This, through no fault of their own, I grant; but we can prevent them bringing into the world children stamped with the character of their parents.”
The birth of London’s first council estate

The London County Council appointed a remarkably young architect to lead the project – Owen Fleming, just 23.
Largely unknown now, his legacy lives on in council estates all over the country. He designed rows of mid-rise blocks, centred around a shared green space. For decades, this became a template for council housing replicated all over.
Sadly, something that wasn’t replicated was another core part of Fleming’s vision. He believed that much of East London’s buildings, up to this point, weren’t good enough. A “long row of dreary monotony”, he said.
This was the high point of the Arts and Crafts movement, which emphasised highly skilled craftsmanship for the public good. To prevent that “dreary monotony” he so despised, Fleming brought different architects in to design the different blocks.
As a result, the blocks all have slightly different styles – you’ll find Dutch gables, conical towers, steep roofs evoking medieval barns, and bands of yellow on redbrick, known as ‘streaky bacon’ banding.




A variety of architectural styles and features across Boundary Estate’s buildings.
In 1900, the estate was opened by the Prince of Wales. Most of the buildings are now listed, and it’s cared for by the Friends of Boundary Estate.
One of the most interesting features is in the green space in the centre, known as Arnold Circus. It’s built on a mound, made from rubble from the demolished slum.
From notorious slums to a beautiful, planned council estate, to the highest spec.
A rare happy story, perhaps? Not quite.
Who exactly got those new homes?
The new estate could house nearly 6,000 residents – around exactly the same as the numbers displaced. But the people who moved in weren’t the same as those that lived there before.
Reports show that of the 6,000 residents who first lived in the new estate, only 11 had been residents of the Old Nichol slum.
Let me repeat that again. Eleven, out of nearly six thousand. 0.18%.
Flats in the new estate were affordable compared to much of London, but still too high for the former residents. And there was also the attitudes of the time – a fetishisation of the ‘deserving poor’, a category which most of Old Nichol’s residents, often in irregular, informal or no work, didn’t fit into.
The former residents weren’t given any help to find new homes. Instead, they were just forced further East. You can see the effect of this if we look back to Booth’s maps. Below are his first and second editions. In the first, the Old Nichol slum is shown in black – Booth’s lowest category.
In the second, just a decade later, it is a comfortable pink – denoting mixed and fairly comfortable. But the areas around it are a dark blue. Arthur Arnold, the chairman of the LCC who gave Arnold Circus its name, had been proved right.
Sadly, even in 2026, another era of multiple council regenerations and intense gentrification, this story feels all too familiar.

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