Amy Winehouse: The Camden Days Before the World Came Calling

Daniel Holland
Oct 26
7 min read

Mural of a woman on a brick wall, with various images and a statue. Text reads "Amy Winehouse: The Camden Days." Flowers below. Moody urban setting.

Walk down Camden High Street in 2007 and you might have caught a glimpse of her — black beehive, ballet flats, tattoos showing through her Fred Perry top, cigarette in hand.

Amy Winehouse didn’t need security or a limo. She’d stroll past the kebab shops and market stalls like any local, waving at people she knew, ducking into The Hawley Arms or The Good Mixer where someone always had her favourite drink waiting.

Brick pub facade with sign "The Hawley Arms." Street view, bike in foreground, clear sky, casual atmosphere. No people present.

“She’d walk in and the whole pub would light up,” said barmaid Clare Caldwell. “She’d shout, ‘Alright, my love?’ and give you this grin that made you feel like the most important person in the world.”

That was Camden Amy. Not the celebrity, not the headline. Just the girl who’d sing along to the jukebox, call the staff her “family,” and end up behind the bar pouring drinks for strangers.

Camden: Her Kingdom

Amy first moved to Camden around 2003, not long after Frank came out. The area had a long history of attracting artists and eccentrics, it was where punk met soul, where goths and jazz musicians shared the same pubs. It was gritty, noisy, and perfect for someone like her.

She rented a flat on Jeffrey’s Place, later moving to Camden Square, a short walk from Regent’s Canal. It was there, in that little North London corner, that she created the world of Back to Black.

“Amy loved Camden because it didn’t judge her,” said her mother Janis Winehouse. “It let her be herself. She didn’t have to explain who she was.”

In Camden she could be anonymous and adored at the same time. People looked out for her, not because she was famous, but because she was one of them. If she wandered into The Dublin Castle, the barman would tell the crowd, “Oi, let her have a drink in peace.”

The Hawley Arms Stories

Ask anyone who worked at The Hawley Arms between 2004 and 2008 and they’ll tell you they have an Amy story.

There was the night she jumped behind the bar and started pouring pints. “She wasn’t messing about,” one bartender laughed. “She’d serve customers properly, ring it up on the till, then shout, ‘Next!’ She loved it.”

Another night, after a few drinks, she decided the pub needed music. Someone handed her a mic and she broke into an impromptu version of Monkey Man by Toots and the Maytals. The entire bar joined in. “It was like watching lightning,” said a regular. “You couldn’t believe it was just happening in front of you.”

She treated the staff like friends. If someone had a birthday, Amy would bring cupcakes. When the pub suffered a devastating fire in 2008, she turned up with a tray of homemade brownies for the clean-up crew and later donated money to help rebuild it. “She cried when she saw the damage,” said owner Ruth Powys. “She said, ‘We’ll get it back, babe. Don’t you worry.’”

Even after she became an international star, Amy refused to drink anywhere else. She’d turn down VIP clubs and head straight to the Hawley, where her friends were.

“She didn’t want velvet ropes or champagne service,” her friend Juliette Ashby recalled. “She wanted beer, music, and a good laugh.”

Crowd walking and sitting under Camden Lock bridge in London, with colorful graffiti and shops. The mood is lively and busy.

Neighbours and Night Walks

Amy’s neighbours on Camden Square remember her as both quiet and kind. She was known for leaving little notes through doors, thanking people if they looked after her cats while she was away.

“She was lovely,” said one neighbour to The Telegraph. “She’d knock on the door, all polite, asking if she could borrow milk or sugar. You’d forget for a moment who she was.”

She often walked the streets at night when she couldn’t sleep. Locals would see her wandering along the canal, headphones on, humming melodies under her breath. Sometimes she’d stop to chat with strangers sitting on the benches, asking them about their lives.

“She was so curious,” said musician Zalon Thompson, who sang backing vocals for her. “She’d talk to anyone, buskers, shopkeepers, whoever was around. She loved real people.”

Writing Back to Black

Many of Amy’s songs were written in Camden pubs and cafés. She’d bring a notebook everywhere. “She’d sit in the corner of the Hawley, scribbling on napkins,” said one of the bar staff. “Sometimes she’d get up mid-conversation, grab a pen and go, ‘Hang on, that’s a lyric.’”

Mark Ronson remembered walking through Camden with her before recording sessions. “We’d pop into shops or grab a coffee, and she’d start humming these melodies. She had it all in her head before we ever went into the studio.”

Historic three-story building with white and tan bricks, arched entrance, tall windows, and a small front garden with shrubs. Clear sky backdrop. — Amy's Camden House

Songs like Love Is a Losing Game and You Know I’m No Good came out of those days. They weren’t polished; they were lived. You can almost hear Camden’s pulse in the background of those tracks — the clink of pint glasses, the laughter, the rain on the pavement.

Friends, Food and Felines

Amy’s Camden home wasn’t glamorous, but it was full of life. There were always people coming and going — friends, musicians, neighbours dropping by for tea. She loved cooking for people, especially her famous jerk chicken.

Her goddaughter Dionne Bromfield said, “She’d be in the kitchen with reggae blasting, dancing while she cooked. You couldn’t not join in.”

Her cats were her pride and joy. She named one Monkey and another Bubbles, after her love of classic soul and Motown. They appeared in countless photos, often curled up on her lap while she strummed her guitar.

And then there were the random acts of kindness. One local remembered how Amy once helped a man pick up his dropped groceries outside Sainsbury’s, chatting to him the whole time. Another time, she gave a homeless musician her spare guitar.

“She had a massive heart,” her friend Remi said. “She’d give you her last ten quid if you needed it.”

Woman smiling while holding two kittens in her arms. Indoor setting with a beige wall background. The mood is joyful and affectionate.

The Soundtrack of Her Streets

Camden was more than her home — it was her soundtrack. The reggae from the record stalls, the buskers by the canal, the punk kids on the bridge. All of it seeped into her music.

She was known to drop into The Dublin Castle or Barfly to catch unsigned acts. “She’d stand at the back, hoodie up, nursing a drink,” said one promoter. “Then she’d come over after the gig and say, ‘You lot are brilliant. Keep doing your thing.’”

She also loved a singalong. Locals tell stories of her belting out Valerie in a karaoke bar long before it became her hit with Mark Ronson. Another time, she joined a group of buskers on Camden High Street, harmonising to Ain’t No Sunshine until a crowd gathered.

“She wasn’t trying to show off,” one of the buskers said. “She just loved music. She couldn’t walk past it without getting involved.”

The Dual Life of Amy Winehouse

By 2007, Back to Black had made Amy a global superstar. She was winning Grammys, performing in front of thousands, and being trailed by paparazzi everywhere she went. But her heart stayed in Camden.

She’d fly to LA for award shows, then come home and walk straight into the Hawley, unannounced. “She’d turn up in her award-show dress, still wearing her heels,” said her friend. “She’d laugh and say, ‘Missed you lot more than the Americans.’”

But the attention was getting harder to escape. Her home became surrounded by photographers. Strangers camped outside. The same people who once protected her couldn’t keep the world away.

“She wanted to keep living the way she always had,” said Mark Ronson. “But fame changes everything. Camden was the last place she could feel normal.”

Camden at Dawn

There’s a story that one early morning, around 5 a.m., Amy was spotted sitting on a bench near the canal, sharing chips with a homeless man. When a passerby recognised her and asked why she wasn’t home asleep, she just smiled and said, “Can’t sleep. This is my spot.”

That bench is still there, and fans sometimes leave flowers on it. It’s a small reminder of how deeply she belonged to this place.

She once told a journalist, “I don’t want to move somewhere fancy. I like hearing music out the window and people shouting. It’s real.”

Police and security stand by a memorial with flowers and a portrait outside a townhouse. A "Police Line" tape marks the area. — The day after Amy was found

A Camden Farewell

When Amy died in 2011, Camden mourned like it had lost one of its own. The Hawley Arms became an impromptu memorial. People brought flowers, guitars, and handwritten notes. Her songs played from open windows.

Even now, her presence lingers everywhere. There’s a bronze statue of her in Camden Market, slightly leaning, one hand on her hip, eyes full of mischief. Locals pass it and say, “Alright, Aims,” as if she might answer.

There’s a mural of her near the Roundhouse, another by the canal, and endless street art that keeps her alive in the neighbourhood she loved most.

“She’ll always be Camden’s girl,” said one local musician. “She didn’t just live here. She was here. She soaked it up and turned it into songs.”

The Spirit of Camden Lives On

Amy Winehouse’s Camden years were a collision of joy, chaos, friendship, and creativity. They were full of late-night laughter, soulful songs, and moments of surprising tenderness.

Yes, there was pain, but there was also warmth. She brought people together, made them sing, made them laugh. She had this rare ability to make ordinary moments feel electric.

Her story isn’t just about fame or addiction. It’s about a woman who loved deeply, who found inspiration in everyday life, and who poured her soul into music that will outlast every scandal.

Amy once said, “I just want to live a life worth writing songs about.”

She did.