What is it? A sprawl of stalls and open-air ease where canvases lean against concrete and incense mingles with fried things on sticks. You come here to shop, but not really. You come to loiter, to lose track of time between zines, ceramics and a boy playing Radiohead on a flute. Art, sure. But also space to breathe.
Why go? The market resists easy definition. It’s part sculpture, part park. Wander long enough and you’ll pass a giant aircraft parked like it belongs there, flanked by rusted robots, shadowy corners, and food that tastes best eaten standing. At the centre, a hulking airplane looms like a dream misplaced – ghostly, grand, oddly serene amid the clutter. Reclaimed wood meets industrial sprawl, installations crop up without warning, and everything hums with the kind of offbeat charm you can’t manufacture. It’s a place that feels lived-in yet slightly unreal, where you might catch a film screening next to a flea market or stumble across a poetry reading beside a tattoo booth.
Time Out tip: Across the year, the space shapeshifts – hosting festivals that pulse with live sets, makeshift galleries, and pop-up chaos masquerading as markets. Somewhere in the noise, you’ll find Transport, a quiet rebellion of house and disco heads who gather a few times annually beneath the bones of a plane to dance like no one’s documenting it.
