This journey taken on Saturday November 28, seemed not to have been posted, although I know I did it! Hmmm. So this comes before 12 …. Are you all following???
Grumpy and confused Rock Dove!
11 Greenford to South Kenton
Saturday November 28, 2009:
“Yum” I drool, popping a piece of toast with some delicious scrambled eggs balanced carefully on top of it into my mouth. “This is the way to start a walk!” I declare taking a deep draft of black Earl Gray tea, which has just reached the perfect temperature for quaffing.
It is still early, but the café opposite Greenford station is busy. We eat breakfast and enjoy the snug warmth. But there is a walk to do and it’s time we set off.
We cancelled our last walk just over two weeks ago, on account of a dire weather forecast which offered blustery torrential rain. But today, the skies are clear and a soft winter sun shines down on us. Still it’s darn nippy and I am glad to be wearing my hat, scarf, gloves and heavy duffle coat
We walk along the Greenford road and then slip through a tunnel into an oasis of peace. A mini wetland nature reserve with reeds, fine trees and chirruping birds offers surprising tranquility, even though the main road can be heard roaring behind us.
Standing on a mini viewing platform in the sunshine, I breathe the pond damp air. My companion excitedly admires the grey and white terns as they wheel above us. Landing with delicacy onto the surface of the pond, they hold their tails carefully free from the water in a neat if fastidious way.
The sun gilds a birch trees yellow leaves bright against the silver bark. A great oak tree with all its leaves still on, shakes its full head in the wind. We walk on down to the side of the Grand Union Canal.
The canal is flanked by shrubs, amongst which coots and moorhens waddle, splashing swiftly into the water as we approach. Terns skid on the surface, bottoms up. All scatter before the approach of the narrow boat Tolerance, festooned with cheerfully waving, well wrapped up passengers.
The canal speeds by busily, its black water glossy under the blue sky. A smart houseboat, the Oden, complete with an appropriate black cat loitering nearby bobs peacefully on the water. A polite cyclist greets us as he passes.
We climb steps and take the bridge over the canal to our first opportunity to get lost, on the slopes of Horsenden Hill.
The ground squelches thickly under foot. We wind our way through a small copse out onto Dyers Green, a meadow which is home to a rare plant used to make yellow dye.
Several ways offer themselves to us but there is no clue as to which is the right one. We take the left path and descend into another copse, the way lined with blackberry bushes, heavy with late unripe red fruits.
Now we’re on a tarmac path and the road sounds awfully close. My companion is confused but there are no signs. Optimistically we turn up a cobbled path and then climb steps which bring us onto the summit of Horsenden Hill.
“It’s not as steep as I remembered” observes my companion, scowling at the Capital ring book. Glad to have made it up the hill without too much trouble, I stand and raise my face to the sun, its warmth tempered by the blustery wind blowing vigoursly now.
My companion describes the rolling hills of three counties. I imagine the horizon, blue and mysterious which I always thought was the sea, when I was a very partially sighted child. London lies fuzzily below us, framed by trees.
“Where are the Wembly Arches?” asks my companion for the third time. We sit down with our back to the wind and feast on fruit bars and clementines. Still the wind brings the sweet tangy smell of the fruit to our noses. It dances with the damp smell of the grass. I breathe it in and think suddenly of Christmas.
The hill top is flat. There is an ordinance survey trig point which we touch (to prove we were here). We walk through an oak wood. The branches curve and tangle, darkly superimposed upon the pale blue sky. The ground is soft underfoot.
Out of the woods, we walk along beside a playing field. Beyond a rundown row of shops, Ugly houses line the street. There is another countratant between the book and the signs and, after a slight purposeless detour, we turn and follow a striding walker and her Capital ring book through streets of indifferent houses. . Nodding to a magnificent oak tree on a strip of green, we turn down more streets past several profusions of flowering fuchsias’, it being that time of year apparently. Arriving at last at Sudbury Hill, we repair for lunch to the Metro Juice Bar.
Full of falafel wrap, we walk up Sudbury Hill High Street. Several pizza joints are interspersed with healthy looking fruit and vet shops. There’s a Boots and a hardware store and several Indian restaurants.
We turn off and ascend a hill, lined with oak trees growing in a narrow finger of uncultivated land. I’m beginning to puff, but not badly. Now suburbia smiles smugly at us as we toil up a street lined with very posh large houses, not all divided into flats. One or two are prosperous and solid behind their high walls and tall trees.
We sink down to rest upon a bench in the middle of Harrow village green. It is just past two and we’ve made good time. My companion describes the circle of smart cafes, restaurants and shops which make up the village. Then she spies the lighting shop and is diverted to pres her nose up against the window and admire the chandeliers.
The road slopes steeply down through Harrow School buildings, smart and magnificent, neat and prosperous. Behind a wall, a boy plays noisily with a football. The smell of fresh coffee sachets tantalizingly down the street. A car edges it way slowly past us.
We turn onto the path across the school playing fields. Boys of various ages are gathered on pitches tossing the ball to each other. Three long legged girls stride briskly past, deep in conversation. Various adults with sleek dogs wander by.
Suddenly I am halted in my tracks by the piercingly sweet sound of bagpipes. We turn and my companion peers over a hedge. A boy stands in the middle of the field. Players lock arms and bend their heads in the pre match scrum. A whistle blows, they break apart, the pipes stop and a ball thuds.
Leaving the grounds, we cross a busy road and turn into ducker’s path, another narrow finger of trees and scrub. I am tired and plonk myself down on a handy tree stump for a quick rest.
Now our way lies along a muddy narrow path between Northwick Park Hospital and a golf course. We are imprisoned by the scrub and a fifty foot net. Grumbling, we stump along sulkily for ages. We both agree that this is not a nice path.
But it ends at last. My companion spies a deserted swing park. Immediately, I am eight again and want to play. Oh and I’ve not lost the knack. I swing as high as I dare considering that the seat is very low. My legs hurt but it feels good to be arching through the air, the wind rushing against my cheeks. “Weee” I call infantilely, a broad smile splitting my face.
We are neared our journeys end. We tear ourselves away from the park and walk on. A canoodling couple clinches desperately; an annoying brat repeatedly sounds the horn of a car he has got access to. . Playing fields lie deserted. Only a group of smoking teenagers stand at the park gate deep in conversation about who is dating who. Fast trains roar along the railway line. And here now is South Kenton and our journey’s end.
Thursday, 17 December 2009
Friday, 11 December 2009
12 South Kenton to Brent Cross (West Hendon
Friday December 11, 2009:
It’s a foggy grey morning, but at least it is not raining. The weather forecaster says that the sun will come out at noon. Layered up against the nasty wind which persistently stirs the fog, we march from South Kenton station through somewhat disheveled streets of reasonably sized semis. The houses are not particularly objectionable but there is something a little neglected about the area.
Preston Park is another matter. Gently landscaped, the undulating ground dotted with clumps of mature trees is pleasant enough. Tits sing in the trees and other feathered souls batter the shrubs as they ascend into the cool cloudy sky.
We turn from the park past a primary school and some more houses. A calm wood pigeon is peacefully singing in one of the back gardens.
“Ah”, I sigh, pulling my companion to a halt so I can listen. The pigeon shuts up!
We turn into an unhappy looking high street. A halal butcher sits side by side with closed pizza restaurants, travel and estate agencies. The uncared for atmosphere of the neighboring streets is explained by the many advertisements offering houses to rent. Perhaps the residents are all passing through and not particularly interested in the surroundings.
It is just past nine o’clock and we are hungry. We search a little nervously for a café, fearing there isn’t going to be one. Coffee wafts towards us as a woman speeds across the road clutching a steaming polystyrene cup. My companion spies the plainly named “Coffee House” and we cross the road.
It’s a cheerful café and efficiently serves up perfectly delicious scrambled eggs on whole meal bread and really quite decent filter coffee. Best of all, it has a clean and handy toilet.
We turn away from the high street into a quiet residential road. Here the houses are detached with larger leafy gardens. Most front gardens have been concreted over to provide off street parking. The atmosphere is altogether much more prosperous.
Slipping between neat semi-detached dwellings, we move along a soft green alleyway and out into a small copse edged with the tube line. This is the beginning of Fryent Country Park. I breathe deeply and savor the soft mossy sweetly sour smell of rotting foliage and fungus that typifies a wood in winter. The ground is yielding and squidgy underfoot and we have to be careful, lest we slip. Falling here would cover us in oozing mud.
We pick our way gingerly across a sodden meadow. Everything is soaked. Its poured non-stop for days and the earth feels heavy with rain. In the distance, a woman surrounded by a whole pack of assorted dogs is briskly striding forth. Above us in the dull and misty grey sky, crows circle cawing to each other.
We ascend through a tangled Oakwood, their curled limbs, black against the grey sky. The earth beneath my feet shifts stickily. The sweetly gagging smell of fox rises up to dance with the moldy mushroom dampness and the more acid smell of bruised grass. Three fearcesome Alsatians, held in check by their three middle-aged minders are being taught their manners. They bark fiercely and I begin to sing quietly under my breath to calm me and them. They take no notice and bark some more. Under a hail of admonitions, their owners drag them off.
We subside onto a handy seat to rest a while. The smell of fox is stronger here. My companion spies a hole in the bank which might be something to do with the foxes.
The peace is shattered as a pack of assorted cheerful dogs appears, panting and scrabbling through the trees. The human in charge of them, calls them to heel and is ignored. The pack is a mixed bag of smart pedigree and mutts and is a complete United Nations of caninedom. They pass happily on and we climb to our feet and strike our way through the wood.
The path rises and we slither and slip. Still we move on, growing warm as the sun thinks about braking through the misty cloud above. We are climbing Barn Hill. Reaching its summit, we find a bulrush fringed pond gleaming muddy brown under the sky. The water is populated by mallards in their winter coats
Standing by the Trig point, my companion describes the roundness that is Wembly stadium. Above it, the arch, like a basket handle is half shrouded by cloud and gilded by the sun which is still obscured by said cloud. Beyond, the urban sprawl is grey.
Carefully, we step along the treacherously muddy path. In time, The Oakwood gives way to a meadow. Dicing with death, we reach the far side of the busy main road in one piece and strike out across more meadow. A young Asian woman in sunny yellow Chalwoir chemise stretches energetically as her companion in running shorts pounds across the meadow.
Our way is barred by a rain swollen water-hole spread across the path. We edge carefully past and on across the sticky mud-clogged grass.
A squat hawthorn bush, its twisting twigs covered in yellow-green lichen offers its velvety complexity to my curious fingers. I stroke its softness and breathe in the sweet mossy odour.
WE pass carefully through gaps in the hedges; placing each foot purposefully one in front of the other as the mud sucks greedily at our boots. The ground continues to rise as we climb of Gotfords Hill.
This round hill offers a panoramic view of London. In the south, the sun shine’s mistily behind the arches of Wembly Stadium. To the west rises St Mary’s spire from the wood encrusted harrow on the Hill. To the north a grey urban-scope is edged with the blue hills of Hertfordshire. To the east, London stretches out greyly towards Essex, far, far away.
Having climbed up, we now need to get down. Foot by foot we move, down amongst the Oakwood.
The clouds clear, the sun shines down. It is noon exactly! Birds chirrup cheerfully in greeting. I take off my hat and raise my face to the golden warmth.
We leave the country park, crossing a main road and skirting round the new St Andrew’s Church, only 150 +years old, we climb in and walk across the much older churchyard behind, with its tumbled-down graves and old sheltering yew tree. Exchanging greetings with an ancient dog and its heavily made up owner. We walk on. The fuchsia bushes are still in flower, and glow cheerfully in the sunshine. It is time for a much needed cupper tea and pee break and we head for the garden centre café, hard by the gaudy Christmas trees.
The “café” turns out to be a French bloke with a kettle and a few shelves of packaged snacks. In keeping with the season, I dig out from the depths of my rucksack, mince pies, clementines and chocolate money.
“Oh enough already!” I mutter as rested, hydrated and after a fashion fed, we hastily speed away from the hideous festival musak. “I’m going to kill Bing Crosby”, I growl, exiting the building hurriedly and coming a cropper on a modest curb.
“Bugger!” I snarl, getting awkwardly up. Every bobble of the concrete has etched itself onto my already tender knees. I take a swig of rescue remedy , an arnica tablet as I extricate myself from the helpful chap who seems bent on pulling my arm off as he assists me rather gracelessly to rise.
We march off down the road, past two alternately bum-sniffing and quarrelling dogs and enter Brent Reservoir Park.
Hardly a human is to be found. The water, silver in the sunshine is heavily populated with a cheerful abundance of water fowl. Canada geese vie with the mallards, a teenage swan, and his beauty not yet come, glides amongst the terns, their bottoms rather superciliously out of the water. The M1 roars ferociously in the distance. We stride on.
Urban traffic roars at us as we leave the peace of the waterside behind. We cross a busy road bridge spanning the howling M1 and the mainline railway. The houses here are reasonably sized semis. I hope they’ve got double-glazing to cut out the din of the motorway. At length, we turn off and passing rather neat little terraced cottages make our way towards Brent Cross shopping centre and our destination this day for this, our penultimate walk. We are only seven miles from home and a little retail therapy beckons!
Friday December 11, 2009:
It’s a foggy grey morning, but at least it is not raining. The weather forecaster says that the sun will come out at noon. Layered up against the nasty wind which persistently stirs the fog, we march from South Kenton station through somewhat disheveled streets of reasonably sized semis. The houses are not particularly objectionable but there is something a little neglected about the area.
Preston Park is another matter. Gently landscaped, the undulating ground dotted with clumps of mature trees is pleasant enough. Tits sing in the trees and other feathered souls batter the shrubs as they ascend into the cool cloudy sky.
We turn from the park past a primary school and some more houses. A calm wood pigeon is peacefully singing in one of the back gardens.
“Ah”, I sigh, pulling my companion to a halt so I can listen. The pigeon shuts up!
We turn into an unhappy looking high street. A halal butcher sits side by side with closed pizza restaurants, travel and estate agencies. The uncared for atmosphere of the neighboring streets is explained by the many advertisements offering houses to rent. Perhaps the residents are all passing through and not particularly interested in the surroundings.
It is just past nine o’clock and we are hungry. We search a little nervously for a café, fearing there isn’t going to be one. Coffee wafts towards us as a woman speeds across the road clutching a steaming polystyrene cup. My companion spies the plainly named “Coffee House” and we cross the road.
It’s a cheerful café and efficiently serves up perfectly delicious scrambled eggs on whole meal bread and really quite decent filter coffee. Best of all, it has a clean and handy toilet.
We turn away from the high street into a quiet residential road. Here the houses are detached with larger leafy gardens. Most front gardens have been concreted over to provide off street parking. The atmosphere is altogether much more prosperous.
Slipping between neat semi-detached dwellings, we move along a soft green alleyway and out into a small copse edged with the tube line. This is the beginning of Fryent Country Park. I breathe deeply and savor the soft mossy sweetly sour smell of rotting foliage and fungus that typifies a wood in winter. The ground is yielding and squidgy underfoot and we have to be careful, lest we slip. Falling here would cover us in oozing mud.
We pick our way gingerly across a sodden meadow. Everything is soaked. Its poured non-stop for days and the earth feels heavy with rain. In the distance, a woman surrounded by a whole pack of assorted dogs is briskly striding forth. Above us in the dull and misty grey sky, crows circle cawing to each other.
We ascend through a tangled Oakwood, their curled limbs, black against the grey sky. The earth beneath my feet shifts stickily. The sweetly gagging smell of fox rises up to dance with the moldy mushroom dampness and the more acid smell of bruised grass. Three fearcesome Alsatians, held in check by their three middle-aged minders are being taught their manners. They bark fiercely and I begin to sing quietly under my breath to calm me and them. They take no notice and bark some more. Under a hail of admonitions, their owners drag them off.
We subside onto a handy seat to rest a while. The smell of fox is stronger here. My companion spies a hole in the bank which might be something to do with the foxes.
The peace is shattered as a pack of assorted cheerful dogs appears, panting and scrabbling through the trees. The human in charge of them, calls them to heel and is ignored. The pack is a mixed bag of smart pedigree and mutts and is a complete United Nations of caninedom. They pass happily on and we climb to our feet and strike our way through the wood.
The path rises and we slither and slip. Still we move on, growing warm as the sun thinks about braking through the misty cloud above. We are climbing Barn Hill. Reaching its summit, we find a bulrush fringed pond gleaming muddy brown under the sky. The water is populated by mallards in their winter coats
Standing by the Trig point, my companion describes the roundness that is Wembly stadium. Above it, the arch, like a basket handle is half shrouded by cloud and gilded by the sun which is still obscured by said cloud. Beyond, the urban sprawl is grey.
Carefully, we step along the treacherously muddy path. In time, The Oakwood gives way to a meadow. Dicing with death, we reach the far side of the busy main road in one piece and strike out across more meadow. A young Asian woman in sunny yellow Chalwoir chemise stretches energetically as her companion in running shorts pounds across the meadow.
Our way is barred by a rain swollen water-hole spread across the path. We edge carefully past and on across the sticky mud-clogged grass.
A squat hawthorn bush, its twisting twigs covered in yellow-green lichen offers its velvety complexity to my curious fingers. I stroke its softness and breathe in the sweet mossy odour.
WE pass carefully through gaps in the hedges; placing each foot purposefully one in front of the other as the mud sucks greedily at our boots. The ground continues to rise as we climb of Gotfords Hill.
This round hill offers a panoramic view of London. In the south, the sun shine’s mistily behind the arches of Wembly Stadium. To the west rises St Mary’s spire from the wood encrusted harrow on the Hill. To the north a grey urban-scope is edged with the blue hills of Hertfordshire. To the east, London stretches out greyly towards Essex, far, far away.
Having climbed up, we now need to get down. Foot by foot we move, down amongst the Oakwood.
The clouds clear, the sun shines down. It is noon exactly! Birds chirrup cheerfully in greeting. I take off my hat and raise my face to the golden warmth.
We leave the country park, crossing a main road and skirting round the new St Andrew’s Church, only 150 +years old, we climb in and walk across the much older churchyard behind, with its tumbled-down graves and old sheltering yew tree. Exchanging greetings with an ancient dog and its heavily made up owner. We walk on. The fuchsia bushes are still in flower, and glow cheerfully in the sunshine. It is time for a much needed cupper tea and pee break and we head for the garden centre café, hard by the gaudy Christmas trees.
The “café” turns out to be a French bloke with a kettle and a few shelves of packaged snacks. In keeping with the season, I dig out from the depths of my rucksack, mince pies, clementines and chocolate money.
“Oh enough already!” I mutter as rested, hydrated and after a fashion fed, we hastily speed away from the hideous festival musak. “I’m going to kill Bing Crosby”, I growl, exiting the building hurriedly and coming a cropper on a modest curb.
“Bugger!” I snarl, getting awkwardly up. Every bobble of the concrete has etched itself onto my already tender knees. I take a swig of rescue remedy , an arnica tablet as I extricate myself from the helpful chap who seems bent on pulling my arm off as he assists me rather gracelessly to rise.
We march off down the road, past two alternately bum-sniffing and quarrelling dogs and enter Brent Reservoir Park.
Hardly a human is to be found. The water, silver in the sunshine is heavily populated with a cheerful abundance of water fowl. Canada geese vie with the mallards, a teenage swan, and his beauty not yet come, glides amongst the terns, their bottoms rather superciliously out of the water. The M1 roars ferociously in the distance. We stride on.
Urban traffic roars at us as we leave the peace of the waterside behind. We cross a busy road bridge spanning the howling M1 and the mainline railway. The houses here are reasonably sized semis. I hope they’ve got double-glazing to cut out the din of the motorway. At length, we turn off and passing rather neat little terraced cottages make our way towards Brent Cross shopping centre and our destination this day for this, our penultimate walk. We are only seven miles from home and a little retail therapy beckons!
Thursday, 3 December 2009
Friday, 23 October 2009
10 Brentford to Greenford
Sunday October 18, 2009:
“We might as well get the getting lost bit over a done with first thing,” I think to myself as I lean casually up against the railing of a large flight of stairs. My companion has bounded off to ask some cyclists the way and we’ve not yet left Brentford station!
Our way discovered, I totter cheerfully after she who questions the confusing instructions of the Capital ring book and is often right. Well this is not quite the Inca trail (from where my companion has recently returned); but the walk between Brentford and Greenford is pleasantly undemanding. I’m glad because I’m still twisted (but not bitter) after a recent unfortunate encounter with a parked car. The resulting whiplash makes me feel a bit like a corkscrew. Whilst I generally find spirals uplifting, right now, I’d settle for a straight spine and appropriately attached limbs.
Soon I am regretting the pint of black coffee I quaffed at Vauxhall. Brentford is the kind of place that is shut at 9 am on a Sunday morning. Happily though, a kind buddleia bush provides a discreet screen behind which nature’s call can be privately answered. And thus relieved we bend our steps to the noisy Great Western Road hard by and the canal...
“It’s a bit nippy”, I say, pulling on my hat and gloves. The canal is quiet. Only the coots seem to be alive on this not yet sunny but rather cool morning. Dodging the bicyclists (both rude and polite), we walk along past the Glaxo building with its brightly coloured sculpture and curious eco waterfall. The buildings soon give way to a small park with mature trees, golden and russet, mirrored in the still clear water below.
The Great Western road roars away behind us and the coots call cheerfully to each other. A pair of swans breakfast contentedly side by side; dipping their heads into the water. A narrow boat and a cruiser bob up and down silent and deserted.
We cross the canal, via a humped back bridge and walk under mature trees. Robins and wrens chatter away above our heads. Coots splash noisily in the shallow water. I am caused to regret again the coffee and we climb over a rickety style into some handy bushes to seek further relief.
Soon, the bushes are replaced by the lightly wooded beginnings of Brent river Park. It is really very pleasant, with the trees leaning down to stroke our hair gently as we pass. Now, the voice of the water begins to call us to the weir, a zig-zagof white water splashing amongst scrubby bushes and small trees. The canal side opens up. On our left, behind the water lie shrubby wetlands and on our right, the neatness of playing fields. At last, the sun struggles through the cloud and begins to warm our faces. I peel off my top layer of clothing.
The way now runs through a sweet little coppice boarding the River Brent, an inky black softly moving ribbon of water running through a tunnel of overhanging trees. We cross and pass through a wide meadow running beside the serene river.
Momentarily, we stand on a bridge spanning the clear silver water and the softly frothing weir just downstream. We could be in the middle of the country, so still is it.
Above our heads, one of many great arches stretches up to meet the sky. On either side of it, the viaduct marches steadily across the peaceful field. Every few minutes, the stillness is punctuated by the rumbling and hooting of intercity trains. The intrusion is not unpleasant.
It’s time for a snack. We detour slightly and walk across the springy grass of Brent Lodge Park in search of a comfortable bench. The sun warms us as we sit contentedly chewing on oatcakes, dried figs and yummy fruit and seed bars. A cup of tea would be nice I think as I sit back and allow the sun to warm me.
Refreshed, we stride purposefully across the park in search of more toilets and a cup of tea! To our delight, here, in the middle of the park, we encounter a yew maze. The Millennium Maze has grown well in the nine years since its planting. Shoulder high, it offers many mysterious ways to wander under the clearing sky.
We enter and follow the turns and twists of a traditional labyrinth. Small children hurtle excitedly about us, swiveling and skidding their way along, importuning their parents to “no, comes this way” as they hurtle round and round. How lovely it would be to walk this maze, alone and under a spring moon, I think as we follow its meanderings. Emerging at last, we make for the smelly toilets and a pleasant cup of tea before moving on across the park and back to our river walk.
Our path now takes us through a lightly wooded area and across a golf course. The trees are red, gold and green and shake in the slight breeze. I pick up a sprig of green and red willow and tuck it behind my left ear.
As we cross the river again and walk through brambles. All is quiet; only a motorbike drives slowly back and forth along the reclaimed rubbish heap, which is now a tussocky meadow. The river bubbles and gurgles, gulls ”nyic-nyic-nyic” to each other as they circle above the flowing waters.
In time, we leave the peace of the river park behind. Jarringly, the roar of the Ruyslip East road assaults our senses as we emerge into the noise and bustle of frenzied suburbia. . I stand above the river and strain to hear its flow beyond the howling traffic behind me.
Dicing with death, we cross the road and walk past art deco suburban houses, heading for Perivale Park. More of a meadow than a formal garden, the park only offers a slightly uncomfortable fence upon which to sit. Unused as I am to sitting on fences, I soon find it expedient to make ready to move on. We cross a babbling brook and enter Perivale Golf Course where we find a comfortable but low bench donated by the Bahai community of Ealing, bless them. I am essentially rather grateful for the resting place until I try to get up from its lowness, which offers a bit of a challenge to my arthritic knees.
But we still have some way to go before journey’s end this afternoon. We walk on, passing tennis courts and a bolwling green and other sundry sporting facilities. Our peace is once again shattered as we cross the thundering M4, via a high concrete bridge. Gratefully we turn into a quiet alleyway, edge a playing field populated with medium sized boys energetically engaged in Sunday afternoon football, and emerge into a quiet suburban street, to sink down onto a comfortable brick wall to rest a while.
Whilst my companion enjoys the canine Sunday strollers suffering the escort of their human companions, I think about the quiet river. London is criss-crossed with moving water, snaking its way amongst the houses, a cross the city meadows, flowing from springs in the hills, running down to the great river at its heart. The meandering waters are intersected by purposeful straight canals, our watery motorways from the north and the west. Below ground, hidden streams move determinedly through the clay. The water is embraced by the curving land and the trees, old and new edging the houses that sprawl out in all directions.
Not far now till our journey’s end. We walk past a row of varied semi detached houses. The Greenford Road is choked with purposeful Sunday traffic. We pass a parade of shops and turn into an industrial estate. A group of Asian children in their diwali best clutch balloons as they wait for a bus. We bend our steps to the railway Tavern and a well-deserved cupper before climbing aboard the Central Line train back east.
Sunday October 18, 2009:
“We might as well get the getting lost bit over a done with first thing,” I think to myself as I lean casually up against the railing of a large flight of stairs. My companion has bounded off to ask some cyclists the way and we’ve not yet left Brentford station!
Our way discovered, I totter cheerfully after she who questions the confusing instructions of the Capital ring book and is often right. Well this is not quite the Inca trail (from where my companion has recently returned); but the walk between Brentford and Greenford is pleasantly undemanding. I’m glad because I’m still twisted (but not bitter) after a recent unfortunate encounter with a parked car. The resulting whiplash makes me feel a bit like a corkscrew. Whilst I generally find spirals uplifting, right now, I’d settle for a straight spine and appropriately attached limbs.
Soon I am regretting the pint of black coffee I quaffed at Vauxhall. Brentford is the kind of place that is shut at 9 am on a Sunday morning. Happily though, a kind buddleia bush provides a discreet screen behind which nature’s call can be privately answered. And thus relieved we bend our steps to the noisy Great Western Road hard by and the canal...
“It’s a bit nippy”, I say, pulling on my hat and gloves. The canal is quiet. Only the coots seem to be alive on this not yet sunny but rather cool morning. Dodging the bicyclists (both rude and polite), we walk along past the Glaxo building with its brightly coloured sculpture and curious eco waterfall. The buildings soon give way to a small park with mature trees, golden and russet, mirrored in the still clear water below.
The Great Western road roars away behind us and the coots call cheerfully to each other. A pair of swans breakfast contentedly side by side; dipping their heads into the water. A narrow boat and a cruiser bob up and down silent and deserted.
We cross the canal, via a humped back bridge and walk under mature trees. Robins and wrens chatter away above our heads. Coots splash noisily in the shallow water. I am caused to regret again the coffee and we climb over a rickety style into some handy bushes to seek further relief.
Soon, the bushes are replaced by the lightly wooded beginnings of Brent river Park. It is really very pleasant, with the trees leaning down to stroke our hair gently as we pass. Now, the voice of the water begins to call us to the weir, a zig-zagof white water splashing amongst scrubby bushes and small trees. The canal side opens up. On our left, behind the water lie shrubby wetlands and on our right, the neatness of playing fields. At last, the sun struggles through the cloud and begins to warm our faces. I peel off my top layer of clothing.
The way now runs through a sweet little coppice boarding the River Brent, an inky black softly moving ribbon of water running through a tunnel of overhanging trees. We cross and pass through a wide meadow running beside the serene river.
Momentarily, we stand on a bridge spanning the clear silver water and the softly frothing weir just downstream. We could be in the middle of the country, so still is it.
Above our heads, one of many great arches stretches up to meet the sky. On either side of it, the viaduct marches steadily across the peaceful field. Every few minutes, the stillness is punctuated by the rumbling and hooting of intercity trains. The intrusion is not unpleasant.
It’s time for a snack. We detour slightly and walk across the springy grass of Brent Lodge Park in search of a comfortable bench. The sun warms us as we sit contentedly chewing on oatcakes, dried figs and yummy fruit and seed bars. A cup of tea would be nice I think as I sit back and allow the sun to warm me.
Refreshed, we stride purposefully across the park in search of more toilets and a cup of tea! To our delight, here, in the middle of the park, we encounter a yew maze. The Millennium Maze has grown well in the nine years since its planting. Shoulder high, it offers many mysterious ways to wander under the clearing sky.
We enter and follow the turns and twists of a traditional labyrinth. Small children hurtle excitedly about us, swiveling and skidding their way along, importuning their parents to “no, comes this way” as they hurtle round and round. How lovely it would be to walk this maze, alone and under a spring moon, I think as we follow its meanderings. Emerging at last, we make for the smelly toilets and a pleasant cup of tea before moving on across the park and back to our river walk.
Our path now takes us through a lightly wooded area and across a golf course. The trees are red, gold and green and shake in the slight breeze. I pick up a sprig of green and red willow and tuck it behind my left ear.
As we cross the river again and walk through brambles. All is quiet; only a motorbike drives slowly back and forth along the reclaimed rubbish heap, which is now a tussocky meadow. The river bubbles and gurgles, gulls ”nyic-nyic-nyic” to each other as they circle above the flowing waters.
In time, we leave the peace of the river park behind. Jarringly, the roar of the Ruyslip East road assaults our senses as we emerge into the noise and bustle of frenzied suburbia. . I stand above the river and strain to hear its flow beyond the howling traffic behind me.
Dicing with death, we cross the road and walk past art deco suburban houses, heading for Perivale Park. More of a meadow than a formal garden, the park only offers a slightly uncomfortable fence upon which to sit. Unused as I am to sitting on fences, I soon find it expedient to make ready to move on. We cross a babbling brook and enter Perivale Golf Course where we find a comfortable but low bench donated by the Bahai community of Ealing, bless them. I am essentially rather grateful for the resting place until I try to get up from its lowness, which offers a bit of a challenge to my arthritic knees.
But we still have some way to go before journey’s end this afternoon. We walk on, passing tennis courts and a bolwling green and other sundry sporting facilities. Our peace is once again shattered as we cross the thundering M4, via a high concrete bridge. Gratefully we turn into a quiet alleyway, edge a playing field populated with medium sized boys energetically engaged in Sunday afternoon football, and emerge into a quiet suburban street, to sink down onto a comfortable brick wall to rest a while.
Whilst my companion enjoys the canine Sunday strollers suffering the escort of their human companions, I think about the quiet river. London is criss-crossed with moving water, snaking its way amongst the houses, a cross the city meadows, flowing from springs in the hills, running down to the great river at its heart. The meandering waters are intersected by purposeful straight canals, our watery motorways from the north and the west. Below ground, hidden streams move determinedly through the clay. The water is embraced by the curving land and the trees, old and new edging the houses that sprawl out in all directions.
Not far now till our journey’s end. We walk past a row of varied semi detached houses. The Greenford Road is choked with purposeful Sunday traffic. We pass a parade of shops and turn into an industrial estate. A group of Asian children in their diwali best clutch balloons as they wait for a bus. We bend our steps to the railway Tavern and a well-deserved cupper before climbing aboard the Central Line train back east.
Friday, 4 September 2009
9 Richmond to Brentford
Monday August 31, 2009:
“Last time I came here, I got horribly lost” says my companion anxiously, leading the way into the quiet park. It is still relatively early for a bank holiday. There aren’t a lot of people about, although the parakeets are vocal and abundant in the horse chestnut trees. Richmond Park appears to be above signs and it is but a matter of steps before we are confused and, yes – lost!
Instead of striking out on a path across a meadow, as the book describes, we are walking parallel to a road. My companion is convinced that we are going the wrong way. Helpfully, I suggest we take the other path. Soon we are alone amongst the bracken.
My companion’s silence brings me to awareness that my Pollyannaish optimistic utterances about not minding being lost and enjoying the walk are not helping matters. She likes to know where she is going. At this moment in time, I’m prepared to go with the flow. Momentarily wishing I could take that attitude in all aspects of my life, wisely I shut up and wait for the situation to resolve itself.
We walk along the soft path between the tall bracken under a part cloudy sky, our hair and faces Brushed gently by a soft wind, I feel it is a good day for a walk, but I don’t say so right now.
The path begins to climb gently. We are passing a small wood, but don’t think it is Spanking Hill Wood. In the distance, a group of figures stop to look at a map. My companion scampers off to ask for directions.
She returns to retrieve me and we exchange pleasantries with them about the day and enquire why they are wearing full hiking gear plus loaded rucksacks on a walk in a London park. It turns out that they are training to climb Cuillin Ridge on Skye! They have a map which my companion consults. We have been walking in exactly the opposite direction to where we want to go! We turn and cut obliquely across the park on yet another track, now heading in the right direction.
Anxiety assails my companion once more. The interrogation of a family out on a pre perandial promenade on the whereabouts of Pen Ponds leads us through more horse chestnuts and then oaks. Water is at last spotted and relief overcomes her.
We trail after a family of small boys, bent on finding the Beverley Brooke (which in turn leads to said ponds). We finally sink gratefully down onto a damp bench to rest.
A pair of coots is hunting for lunch, bottoms up in the water. Canada geese march boldly up to us, importuning for food. A cavalcade of small children on mainly white ponies pass, their middle class bottoms bouncing up and down as they trot by.
From the relative comfort of our bench and the security of knowing where we are right now, we analyze why we got lost. “I think we suffer from “Are we nearly there syndrome”, I say sagely as we get up to go.
Richmond residents and their offspring plus dogs are at play in the park. Flocks of geese assail bread toting brats, other waterfowl frollick with the children on a small beach upon which gentle white topped waves dance.
Just beyond the path we need to take, my companion spies a squat hollow oak. I rush to explore and pay homage to its sturdiness. I reach inquisitive fingers into its hollow inside and wish I was small enough to squeeze in. Reluctantly, I turn away and walk on.
We walk through a well-maintained Oakwood. In the distance, someone is saluting the spirit of blackberry, hands raised above head, standing on tiptoes to reach the juiciest and fattest specimens she can. Her mouth and fingers are smeared with the tell tale dark red juice of the inveterate blackberrier. We exchange pleasantries about the day, the park and blackberries, discuss the glories of the Capital ring and then part, only to pause a little further on and honor the blackberry by consuming some ourselves.
Emerging from the woods, we walk on. Crossing a very busy road, we are growled at by inconsiderate cyclists demanding that we “get off the road!” Too late, I think of a pithy rejoinder
The path we walk is lightly wooded and leads to the top of the ridge overlooking the Surrey and Berkshire hills beyond the green, mildly populated near vista. To one side stands a screeching metal gate which takes us along a path past little white cottages to a terraced café where we eat less than perfect cheese rolls and rather delicious Victoria sponge cake.
Replete and rested, we leave the semi-gentility of the café and walk through the formal gardens to the edge of the ridge. WE gingerly negotiate the steep escarpment, my knees only mildly protesting.
A small girl in yellow party frock, red cape and pink crocks squeals exuberantly as she roles headlong down the hill. Shortly after, she pelts back up again chased by her more soberly dressed big sister. Families picnic neatly around spread table cloths and generous cool-boxes and hampers. Dogs rush about amongst the tumbling children. Posh West London is en fete, champagne glasses in hand.
Leaving the park, we negotiate another main road. We walk between the church and a pub, dodging a number of slowly moving cars who ought not to be there.
Still in one piece, we finally find our way onto Petersham Meadow (as painted by Turner). This is a flat grassy field boarded by the river on one side and the road on the other. The tarmac pathos straight. We march along amongst other Bank Holiday walkers down to the river’s edge beyond a gate.
The river bank is teeming. Rowers are out on the river, energetically splashing downstream. More picnickers sit in tents pitched on the grass. We caper nautically past a busker playing cheerful hornpipes. Not for the first time this day, we take the wrong way and end up on the West side of the river at Twickenham, sooner than we had anticipated. It doesn’t matter though as we had to cross at some point. We sink down onto a handy bench and contemplate the low flying aircraft.
This side of the river is entirely different. There are a lot of water fowl at the river’s edge, including some rather magnificent swans. Quiet pedestrians pass and after resting, we get up and move on too.
Momentarily diverted from the river, we skirt the high walls of a college beforefinding our way back. The river terrace of the Town Wall pub provides a peaceful place in which to rest and admire the isleworth Ait, a long thin, thickly wooded and uninhabited island in the middle of the river that is now a wildlife sanctuary. My companion spies two herons at the water’s edge. Meanwhile Canada geese paddle happily in the mud.
The Duke of Northumberland’s river, tumbles noislily into the Thames below. , For the second time this afternoon, we are diverted from the river bank. Isleworth village is quiet. Houses hug the road’s edge. The sun is slanting low across the street as we turn towards the entrance of Syon Park.
We walk alongside a high brick wall. Meadows spread beyond a fence on the other side of the road. Sun worshippers lie spread out on the grass beside the path. We walk on and out into a busy road.
As is by now traditional, once more we lose our way . This time, it is in the confusing junction of locks that is the meeting of the Grand union Canal with the river. But it doesn’t matter. We walk through an attractive canal side new build onto a boring high street, then up a nondescript main road to Brentford Station and our journey’s end this day.
Monday August 31, 2009:
“Last time I came here, I got horribly lost” says my companion anxiously, leading the way into the quiet park. It is still relatively early for a bank holiday. There aren’t a lot of people about, although the parakeets are vocal and abundant in the horse chestnut trees. Richmond Park appears to be above signs and it is but a matter of steps before we are confused and, yes – lost!
Instead of striking out on a path across a meadow, as the book describes, we are walking parallel to a road. My companion is convinced that we are going the wrong way. Helpfully, I suggest we take the other path. Soon we are alone amongst the bracken.
My companion’s silence brings me to awareness that my Pollyannaish optimistic utterances about not minding being lost and enjoying the walk are not helping matters. She likes to know where she is going. At this moment in time, I’m prepared to go with the flow. Momentarily wishing I could take that attitude in all aspects of my life, wisely I shut up and wait for the situation to resolve itself.
We walk along the soft path between the tall bracken under a part cloudy sky, our hair and faces Brushed gently by a soft wind, I feel it is a good day for a walk, but I don’t say so right now.
The path begins to climb gently. We are passing a small wood, but don’t think it is Spanking Hill Wood. In the distance, a group of figures stop to look at a map. My companion scampers off to ask for directions.
She returns to retrieve me and we exchange pleasantries with them about the day and enquire why they are wearing full hiking gear plus loaded rucksacks on a walk in a London park. It turns out that they are training to climb Cuillin Ridge on Skye! They have a map which my companion consults. We have been walking in exactly the opposite direction to where we want to go! We turn and cut obliquely across the park on yet another track, now heading in the right direction.
Anxiety assails my companion once more. The interrogation of a family out on a pre perandial promenade on the whereabouts of Pen Ponds leads us through more horse chestnuts and then oaks. Water is at last spotted and relief overcomes her.
We trail after a family of small boys, bent on finding the Beverley Brooke (which in turn leads to said ponds). We finally sink gratefully down onto a damp bench to rest.
A pair of coots is hunting for lunch, bottoms up in the water. Canada geese march boldly up to us, importuning for food. A cavalcade of small children on mainly white ponies pass, their middle class bottoms bouncing up and down as they trot by.
From the relative comfort of our bench and the security of knowing where we are right now, we analyze why we got lost. “I think we suffer from “Are we nearly there syndrome”, I say sagely as we get up to go.
Richmond residents and their offspring plus dogs are at play in the park. Flocks of geese assail bread toting brats, other waterfowl frollick with the children on a small beach upon which gentle white topped waves dance.
Just beyond the path we need to take, my companion spies a squat hollow oak. I rush to explore and pay homage to its sturdiness. I reach inquisitive fingers into its hollow inside and wish I was small enough to squeeze in. Reluctantly, I turn away and walk on.
We walk through a well-maintained Oakwood. In the distance, someone is saluting the spirit of blackberry, hands raised above head, standing on tiptoes to reach the juiciest and fattest specimens she can. Her mouth and fingers are smeared with the tell tale dark red juice of the inveterate blackberrier. We exchange pleasantries about the day, the park and blackberries, discuss the glories of the Capital ring and then part, only to pause a little further on and honor the blackberry by consuming some ourselves.
Emerging from the woods, we walk on. Crossing a very busy road, we are growled at by inconsiderate cyclists demanding that we “get off the road!” Too late, I think of a pithy rejoinder
The path we walk is lightly wooded and leads to the top of the ridge overlooking the Surrey and Berkshire hills beyond the green, mildly populated near vista. To one side stands a screeching metal gate which takes us along a path past little white cottages to a terraced café where we eat less than perfect cheese rolls and rather delicious Victoria sponge cake.
Replete and rested, we leave the semi-gentility of the café and walk through the formal gardens to the edge of the ridge. WE gingerly negotiate the steep escarpment, my knees only mildly protesting.
A small girl in yellow party frock, red cape and pink crocks squeals exuberantly as she roles headlong down the hill. Shortly after, she pelts back up again chased by her more soberly dressed big sister. Families picnic neatly around spread table cloths and generous cool-boxes and hampers. Dogs rush about amongst the tumbling children. Posh West London is en fete, champagne glasses in hand.
Leaving the park, we negotiate another main road. We walk between the church and a pub, dodging a number of slowly moving cars who ought not to be there.
Still in one piece, we finally find our way onto Petersham Meadow (as painted by Turner). This is a flat grassy field boarded by the river on one side and the road on the other. The tarmac pathos straight. We march along amongst other Bank Holiday walkers down to the river’s edge beyond a gate.
The river bank is teeming. Rowers are out on the river, energetically splashing downstream. More picnickers sit in tents pitched on the grass. We caper nautically past a busker playing cheerful hornpipes. Not for the first time this day, we take the wrong way and end up on the West side of the river at Twickenham, sooner than we had anticipated. It doesn’t matter though as we had to cross at some point. We sink down onto a handy bench and contemplate the low flying aircraft.
This side of the river is entirely different. There are a lot of water fowl at the river’s edge, including some rather magnificent swans. Quiet pedestrians pass and after resting, we get up and move on too.
Momentarily diverted from the river, we skirt the high walls of a college beforefinding our way back. The river terrace of the Town Wall pub provides a peaceful place in which to rest and admire the isleworth Ait, a long thin, thickly wooded and uninhabited island in the middle of the river that is now a wildlife sanctuary. My companion spies two herons at the water’s edge. Meanwhile Canada geese paddle happily in the mud.
The Duke of Northumberland’s river, tumbles noislily into the Thames below. , For the second time this afternoon, we are diverted from the river bank. Isleworth village is quiet. Houses hug the road’s edge. The sun is slanting low across the street as we turn towards the entrance of Syon Park.
We walk alongside a high brick wall. Meadows spread beyond a fence on the other side of the road. Sun worshippers lie spread out on the grass beside the path. We walk on and out into a busy road.
As is by now traditional, once more we lose our way . This time, it is in the confusing junction of locks that is the meeting of the Grand union Canal with the river. But it doesn’t matter. We walk through an attractive canal side new build onto a boring high street, then up a nondescript main road to Brentford Station and our journey’s end this day.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
8 Balham to Richmond
Friday August 7, 2009:
“the weatherman says the sun will shine at 4 pm this afternoon” opines my companion as we set off the wrong way down Balaam High Road under a low sky. It is still quite early and we are both in need of some caffeine before we begin our eighth leg of the Big London Hug. Coffee drunk and our mistake realised, we retrace our steps and cross to enter Wandsworth Common via Balham Park road.
“I didn’t realise how close Wandsworth Common is to Balham”, I say as we stride along a tarmac path. I am already remembering a number of somewhat muddy and damp adventures which took place on this very common when I was a pre teen. We swerve from the path to avoid the sparks of an oxyacetylene torch. The path leads through the railway station and across two busy roads to the part of the common that was the scene of the aforementioned episodes.
I’ve always liked Wandsworth Common. It is edged with excellent climbing trees and it’s various ponds are easily accessible to anyone who wants to explore them. No Nanny-State railings here. We pass a large tree with a parent admiring his harvest of small children.
The pond is long. Water-fowl of various kinds waddle about in its shallows. We climb onto the boardwalk where my companion is immediately captivated by the sight of a golden eye duck and her three fluffy ducklings. The duck is rather unsuccessfully trying to round up her offspring who are inquisitively exploring every exciting tuft of grass and leafy overhang.
We settle ourselves down on a bench on the edge of a shingly beach to rest. Our peace is disturbed momentarily by the regular clatter of the London to Brighton Line, running parallel to this part of the common. It is further intruded upon by a riot of splashing, barking, quacking and hooting generated by the appearance of a badly controlled and disobedient Rhodesian Ridge-Back pup intent on a morning dip amongst the geese. Finally rounded up by its apologetic owner, the dripping dog is dragged protestingly away.
It feels like Autumn. The earth is sodden, the air smells damp, the leaves could turn at any moment. Last night’s torrential rain has left the city smeared with mud. The alders around the pond are loving it!
The traffic is a mere hum in the distance. When there are no trains, the common is surprisingly peaceful. I sit quietly and silently reminisce.
I feel again the embrace of the comforting trees, the expectation at the end of a nail and string fishing line, the coldness of the water as I fall in yet again. I sniff the air and catch that dank pondy smell and I am eight years old again, peering short-sightedly through the water at a half glimpsed wriggling tadpole escaping my pursuing jam jar as I lean dangerously across the pond. I see again the light on the grainy grey water, the reflection of the grey sky above, that slightly oily iridescence that is pond water everywhere and the undulating pond bottom, like a landscape painted in green sepia.
On the other side of the common, we cross another road and play our game of “houses I would like to live in”. the object of our admiration today is a rather pleasant row of cottages overlooking the common which are probably worth an arm and a leg these days. We turn and skirt the forbidding wall of Wandsworth Prison, past some more modern houses, down another road or two and cross into Wandsworth Cemetery.
Burial fashions change and it is possible to chart the ages simply by the style of the graves. Newly dug plots near the entrance are gaudy with plastic flowers, older ones are neatly planted with shrubs and others, housing perhaps forgotten friends are tatty and unkempt. A neat enclosure houses the memorial to Australian soldiers fallen in the first war.
The Wimbledon line trains rumble past, a strimmer whines. Beyond the high walls, the traffic snarls. We are near my father’s family home. Fleetingly I wonder if any of his relatives are buried here. Momentarily I wish I’d enquired of my mother before coming here and then let the thought go.
Emerging from the cemetery, we cross Garret Lane, go under the bridge by Earls field station and turn down a side street. Our path takes us across the river Wandle as it snakes its way to the Thames. I remember how, as a twelve year old, I would stop to watch the foaming river as it rushed under the Garrett Lane bridge further up, on my way to the King George’s outdoor Swimming pool. A keen swimmer, I loved nothing better than to take advantage of my school’s class-free Friday afternoons to enjoy the peace and solitude of the empty pool.
With grace and ease I would cleave the water, efficient and determined. Flicking my feet as I turned, I revelled in my power in the water, satisfied at least that in this, for once I excelled.
WE walk on through the streets and turn into the rather plain and almost deserted Dernsford Recreation Ground. A father swishes by with his empty double Decker buggy. I fall to musing about whether he has mislaid the babies and hasn’t noticed or is taking the buggy to Sainsbury’s to get the shopping. It feels like rain but the poplar tree under which we sit provides an effective shelter. The Wimbledon train rattles along and a Labrador pup with very big feet hurtles up to us, barks joyfully and turns tail and pelts back to his owner.
This may be a plain park, but it’s darn confusing getting out of it again. Finally, we make it and find our way to the suburbanly not so exclusive Café Du Parc, for a spot of lunch.
Befitting its environs, a quiet little row of shops, the Café Du Parc is not so much a greasy spoon, more a sandwich shop with pretensions, but without a toilet. Modestly consuming a more refined omelette with salad, we bend our steps towards Wimbledon Park.
Designed by Capability Brown, Wimbledon Park makes a feature of the hill upon which it is set. We climb down wide steps and walk past tennis courts and a playground. The toilets are serviceable enough but the children also using them are remarkably revolting. My mind turns to what use the nearby lake could be put and I almost pity the adults attempting to supervise them. The lake when approached is found to be full of organised groups of crash-helmeted children energetically learning to boat.
“’Ealth an’ safety gorn mad” my companion mutters mockingly, suddenly overcome by a Daily Mail moment. I feel compelled to defend the caution of the boating school, but soon drop it as there are always much more interesting things to talk about. We skirt the athletics ground and emerge onto the relative peace of Wimbledon Park road and our first really decent hill of the walk today.
The tree lined road into which we turn is really very nice. Large detached houses hide snootily behind mature holly hedges which grow arrogantly across the pavement. We pass the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club, peer inquisitively into a gated community at a mini Niagara Falls of a tumbling waterfall and, grinning foolishly wave at the CCTV cameras.
Walking on, in a matter of roads, we arrive at the beginning of Putney Heath. This is a rather pleasant copse of Birch on one side and of other mixed native trees on the other. The birch leves are yellowing acidly. The wood is pungent with softly rotting dampness. We subside briefly onto a handy bench.
We walk on. The woods give way to a patch of gorse and then a modest little lake of purple flowering heather. We walk past the famous Windmill with it’s café and then the London Scottish golf club with their red clad players.
Turning down a steep rutted path between holly and oak trees we emerge at a small mere of green still water, fringed by trees. The yaffle of a woodpecker echoes across the water. Four swans, their heads tucked down, snooze in the peace of the afternoon. Blocking out the shrieks and barks of some children and their dog, I stand and breathe in the tranquillity of the space. Somewhere in the distance, if I listen very hard, I can hear the A3 beyond the tree fringed water.
Climbing up through the woods, we follow the inviting smell of wood smoke through holly and oak trees. We traverse some golf course fairways without incident to find the source of the smoke, a nearly out little bonfire of fallen logs and woodland detritus.
The path beneath our feet is soft but not yielding. It slopes steeply down. The rain has driven a channel down the middle. The earth feels brim full. Autumn is slowly sneaking into the woods but yet everything desires to continue to grow. The sun comes out between the clouds. It is 4 O’clock!
Beech trees have come to join the others. We turn and walk alongside the babbling Beverley Brook, which though only a streamlet, chatters noisily along its course. My companion describes its crystal clearness as it flows beside us and I wonder what it might be like to dip a toe into it. We walk on.
We turn across a bridge spanning the brook, green with healthy looking pond weed at this point and walk towards the roaring A3 growing louder by the moment.
We are almost at our walk’s end. Richmond Park, where we will pause for this time is beyond the almost impassable A3. There is an unpleasant footbridge which we cross. We begin walking up the main road in search of a bus stop.
Rather pleasant cottages fringe the road at this point. I wonder how they can stand the noise. As we walk on, a second terrace of cottages, much more down at heel and mainly empty, sit barely a few yards from the roaring traffic. Buses pass us but there is no sign of a bus stop.
I’m beginning to feel a bit fed up. My feet are hurting, not liking the hardness of the pavement after the soft gentle wood. The only compensation is that my knees are much better and grumpy stumping along is still possible.
I grit my teeth against the roar of the traffic. It is deafening. I feel my nerves jangling and my brain wobbling inside my head. At last we find a bus and thence a tube back to North London and home.
How extraordinary London is, I muse, stumping along the Stroud Green Road. There we are, held in an embrace of green peacefulness, gentled by trees and babbling brooks. Moments later the world is roaring at us bad temperedly as though nothing else exists.
“Oh bollocks!” I mutter as I trip over a guerrilla tree root pushing up the pavement! I right myself and playfully slap its trunk as I pass.
Friday August 7, 2009:
“the weatherman says the sun will shine at 4 pm this afternoon” opines my companion as we set off the wrong way down Balaam High Road under a low sky. It is still quite early and we are both in need of some caffeine before we begin our eighth leg of the Big London Hug. Coffee drunk and our mistake realised, we retrace our steps and cross to enter Wandsworth Common via Balham Park road.
“I didn’t realise how close Wandsworth Common is to Balham”, I say as we stride along a tarmac path. I am already remembering a number of somewhat muddy and damp adventures which took place on this very common when I was a pre teen. We swerve from the path to avoid the sparks of an oxyacetylene torch. The path leads through the railway station and across two busy roads to the part of the common that was the scene of the aforementioned episodes.
I’ve always liked Wandsworth Common. It is edged with excellent climbing trees and it’s various ponds are easily accessible to anyone who wants to explore them. No Nanny-State railings here. We pass a large tree with a parent admiring his harvest of small children.
The pond is long. Water-fowl of various kinds waddle about in its shallows. We climb onto the boardwalk where my companion is immediately captivated by the sight of a golden eye duck and her three fluffy ducklings. The duck is rather unsuccessfully trying to round up her offspring who are inquisitively exploring every exciting tuft of grass and leafy overhang.
We settle ourselves down on a bench on the edge of a shingly beach to rest. Our peace is disturbed momentarily by the regular clatter of the London to Brighton Line, running parallel to this part of the common. It is further intruded upon by a riot of splashing, barking, quacking and hooting generated by the appearance of a badly controlled and disobedient Rhodesian Ridge-Back pup intent on a morning dip amongst the geese. Finally rounded up by its apologetic owner, the dripping dog is dragged protestingly away.
It feels like Autumn. The earth is sodden, the air smells damp, the leaves could turn at any moment. Last night’s torrential rain has left the city smeared with mud. The alders around the pond are loving it!
The traffic is a mere hum in the distance. When there are no trains, the common is surprisingly peaceful. I sit quietly and silently reminisce.
I feel again the embrace of the comforting trees, the expectation at the end of a nail and string fishing line, the coldness of the water as I fall in yet again. I sniff the air and catch that dank pondy smell and I am eight years old again, peering short-sightedly through the water at a half glimpsed wriggling tadpole escaping my pursuing jam jar as I lean dangerously across the pond. I see again the light on the grainy grey water, the reflection of the grey sky above, that slightly oily iridescence that is pond water everywhere and the undulating pond bottom, like a landscape painted in green sepia.
On the other side of the common, we cross another road and play our game of “houses I would like to live in”. the object of our admiration today is a rather pleasant row of cottages overlooking the common which are probably worth an arm and a leg these days. We turn and skirt the forbidding wall of Wandsworth Prison, past some more modern houses, down another road or two and cross into Wandsworth Cemetery.
Burial fashions change and it is possible to chart the ages simply by the style of the graves. Newly dug plots near the entrance are gaudy with plastic flowers, older ones are neatly planted with shrubs and others, housing perhaps forgotten friends are tatty and unkempt. A neat enclosure houses the memorial to Australian soldiers fallen in the first war.
The Wimbledon line trains rumble past, a strimmer whines. Beyond the high walls, the traffic snarls. We are near my father’s family home. Fleetingly I wonder if any of his relatives are buried here. Momentarily I wish I’d enquired of my mother before coming here and then let the thought go.
Emerging from the cemetery, we cross Garret Lane, go under the bridge by Earls field station and turn down a side street. Our path takes us across the river Wandle as it snakes its way to the Thames. I remember how, as a twelve year old, I would stop to watch the foaming river as it rushed under the Garrett Lane bridge further up, on my way to the King George’s outdoor Swimming pool. A keen swimmer, I loved nothing better than to take advantage of my school’s class-free Friday afternoons to enjoy the peace and solitude of the empty pool.
With grace and ease I would cleave the water, efficient and determined. Flicking my feet as I turned, I revelled in my power in the water, satisfied at least that in this, for once I excelled.
WE walk on through the streets and turn into the rather plain and almost deserted Dernsford Recreation Ground. A father swishes by with his empty double Decker buggy. I fall to musing about whether he has mislaid the babies and hasn’t noticed or is taking the buggy to Sainsbury’s to get the shopping. It feels like rain but the poplar tree under which we sit provides an effective shelter. The Wimbledon train rattles along and a Labrador pup with very big feet hurtles up to us, barks joyfully and turns tail and pelts back to his owner.
This may be a plain park, but it’s darn confusing getting out of it again. Finally, we make it and find our way to the suburbanly not so exclusive Café Du Parc, for a spot of lunch.
Befitting its environs, a quiet little row of shops, the Café Du Parc is not so much a greasy spoon, more a sandwich shop with pretensions, but without a toilet. Modestly consuming a more refined omelette with salad, we bend our steps towards Wimbledon Park.
Designed by Capability Brown, Wimbledon Park makes a feature of the hill upon which it is set. We climb down wide steps and walk past tennis courts and a playground. The toilets are serviceable enough but the children also using them are remarkably revolting. My mind turns to what use the nearby lake could be put and I almost pity the adults attempting to supervise them. The lake when approached is found to be full of organised groups of crash-helmeted children energetically learning to boat.
“’Ealth an’ safety gorn mad” my companion mutters mockingly, suddenly overcome by a Daily Mail moment. I feel compelled to defend the caution of the boating school, but soon drop it as there are always much more interesting things to talk about. We skirt the athletics ground and emerge onto the relative peace of Wimbledon Park road and our first really decent hill of the walk today.
The tree lined road into which we turn is really very nice. Large detached houses hide snootily behind mature holly hedges which grow arrogantly across the pavement. We pass the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club, peer inquisitively into a gated community at a mini Niagara Falls of a tumbling waterfall and, grinning foolishly wave at the CCTV cameras.
Walking on, in a matter of roads, we arrive at the beginning of Putney Heath. This is a rather pleasant copse of Birch on one side and of other mixed native trees on the other. The birch leves are yellowing acidly. The wood is pungent with softly rotting dampness. We subside briefly onto a handy bench.
We walk on. The woods give way to a patch of gorse and then a modest little lake of purple flowering heather. We walk past the famous Windmill with it’s café and then the London Scottish golf club with their red clad players.
Turning down a steep rutted path between holly and oak trees we emerge at a small mere of green still water, fringed by trees. The yaffle of a woodpecker echoes across the water. Four swans, their heads tucked down, snooze in the peace of the afternoon. Blocking out the shrieks and barks of some children and their dog, I stand and breathe in the tranquillity of the space. Somewhere in the distance, if I listen very hard, I can hear the A3 beyond the tree fringed water.
Climbing up through the woods, we follow the inviting smell of wood smoke through holly and oak trees. We traverse some golf course fairways without incident to find the source of the smoke, a nearly out little bonfire of fallen logs and woodland detritus.
The path beneath our feet is soft but not yielding. It slopes steeply down. The rain has driven a channel down the middle. The earth feels brim full. Autumn is slowly sneaking into the woods but yet everything desires to continue to grow. The sun comes out between the clouds. It is 4 O’clock!
Beech trees have come to join the others. We turn and walk alongside the babbling Beverley Brook, which though only a streamlet, chatters noisily along its course. My companion describes its crystal clearness as it flows beside us and I wonder what it might be like to dip a toe into it. We walk on.
We turn across a bridge spanning the brook, green with healthy looking pond weed at this point and walk towards the roaring A3 growing louder by the moment.
We are almost at our walk’s end. Richmond Park, where we will pause for this time is beyond the almost impassable A3. There is an unpleasant footbridge which we cross. We begin walking up the main road in search of a bus stop.
Rather pleasant cottages fringe the road at this point. I wonder how they can stand the noise. As we walk on, a second terrace of cottages, much more down at heel and mainly empty, sit barely a few yards from the roaring traffic. Buses pass us but there is no sign of a bus stop.
I’m beginning to feel a bit fed up. My feet are hurting, not liking the hardness of the pavement after the soft gentle wood. The only compensation is that my knees are much better and grumpy stumping along is still possible.
I grit my teeth against the roar of the traffic. It is deafening. I feel my nerves jangling and my brain wobbling inside my head. At last we find a bus and thence a tube back to North London and home.
How extraordinary London is, I muse, stumping along the Stroud Green Road. There we are, held in an embrace of green peacefulness, gentled by trees and babbling brooks. Moments later the world is roaring at us bad temperedly as though nothing else exists.
“Oh bollocks!” I mutter as I trip over a guerrilla tree root pushing up the pavement! I right myself and playfully slap its trunk as I pass.
Saturday, 25 July 2009
7 New Beckenham to Balham
Wednesday July 22, 2009
Once again, the day wears a fair face. The wind is crisp and determined, bringing energy and coolness to our walk. I hobble gingerly along beside my companion, willing my knees to stand up to the rigours of the day.
At New Beckenham we turn onto Leonard Road. The road is lined by very nice houses. Despite being the school holidays, the streets are fairly quiet.
Swollen by recent rain and ripened by the intermittent sun, the plums are ready to eat. They hang temptingly from pleasant and neat front gardens. We stop under a particularly laden tree. My companion plucks a yellow plum, the size of a grape. I munch on it appreciatively, and lick plum juice from my lips with relish.
We slip between the houses. My companion peers enviously through the fences into long gardens. She comments disappointedly on their dullness. We discuss what we would do if we had gardens that big.
Behind them is a piece of scrubby wasteland and beyond that, Cator Park, a rather plain suburban space which boasts two brooks (the Bec and the Chaffinch which lead into the Pool River, a tributary of the Ravensbourne.
Here we encounter a cheerful pink toed dog owner and prancing chiwarwar puppy. The pup dances about his owner’s pretty feet and attempts to round us up. We exchange greetings, admire the dog and walk on.
The trees wave vigorously in the wind as we leave the park between two more houses and back onto Leonard Road again. Here the houses are pebble-dashed but still a decent size. Crossing a busy road, we slip between two more houses into a school playing field. Here talkative crows cawed at each other and opposite them, a group of grey and white seagulls frolicked, escapees from the strong winds out at sea perhaps.
Most streets offer one or two more plum opportunities. Many are out of reach or firmly dangling on the wrong side of a garden wall. We walk down an unmade road in the Borough of Bromley and enter Alexandra Recreation Ground where we sink gratefully down onto a sunny bench and stoke up on nuts and raisins.
Penge East is one of those places it is fashionable to curl ones lip at. It is quiet enough. We climb over the railway bridge and encounter a cheerfully disobedient Labrador style dog called Princess and her owner who is not quite in control of the situation. An old man painting his front garden path red offers to paint the dog. Captured at last, Princess is marched off by her owner. We continue to walk down the street of variously pastel painted brick terraces and onto Penge High Street.
The Venice Café, cheerful, warm and noisy has a make shift garden restaurant in which we stop for an early lunch. We feast on huge cheese omelettes and a ton of chips whilst my companion admires the décor, a series of random pictures hung up on the garden walls all around us.
Replete, indeed positively stuffed, we waddle out onto the High street and head for the gates of Crystal Palace Park and the beginnings of the part of the Capital Ring that constitute some of my old stamping grounds.
We walk through the café and up towards the dinosaurs. I remember the pop concert and the spotty youth who was my consort that day. In my memory, the park will forever be a green grey blur and said youth, a sandy brown and tangerine vision in cords and tie dye.
We skirt the dinosaur lake, my companion waxing lyrical about their glories as we walk. I remember hearing a radio programme where some lucky souls prepared and ate a Victorian feast from a chamber inside the belly of the greatest worm on the island. Now ducks play happily amongst the huge claws and recumbent bodies of these glorious creatures.
“It’s a geological theme park”, I say as we round a dinosaur rump and come nose to nose with a slice of earth, showing strata of ages, like a huge piece of layered cake. My companion (a geography major) reels of the different eras with fluency and aplomb. I am suitably impressed and am fleetingly reminded of family holidays with my mother (a science teacher) which were really field trips in disguise.
We walk on round the park, past the old railway station and dicing with death, place our feet firmly on the lower slopes of the first of two rather fierce hills we must climb today. But I need to sit down now and subside onto a convenient garden wall in Playdel Avenue.
A dog tows its owner down the hill. A second dog hurtles past, followed at some considerable distance by the protesting voice of its owner, then its owner’s son and finally the owner herself.
“He’s frightened of a big machine outback” she pants, sounding worried, as she runs past “He never goes out normally”. She pelts after the pooch who has shot round a corner and is lost to sight. I am reminded of Herne the hunter and his dogs hurtling over the hills of South London. Perhaps the dog has gone to join Herne, I muse and hope that this thought will keep the dog safe.
We set off up the hill and wind our way between rather smart houses, across a little high street and to Westow Park, a rather feminine and curvaceous little area. The paths roll up and down, mature trees stand shaking in the wind, and we sit down on a bench and appreciate the quiet. Opposite us is a long red brick wall, formerly part of the Royal Normal College for the Blind, a dreadful institution which has since been renamed and removed to the West Country. I am tempted to lie in a sunny patch amongst the clover but resist and rise to my feet and stagger on.
This is a bit of a park crawl – crawl being the operative word as I hobble slowly along. Still determined to make the course, I stagger after my companion across another road and into yet another green space, this one a neat green park edged by charming 30s houses. We pass well-kept tennis courts, clusters of people picnicking in the sun and swathes of rather nice soft green clover covered lawn. Out on the street, we walk along Beulah Hill which is disapointingly dull with its busy road and big snooty houses set back from the road as though in distain. Beulah Hill seems to go on for ever!
We’re not finished with hills yet. Going up is a tough call but “going down is a real bugger; especially when you’ve got *knees*”, I complain to my companion. We turn into Biggin Hill and my joints start to shriek. We’re going down hill and soon I am in need of a rest on another convenient wall.
Here, the land falls away beyond the houses to the North Downs in the distance. I’m getting a bit tired of streets. But a treat is just around the corner, or so I am promised by my companion.
We make it down the “north face of the Igor” an turned past yet more tennis courts and a kick about area well fenced off from passers by. Now we are in a lovely little wood with inviting paths leading off to the left and right. This is Biggin Wood, a part of the ancient North Wood that we encountered in our last walk on the Capital ring. It is cool, shady and sheltered. The trees sing to us with their rustling leaves. I speculate about who meets in the woods to work magic, for these feel like the kind of wood to circle in.
Reluctantly, we leave the woods and turn through a 30s housing estate down another hill and into Norwood Grove Park. There’s a dog free area which we head for. We sink happily down on a comfortable bench to survey the rolling landscape and eat cherries. Below us, beyond the grey conurbation of Croydon, the North Downs roll hazily. In the foreground, a robin and a squirrel play companionably and then disappear together into a bush and are never seen again. Above us in the trees, green parakeets hoot.
There is a large white house which my companion has been fascinated by for some time. WE get up and peer into the windows. The tables are set for tea. A sign reveals rather dully that this is the premises of a bowls club. We walk on.
The book says we should pass a stand of 400 year old oaks and a little stream. Neither are in evidence as we enter the eastern edge of Streatham Common and make our way to the café in Rockery Gardens for a well-deserved cuppa.
I tell my companion about my first home, in a prefab on Streatham Common. AS we walk along the south side past some tall houses, I remember my misspent youth and an attic never climbed into and a virtue thus not at that time lost! The grass is short and rough as we march diagonally across it to the A23.
I’m still up for more walking, so we decide to continue on to Balham. WE walk down a road skirting one of many railway lines and through a subway to equally unremarkable streets on the other side.
We pass a fine Victorian building built by the water authorities. Like the one in Beckton, this one is cupullared and gloriously Moorish in design. Amongst slightly dull houses, we find a painted lady modern stain glass window as we walk slowly Northwards and Westwards towards tooting Bec Common.
The common is more varied than I remember it. There is grass and tall trees. There is still a football pitch, surely the one on which the Broadwater Junior Mixed school football team thrashed the daylights out of the punier Smallwood School team. With Jamey Stanard in goal and my twin brother on the wing, victory was a forgone conclusion.
Now the common is divided by a path shared by cycles and pedestrians. A small ancient looking wooded area is fenced off for its own protection. The grass and trees give way to a wilder common look, with rough tussock grass. Briefly I speculate about the fine necklace of common land that lies across the breast of South London.
We turn down a path between houses and begin to wend our way towards Balham station, via a network of backstreets, lined with rather pleasant tall houses, many of these divided up into flats. A man nods to us from his first floor window as I rest briefly on his garden wall. In Elmfield Road, an enterprising window sill gardener has propagated runner beans and a very fine caugette. Vines of red tomatoes hanging in a kitchen window gleam in the evening sun. The smell of Balham High Road comes to us in the aroma of spicy curry sacheting along on the evening breeze. Our destination is just around the corner. Step by step we tread on and soon, we are there.
Wednesday July 22, 2009
Once again, the day wears a fair face. The wind is crisp and determined, bringing energy and coolness to our walk. I hobble gingerly along beside my companion, willing my knees to stand up to the rigours of the day.
At New Beckenham we turn onto Leonard Road. The road is lined by very nice houses. Despite being the school holidays, the streets are fairly quiet.
Swollen by recent rain and ripened by the intermittent sun, the plums are ready to eat. They hang temptingly from pleasant and neat front gardens. We stop under a particularly laden tree. My companion plucks a yellow plum, the size of a grape. I munch on it appreciatively, and lick plum juice from my lips with relish.
We slip between the houses. My companion peers enviously through the fences into long gardens. She comments disappointedly on their dullness. We discuss what we would do if we had gardens that big.
Behind them is a piece of scrubby wasteland and beyond that, Cator Park, a rather plain suburban space which boasts two brooks (the Bec and the Chaffinch which lead into the Pool River, a tributary of the Ravensbourne.
Here we encounter a cheerful pink toed dog owner and prancing chiwarwar puppy. The pup dances about his owner’s pretty feet and attempts to round us up. We exchange greetings, admire the dog and walk on.
The trees wave vigorously in the wind as we leave the park between two more houses and back onto Leonard Road again. Here the houses are pebble-dashed but still a decent size. Crossing a busy road, we slip between two more houses into a school playing field. Here talkative crows cawed at each other and opposite them, a group of grey and white seagulls frolicked, escapees from the strong winds out at sea perhaps.
Most streets offer one or two more plum opportunities. Many are out of reach or firmly dangling on the wrong side of a garden wall. We walk down an unmade road in the Borough of Bromley and enter Alexandra Recreation Ground where we sink gratefully down onto a sunny bench and stoke up on nuts and raisins.
Penge East is one of those places it is fashionable to curl ones lip at. It is quiet enough. We climb over the railway bridge and encounter a cheerfully disobedient Labrador style dog called Princess and her owner who is not quite in control of the situation. An old man painting his front garden path red offers to paint the dog. Captured at last, Princess is marched off by her owner. We continue to walk down the street of variously pastel painted brick terraces and onto Penge High Street.
The Venice Café, cheerful, warm and noisy has a make shift garden restaurant in which we stop for an early lunch. We feast on huge cheese omelettes and a ton of chips whilst my companion admires the décor, a series of random pictures hung up on the garden walls all around us.
Replete, indeed positively stuffed, we waddle out onto the High street and head for the gates of Crystal Palace Park and the beginnings of the part of the Capital Ring that constitute some of my old stamping grounds.
We walk through the café and up towards the dinosaurs. I remember the pop concert and the spotty youth who was my consort that day. In my memory, the park will forever be a green grey blur and said youth, a sandy brown and tangerine vision in cords and tie dye.
We skirt the dinosaur lake, my companion waxing lyrical about their glories as we walk. I remember hearing a radio programme where some lucky souls prepared and ate a Victorian feast from a chamber inside the belly of the greatest worm on the island. Now ducks play happily amongst the huge claws and recumbent bodies of these glorious creatures.
“It’s a geological theme park”, I say as we round a dinosaur rump and come nose to nose with a slice of earth, showing strata of ages, like a huge piece of layered cake. My companion (a geography major) reels of the different eras with fluency and aplomb. I am suitably impressed and am fleetingly reminded of family holidays with my mother (a science teacher) which were really field trips in disguise.
We walk on round the park, past the old railway station and dicing with death, place our feet firmly on the lower slopes of the first of two rather fierce hills we must climb today. But I need to sit down now and subside onto a convenient garden wall in Playdel Avenue.
A dog tows its owner down the hill. A second dog hurtles past, followed at some considerable distance by the protesting voice of its owner, then its owner’s son and finally the owner herself.
“He’s frightened of a big machine outback” she pants, sounding worried, as she runs past “He never goes out normally”. She pelts after the pooch who has shot round a corner and is lost to sight. I am reminded of Herne the hunter and his dogs hurtling over the hills of South London. Perhaps the dog has gone to join Herne, I muse and hope that this thought will keep the dog safe.
We set off up the hill and wind our way between rather smart houses, across a little high street and to Westow Park, a rather feminine and curvaceous little area. The paths roll up and down, mature trees stand shaking in the wind, and we sit down on a bench and appreciate the quiet. Opposite us is a long red brick wall, formerly part of the Royal Normal College for the Blind, a dreadful institution which has since been renamed and removed to the West Country. I am tempted to lie in a sunny patch amongst the clover but resist and rise to my feet and stagger on.
This is a bit of a park crawl – crawl being the operative word as I hobble slowly along. Still determined to make the course, I stagger after my companion across another road and into yet another green space, this one a neat green park edged by charming 30s houses. We pass well-kept tennis courts, clusters of people picnicking in the sun and swathes of rather nice soft green clover covered lawn. Out on the street, we walk along Beulah Hill which is disapointingly dull with its busy road and big snooty houses set back from the road as though in distain. Beulah Hill seems to go on for ever!
We’re not finished with hills yet. Going up is a tough call but “going down is a real bugger; especially when you’ve got *knees*”, I complain to my companion. We turn into Biggin Hill and my joints start to shriek. We’re going down hill and soon I am in need of a rest on another convenient wall.
Here, the land falls away beyond the houses to the North Downs in the distance. I’m getting a bit tired of streets. But a treat is just around the corner, or so I am promised by my companion.
We make it down the “north face of the Igor” an turned past yet more tennis courts and a kick about area well fenced off from passers by. Now we are in a lovely little wood with inviting paths leading off to the left and right. This is Biggin Wood, a part of the ancient North Wood that we encountered in our last walk on the Capital ring. It is cool, shady and sheltered. The trees sing to us with their rustling leaves. I speculate about who meets in the woods to work magic, for these feel like the kind of wood to circle in.
Reluctantly, we leave the woods and turn through a 30s housing estate down another hill and into Norwood Grove Park. There’s a dog free area which we head for. We sink happily down on a comfortable bench to survey the rolling landscape and eat cherries. Below us, beyond the grey conurbation of Croydon, the North Downs roll hazily. In the foreground, a robin and a squirrel play companionably and then disappear together into a bush and are never seen again. Above us in the trees, green parakeets hoot.
There is a large white house which my companion has been fascinated by for some time. WE get up and peer into the windows. The tables are set for tea. A sign reveals rather dully that this is the premises of a bowls club. We walk on.
The book says we should pass a stand of 400 year old oaks and a little stream. Neither are in evidence as we enter the eastern edge of Streatham Common and make our way to the café in Rockery Gardens for a well-deserved cuppa.
I tell my companion about my first home, in a prefab on Streatham Common. AS we walk along the south side past some tall houses, I remember my misspent youth and an attic never climbed into and a virtue thus not at that time lost! The grass is short and rough as we march diagonally across it to the A23.
I’m still up for more walking, so we decide to continue on to Balham. WE walk down a road skirting one of many railway lines and through a subway to equally unremarkable streets on the other side.
We pass a fine Victorian building built by the water authorities. Like the one in Beckton, this one is cupullared and gloriously Moorish in design. Amongst slightly dull houses, we find a painted lady modern stain glass window as we walk slowly Northwards and Westwards towards tooting Bec Common.
The common is more varied than I remember it. There is grass and tall trees. There is still a football pitch, surely the one on which the Broadwater Junior Mixed school football team thrashed the daylights out of the punier Smallwood School team. With Jamey Stanard in goal and my twin brother on the wing, victory was a forgone conclusion.
Now the common is divided by a path shared by cycles and pedestrians. A small ancient looking wooded area is fenced off for its own protection. The grass and trees give way to a wilder common look, with rough tussock grass. Briefly I speculate about the fine necklace of common land that lies across the breast of South London.
We turn down a path between houses and begin to wend our way towards Balham station, via a network of backstreets, lined with rather pleasant tall houses, many of these divided up into flats. A man nods to us from his first floor window as I rest briefly on his garden wall. In Elmfield Road, an enterprising window sill gardener has propagated runner beans and a very fine caugette. Vines of red tomatoes hanging in a kitchen window gleam in the evening sun. The smell of Balham High Road comes to us in the aroma of spicy curry sacheting along on the evening breeze. Our destination is just around the corner. Step by step we tread on and soon, we are there.
Sunday, 19 July 2009
6 Falconwood to New Beckenham
Tuesday July 14, 2009:
“It’s a perfect day for a walk” my companion optimistically enthuses. Dosed with Nurofen, I walk carefully beside her, as yet not sure how my knees will stand up to the rigours of the day. Somewhat to my surprise, we have the streets of Finsbury Park to ourselves this early weekday morning.
The story is very different as we squeeze ourselves onto the Southbound Victoria line train. Only the occasional damp coughing and sniffing weaves its way between the surly silence and the rustle of newspapers as comatosed commuters try to pretend it isn’t a Tuesday morning.
Victoria station is bedlam. My companion has also lost her travel pass en route. Eventually, we climb aboard the slowest train south and head back to Falconwood.
Solid single drops of rain fall ponderously onto us as we alight onto the platform. So much for the perfect day, I grumble as I struggle into a waterproof jacket. We skirt the woods beside the A2 and enter Avery Park via the road bridge.
Avery Park is nothing to write home about. It is square and grassy with several rows of mature trees marching sturdily across it. The rain is determined to make its presence felt. My so called waterproof is rapidly proving to have more siv like properties. It is time to take shelter.
The only place to hide is under the spreading arms of a great Chestnut tree. Summer foliage not withstanding, we huddle beneath it dodging the drips that force their way through its leafy canopy and down our warm necks.
All across the park, other trees also have their cowering damp human sentinels, most with a canine companion. We are the only pair.
The sky is low. Thunder rumbles insistently against the roar of the A2 and the pelting rain. I speculate about starting up some form of communicating with the other shelterees. At this distance, it will have to be semaphore or yodelling. I briefly fantasise about a Busby Barkley style dance routine sans umbrellas before the rain slows and we venture out, splashing through the puddles.
According to the book, our way is via a lot of suburban streets. The one we’re on now is rather pleasant with its variety of villas with neat gardens. We cross a main road and enter the incongruously named Butterfly Lane, which is in fact a hedge lined concrete path running between a field and a housing estate. In the distance, one or two horses can be seen. The sun comes out and I throw back my hood and sniff the air.
We turn into a narrower bridal path between high hedges leading to another main road. We cross this and walk down some more suburban streets lined with council houses and then others which seem to be privately owned. I stop to admire some small but perfectly formed plums dangling pendulously over the footpath. My mouth waters, but alas SAID plums are not yet ripe. Reluctantly, I leave them be.
Skirting Eltham Palace, we encounter a cheerful little robin sitting on a wall, before crossing to briefly quack at the ducks in the moat before turning down a lane leading past some stables.
“This is definitely ‘Horsyculture’” says my companion who, being a bit of a horse fancier is walking into her idea of heaven. The warm comforting smell of horse comes to us on the wind. We pass a sleek strawberry roan and proud owner before stopping to rest beside a horse trough.
Half a dozen or so horses come ambling across the field. But they’ve not come to see us. They have come to drink peacefully from the horse trough.
I pull out a bag of cherries and am just popping the first into my mouth when I feel something warm and hairy brushing against my arm. I blow through loose lips. The horse withdraws his head to the fence post and has a good scratch instead, as though that was his initial intention and nothing to do with the cherries at all. I muse on horsy cupboard love and spit cherry pips into the grass verge.
“Maybe this will be a small cherry grove in years to come”, I say to my companion as we make ready to walk on between high hawthorn and beech hedges. The sun dances in and out of the clouds, the wind brings the high shrieks of children’s voices at play, to ride on the back of the roaring A20.
We’ve been looking for somewhere to sit for some time now. My companion notices that we have passed several benches on the other side of the hedge – which is some kind of playing field or park. Eventually, we find our way over and sit down contentedly in the sun to eat our healthy nibbles which serve in lieu of a proper lunch. I fantasise about cups of tea and chase sandwiches and raise my face to the warm sun.
From time to time, hooves clatter on the lane beyond the hedge. Seagulls wheel, their peons mingling with the call of the children further away.
My companion describes the view. On the horizon the O2, Canary Warf, the Gherkin and Crystal palace lie like a necklace of landmarks before us. The river can’t be seen but I imagine it curving down below beyond the trees and the buildings, making its stately way towards the sea.
We walk on down a steep hill between more hawthorn hedges and out into suburban streets again. The houses here are large and varied. We pass one called “The Five Witches” and speculate whether it is a residential home or a pagan commune.
Eltham College stands in spreading grounds. WE turn up a lane running between them and a paddock full of placid horses. Branches reach out to remind us of their presence. They tug at my hair and roughly stroke my warm cheeks. My companion, horse-like manoeuvres her way underneath them unscathed. Perhaps she is a horse and not just a horse fancier after all, I speculate, disentangling myself from yet another encroaching brier. She snickers with laughter and we trot on.
Small unknown butterflies dance in the spaces left by the fluttering hedgerow. The velvety green playing fields roll softly away under the shade of mature trees. The path turns and we skirt the City of London sports and social club and stop to admire a gurgling stream which is the infant Quaggy, a tributary of the Ravensbourne as it makes its way towards Lewisham and Deptford.
“One day I’m going to walk the rivers of London”, I say to my companion as we leave the cheerfully gurgling streamlet behind. The path continues around playing fields. The traffic is but a muffled hum in the far distance. We could be out in the countryside, so quiet and green it is. We turn onto a street near the old Grove Park Hospital, and the end of this leg of the walk.
Despite my tender knees, I’m not yet walked out. We decide to walk on aiming perhaps to go as far as Ravensbourne or possibly even Beckenham.
We are back on suburban streets again. Edith Bland, better known as E Nesbit once lived here. We turn down Railway Children’s Walk and make our way between the houses.
To our right, a small wood (Hither Green nature reserve) spreads out along the railway line. WE sink down gratefully to rest on a bench made of railway sleepers dedicated to the memory of the author and breathe.
We sit and sniff the air. We listen to the sounds around us. Crows caw and the wind moves through the little wood. The trees rustle invitingly. I long to explore their dappled coolness, but we’re going another way. In the distance a siren howls reminding us that we are very much still in the city. We get up and walk on.
We climb the steps onto the bridge spanning a complex pattern of railway lines. They hum and shiver as another train thunders by, its rhythmical clattering bouncing off the walls of the houses that line the track. We walk down another leafy path, past a children’s play area and onto the Downham Estate.
Possibly one of the biggest post war estates in London, the Downham Estate spreads across a great swathe of south east London. At first encounter, the houses seem pleasant, many with individual features. But this is an area with no transport and hardly any amenities. I prepare for a very urban walk.
But we climb up onto a wooded bank which runs through the estate and saunter in dappled shade under great spreading oaks. All is quiet. Even a scattering of what seemed to be brown toad stalls seem equally as fitting when revealed by the probing shoed toe of my companion to be dried dog poo!
Crossing a road, we enter a belt of trees. Again, we walk under mature oats between quite pleasant semi detached houses, terraces and little cottages. According to the book, we are walking amongst the remains of North Wood, once an ancient forest now almost totally gone. Apparently, we will meet the wood again a little further on round the ring. I am suddenly reminded of “Norwood” and “Norbury”, obviously sites of the old wood now greenly suburban.
It is now school chucking out time. The quiet wooded path is suddenly full of scolding parents and whining children. Obeying the walker’s etiquette, we smile as we pass them but get nothing back. WE walk on.
Several roads intersect the strip of woodland. From time to time, comfortable looking benches are dotted about. The tarmac path is broken and bashed. The woods are quietly watchful as we pass. I imagine myself walking through an ancient forest and feel myself relax.
We must have walked on for a couple of miles before the woods end and we cross the A21 and seek rest in the Gold Café, a neat little greasy spoon in a parade of down-at-heal shops. Fortified by cheese rolls and tea, we walk on through another part of the Downham Estate and into Beckenham Place Park.
At first glance, the park is municipal. We walk past a collection of grey doves sitting on a neat lawn. I “droo-droo-droo” at them quietly and they fly off!
Now we are walking between trees. The copse is clearly ornamental rather than natural, although native trees have been planted. There are dappled glades and peaceful looking people sitting quietly in them.
The path through the woods skirts the edge of the golf course and runs upwards and out onto a ridge. We walk along until we find a brace of benches, one occupied by a cheerful if slightly muddy small waggy-tailed terrier and its owners, and the other, sunlit and empty and ready for our bottoms.
The sun is low now. The park is peaceful. It undulates gently to reveal the white pillared mansion that is the original house. Nonchalantly, the waggy tailed terrier pees on his bench then leads his owners away. We get up and follow. The path runs down across a ditch cluttered with beer cans. Rising steeply, it leads us close to the house which is indeed a magnificent specimen. My companion extols its beauties and I am pleased to learn that there is a carving of an owl a-top the family crest.
We stop to discuss our route. We can take a long detour to Beckenham Junction or walk on along the Capital ring till it passes New Beckenham station. I am tired but still up for more. It is nearly four miles to Crystal Palace. I marvel at how far I’ve walked to day as we turn out of the park and make our way along more quiet streets, past Kent County Cricket club, some rather horrid new builds, down a torturous unmade road, along some more residential streets and to the station and home.
Tuesday July 14, 2009:
“It’s a perfect day for a walk” my companion optimistically enthuses. Dosed with Nurofen, I walk carefully beside her, as yet not sure how my knees will stand up to the rigours of the day. Somewhat to my surprise, we have the streets of Finsbury Park to ourselves this early weekday morning.
The story is very different as we squeeze ourselves onto the Southbound Victoria line train. Only the occasional damp coughing and sniffing weaves its way between the surly silence and the rustle of newspapers as comatosed commuters try to pretend it isn’t a Tuesday morning.
Victoria station is bedlam. My companion has also lost her travel pass en route. Eventually, we climb aboard the slowest train south and head back to Falconwood.
Solid single drops of rain fall ponderously onto us as we alight onto the platform. So much for the perfect day, I grumble as I struggle into a waterproof jacket. We skirt the woods beside the A2 and enter Avery Park via the road bridge.
Avery Park is nothing to write home about. It is square and grassy with several rows of mature trees marching sturdily across it. The rain is determined to make its presence felt. My so called waterproof is rapidly proving to have more siv like properties. It is time to take shelter.
The only place to hide is under the spreading arms of a great Chestnut tree. Summer foliage not withstanding, we huddle beneath it dodging the drips that force their way through its leafy canopy and down our warm necks.
All across the park, other trees also have their cowering damp human sentinels, most with a canine companion. We are the only pair.
The sky is low. Thunder rumbles insistently against the roar of the A2 and the pelting rain. I speculate about starting up some form of communicating with the other shelterees. At this distance, it will have to be semaphore or yodelling. I briefly fantasise about a Busby Barkley style dance routine sans umbrellas before the rain slows and we venture out, splashing through the puddles.
According to the book, our way is via a lot of suburban streets. The one we’re on now is rather pleasant with its variety of villas with neat gardens. We cross a main road and enter the incongruously named Butterfly Lane, which is in fact a hedge lined concrete path running between a field and a housing estate. In the distance, one or two horses can be seen. The sun comes out and I throw back my hood and sniff the air.
We turn into a narrower bridal path between high hedges leading to another main road. We cross this and walk down some more suburban streets lined with council houses and then others which seem to be privately owned. I stop to admire some small but perfectly formed plums dangling pendulously over the footpath. My mouth waters, but alas SAID plums are not yet ripe. Reluctantly, I leave them be.
Skirting Eltham Palace, we encounter a cheerful little robin sitting on a wall, before crossing to briefly quack at the ducks in the moat before turning down a lane leading past some stables.
“This is definitely ‘Horsyculture’” says my companion who, being a bit of a horse fancier is walking into her idea of heaven. The warm comforting smell of horse comes to us on the wind. We pass a sleek strawberry roan and proud owner before stopping to rest beside a horse trough.
Half a dozen or so horses come ambling across the field. But they’ve not come to see us. They have come to drink peacefully from the horse trough.
I pull out a bag of cherries and am just popping the first into my mouth when I feel something warm and hairy brushing against my arm. I blow through loose lips. The horse withdraws his head to the fence post and has a good scratch instead, as though that was his initial intention and nothing to do with the cherries at all. I muse on horsy cupboard love and spit cherry pips into the grass verge.
“Maybe this will be a small cherry grove in years to come”, I say to my companion as we make ready to walk on between high hawthorn and beech hedges. The sun dances in and out of the clouds, the wind brings the high shrieks of children’s voices at play, to ride on the back of the roaring A20.
We’ve been looking for somewhere to sit for some time now. My companion notices that we have passed several benches on the other side of the hedge – which is some kind of playing field or park. Eventually, we find our way over and sit down contentedly in the sun to eat our healthy nibbles which serve in lieu of a proper lunch. I fantasise about cups of tea and chase sandwiches and raise my face to the warm sun.
From time to time, hooves clatter on the lane beyond the hedge. Seagulls wheel, their peons mingling with the call of the children further away.
My companion describes the view. On the horizon the O2, Canary Warf, the Gherkin and Crystal palace lie like a necklace of landmarks before us. The river can’t be seen but I imagine it curving down below beyond the trees and the buildings, making its stately way towards the sea.
We walk on down a steep hill between more hawthorn hedges and out into suburban streets again. The houses here are large and varied. We pass one called “The Five Witches” and speculate whether it is a residential home or a pagan commune.
Eltham College stands in spreading grounds. WE turn up a lane running between them and a paddock full of placid horses. Branches reach out to remind us of their presence. They tug at my hair and roughly stroke my warm cheeks. My companion, horse-like manoeuvres her way underneath them unscathed. Perhaps she is a horse and not just a horse fancier after all, I speculate, disentangling myself from yet another encroaching brier. She snickers with laughter and we trot on.
Small unknown butterflies dance in the spaces left by the fluttering hedgerow. The velvety green playing fields roll softly away under the shade of mature trees. The path turns and we skirt the City of London sports and social club and stop to admire a gurgling stream which is the infant Quaggy, a tributary of the Ravensbourne as it makes its way towards Lewisham and Deptford.
“One day I’m going to walk the rivers of London”, I say to my companion as we leave the cheerfully gurgling streamlet behind. The path continues around playing fields. The traffic is but a muffled hum in the far distance. We could be out in the countryside, so quiet and green it is. We turn onto a street near the old Grove Park Hospital, and the end of this leg of the walk.
Despite my tender knees, I’m not yet walked out. We decide to walk on aiming perhaps to go as far as Ravensbourne or possibly even Beckenham.
We are back on suburban streets again. Edith Bland, better known as E Nesbit once lived here. We turn down Railway Children’s Walk and make our way between the houses.
To our right, a small wood (Hither Green nature reserve) spreads out along the railway line. WE sink down gratefully to rest on a bench made of railway sleepers dedicated to the memory of the author and breathe.
We sit and sniff the air. We listen to the sounds around us. Crows caw and the wind moves through the little wood. The trees rustle invitingly. I long to explore their dappled coolness, but we’re going another way. In the distance a siren howls reminding us that we are very much still in the city. We get up and walk on.
We climb the steps onto the bridge spanning a complex pattern of railway lines. They hum and shiver as another train thunders by, its rhythmical clattering bouncing off the walls of the houses that line the track. We walk down another leafy path, past a children’s play area and onto the Downham Estate.
Possibly one of the biggest post war estates in London, the Downham Estate spreads across a great swathe of south east London. At first encounter, the houses seem pleasant, many with individual features. But this is an area with no transport and hardly any amenities. I prepare for a very urban walk.
But we climb up onto a wooded bank which runs through the estate and saunter in dappled shade under great spreading oaks. All is quiet. Even a scattering of what seemed to be brown toad stalls seem equally as fitting when revealed by the probing shoed toe of my companion to be dried dog poo!
Crossing a road, we enter a belt of trees. Again, we walk under mature oats between quite pleasant semi detached houses, terraces and little cottages. According to the book, we are walking amongst the remains of North Wood, once an ancient forest now almost totally gone. Apparently, we will meet the wood again a little further on round the ring. I am suddenly reminded of “Norwood” and “Norbury”, obviously sites of the old wood now greenly suburban.
It is now school chucking out time. The quiet wooded path is suddenly full of scolding parents and whining children. Obeying the walker’s etiquette, we smile as we pass them but get nothing back. WE walk on.
Several roads intersect the strip of woodland. From time to time, comfortable looking benches are dotted about. The tarmac path is broken and bashed. The woods are quietly watchful as we pass. I imagine myself walking through an ancient forest and feel myself relax.
We must have walked on for a couple of miles before the woods end and we cross the A21 and seek rest in the Gold Café, a neat little greasy spoon in a parade of down-at-heal shops. Fortified by cheese rolls and tea, we walk on through another part of the Downham Estate and into Beckenham Place Park.
At first glance, the park is municipal. We walk past a collection of grey doves sitting on a neat lawn. I “droo-droo-droo” at them quietly and they fly off!
Now we are walking between trees. The copse is clearly ornamental rather than natural, although native trees have been planted. There are dappled glades and peaceful looking people sitting quietly in them.
The path through the woods skirts the edge of the golf course and runs upwards and out onto a ridge. We walk along until we find a brace of benches, one occupied by a cheerful if slightly muddy small waggy-tailed terrier and its owners, and the other, sunlit and empty and ready for our bottoms.
The sun is low now. The park is peaceful. It undulates gently to reveal the white pillared mansion that is the original house. Nonchalantly, the waggy tailed terrier pees on his bench then leads his owners away. We get up and follow. The path runs down across a ditch cluttered with beer cans. Rising steeply, it leads us close to the house which is indeed a magnificent specimen. My companion extols its beauties and I am pleased to learn that there is a carving of an owl a-top the family crest.
We stop to discuss our route. We can take a long detour to Beckenham Junction or walk on along the Capital ring till it passes New Beckenham station. I am tired but still up for more. It is nearly four miles to Crystal Palace. I marvel at how far I’ve walked to day as we turn out of the park and make our way along more quiet streets, past Kent County Cricket club, some rather horrid new builds, down a torturous unmade road, along some more residential streets and to the station and home.
Sunday, 5 July 2009
5 North Woolwich to Falcon wood
Wednesday July 1, 2009:
The day is already hot. We’re in the middle of a summer heat wave. The sky is cloudy this morning, but it will only be a matter of time before the hot sun burns it off.
As we climb the steps from the DLR, the sun breaks through. Roz’s café is surprisingly cool and peaceful despite being quite busy. We wolf down truly delicious scrambled eggs on toast and head off to catch the ferry.
It’s a peaceful way to cross the river. The ferry slides gracefully across the still water. We lean against the rail and breathe great lungful of river breeze, slightly greasy, a bit pondy but quite fresh never the less.
The Capital Ring directs us westwards along the river. The world is concrete but not unpleasant. We lose our way for the first of several times amongst the blocks and have to double back.
We dice with death on the Woolwich road and enter Marion Park. It is really very hot. I’m sweating like a pig. WE flop down onto a seat near the tennis courts where enthusiastic players are energetically wacking balls all over the place. On the breeze the smell of a nearby dog toilet makes its presence felt. WE stagger to our feet and trudge on.
It is sports day. A teacher tries to herd the wayward little ones via a megaphone. The children squeal excitedly and break free. A group of mothers with buggies shelter and chatter together under a magnificent flowering unknown ornamental tree. I remember past sports day humiliations and shiver.
Back on the streets, we edge past a certain amount of clutter on the pavements before entering Marion Wilson Park. This park is pleasantly landscaped. A pet’s corner reveals huge happy hens, quarrelling mallards and other water fowl dabbling away in a dusty puddle. I stand by the fence and quack and cluck. The fowl ignore me.
At the foot of a rather steep hill, two child minders puff along behind large buggies and a flock of toddling children. We march briskly up, noting the “stream” (a little damp ditch to one side of the path), as we follow the sound of the traffic on the road ahead.
We cross another main road and enter Charlton Park. A group of Nigerian boys are playing football. We sink down on a sunny bench and eat apples. I pull off my socks and shoes and wriggle my toes in the sunshine. The breeze is cool and soothing. I inspect my feet for signs of blisters. There are none. I contemplate a bit of bare foot walking on the grass, remember the dogs and think better of it.
We walk down a shady lime avenue, cut across a bit of grass and exit by an overgrown hedge. The air is perfumed with the sweetest of fragrance. Perhaps it’s the roses but it smells more like a hedgerow flower, privet perhaps? It follows us across another main road and into Horn Fair Park.
Flat and dull, neat and quiet, this park is deserted. Horn Fair Park is named after a fair which was banned in the 18th century due to libidinousness! I speculate as to its relationship to Herne the hunter, an ancient fertility god strongly associated with this part of South East London.
Across more roads, we enter Woolwich Common. Long grass waves in the breeze. There are patches of wild peas in pink and purple and the thistles are in flower.
A blue tit sings from the hedge. A blackbird calls back. WE pass a wren toottling away and another unknown bird whose song is a short six note phrase, repeated over and over again. Standing in the middle of the common, the traffic is a distant hum and only the rattle of a train can be heard some way off.
We march up Shooter’s Hill past the nick and flop down on the edge of the woods to rest and eat cereal bars. A miasma of small flies rapidly become interested in the large sweating creature that is me lying prone in the long grass. I swot them away and mutter darkly.
A spry old man strides past us, exchanging pleasantries. He too is walking the Capital Ring. He is the first walker we have come across so far. Our day has been only minimally populated by small children, a few sporty types and childminders. Rolling over, I get up stiffly and we march on.
Beneath the trees it is cool. I’m rather in need of a pee and make a temporary diversion up a secluded path. The ground rises and we edge our way past oaks, holly, ivy and bramble. We stride on through the woods.
The path is now tarmacked and leads us past the most extraordinary mini castle style folly. There is a small neat rose garden. The Capital ring book talks of an alternative route to the ten million steps we have to negotiate otherwise and we turn off hopefully.
Another path leads steeply down beside trees and we pass two older women with nap sacs cheerfully striding along. We walk on. From out of the woods, comes the beautiful song of the blackbird. Magpies rattle like football rattles. We pass a tree in which the low distinctive droo-droo of a stock dove can be heard. I droo=-droo back at him, which seems to annoy him for he shuts up.
From out of the thicket the sharper rasp of another bird comes. Perhaps that’s a jay, but he’s hiding so we don’t know. We walk on.
My companion is uncertain of our way. Mysteriously, all signs denoting the path’s relationship with the Capital Ring or Green Chain are absent and my companion fears we have gone the wrong way. Composing grumpy letters in our heads to the authorities about the lack of signage on the step free route, we walk on.
A grumpy chap with dog directs us up a flight of stairs which lead back to the original rose garden we visited some thirty minutes earlier. Now we are grumpy too! Optimistically we turn again down another path and march hopefully along.
The woods are quiet, save for the occasional call of a bird high up in the trees. We are still skirting the trees rather than walking through them. We ascend a steep path and follow the sounds of a jack hammer (pneumatic drill) and magpie dieting uncertainly. At the bottom we encounter a cheerful chap plus dog who seems to know the woods and who offers new and different directions.
We have to go up. We take a path and begin to climb through the woods. Tired now, I stop and lean against a handy young oak tree. I sniff the air, and breathe deeply. All is quiet bar the banging of the drill and the magpies. We have the woods again to ourselves.
I push away from the tree and stagger on. Up and up we climb until the path levels out. Uncertain still, my companion looks around vainly for someone to ask. Alas, the path is deserted and we plod on, this time going steeply down.
My knees are not enjoying this encounter with what feels like the almost perpendicular but is in fact just rather a steep path. I am tired. The tarmac is cracked. Mid sentence about what I do when I fall over, I suddenly take a nose dive forward and lurch down the path. I fall heavily on my knees and sliding down hill, I scrape my elbows as I tumble.
The air is blue with my language as I lie on my back swearing. Everything hurts. I roll over and sit up, giving way to frustration and tears.
“Ow!” I yelp and swear a bit more. My companion hands me water and I search for the arnica and rescue remedy. In time, I am ready to go on. I stagger to my feet, amidst much grumbling an swearing and we trudge on.
At last, the pavilion café is in sight. I sink down in the shade on a bench and examine my wounds. A stiff black coffee and piece of chocolate cake, chased by two Neuraphen Plus go some way to lessening the pain and I sit quietly as my companion describes the view.
Over the heads of the trees are meadows, then more trees and in the far distance, the North Downs, rolling southwards. The A2 Rochester Way Relief Road rumbles on in the distance. A dog barks merrily and children shriek at each other.
The café worker is talking loudly about her life, her colleagues, the owner and bingo. We listen in fascinated silence as she shares details of her life and her opinions with a sympathetic customer.
“One day, I’m going to do a guide to the cafes of London’s Park and green spaces” says my companion. “It’ll be fun doing the research!”
There’s still a way to go before we’re done today. We walk down more steep paths, this time, treading carefully in case of further trips. Past a four trunked tree we turn and are met by watt my companion at first takes to be a small bouncy brown bear but which turns out to be a lovely soft and friendly Portuguese water dog. Clearly aware of how handsome he is, he sits obligingly to be stroked and admired.
On through the trees we walk until we emerge onto the Rochester Way relief road itself. Somehow we have to get across but the traffic is streaming insistently on without a break. We decide to dice with death, hold our breath and march out. Fortunately someone stops!
Safely on the other side, the path plunges into the woods again. We are in cool dappled shade with the low sun slanting through the trees. The path opens out into a meadow edged with a long pond. A moorhen and her still fluffy chick sit by the water and three charming mallards perch in a row alongside. The roar of the road is louder here across the wide meadow. The long grass rustles and dances in the early evening breeze as we walk towards Falconwood station.
Wednesday July 1, 2009:
The day is already hot. We’re in the middle of a summer heat wave. The sky is cloudy this morning, but it will only be a matter of time before the hot sun burns it off.
As we climb the steps from the DLR, the sun breaks through. Roz’s café is surprisingly cool and peaceful despite being quite busy. We wolf down truly delicious scrambled eggs on toast and head off to catch the ferry.
It’s a peaceful way to cross the river. The ferry slides gracefully across the still water. We lean against the rail and breathe great lungful of river breeze, slightly greasy, a bit pondy but quite fresh never the less.
The Capital Ring directs us westwards along the river. The world is concrete but not unpleasant. We lose our way for the first of several times amongst the blocks and have to double back.
We dice with death on the Woolwich road and enter Marion Park. It is really very hot. I’m sweating like a pig. WE flop down onto a seat near the tennis courts where enthusiastic players are energetically wacking balls all over the place. On the breeze the smell of a nearby dog toilet makes its presence felt. WE stagger to our feet and trudge on.
It is sports day. A teacher tries to herd the wayward little ones via a megaphone. The children squeal excitedly and break free. A group of mothers with buggies shelter and chatter together under a magnificent flowering unknown ornamental tree. I remember past sports day humiliations and shiver.
Back on the streets, we edge past a certain amount of clutter on the pavements before entering Marion Wilson Park. This park is pleasantly landscaped. A pet’s corner reveals huge happy hens, quarrelling mallards and other water fowl dabbling away in a dusty puddle. I stand by the fence and quack and cluck. The fowl ignore me.
At the foot of a rather steep hill, two child minders puff along behind large buggies and a flock of toddling children. We march briskly up, noting the “stream” (a little damp ditch to one side of the path), as we follow the sound of the traffic on the road ahead.
We cross another main road and enter Charlton Park. A group of Nigerian boys are playing football. We sink down on a sunny bench and eat apples. I pull off my socks and shoes and wriggle my toes in the sunshine. The breeze is cool and soothing. I inspect my feet for signs of blisters. There are none. I contemplate a bit of bare foot walking on the grass, remember the dogs and think better of it.
We walk down a shady lime avenue, cut across a bit of grass and exit by an overgrown hedge. The air is perfumed with the sweetest of fragrance. Perhaps it’s the roses but it smells more like a hedgerow flower, privet perhaps? It follows us across another main road and into Horn Fair Park.
Flat and dull, neat and quiet, this park is deserted. Horn Fair Park is named after a fair which was banned in the 18th century due to libidinousness! I speculate as to its relationship to Herne the hunter, an ancient fertility god strongly associated with this part of South East London.
Across more roads, we enter Woolwich Common. Long grass waves in the breeze. There are patches of wild peas in pink and purple and the thistles are in flower.
A blue tit sings from the hedge. A blackbird calls back. WE pass a wren toottling away and another unknown bird whose song is a short six note phrase, repeated over and over again. Standing in the middle of the common, the traffic is a distant hum and only the rattle of a train can be heard some way off.
We march up Shooter’s Hill past the nick and flop down on the edge of the woods to rest and eat cereal bars. A miasma of small flies rapidly become interested in the large sweating creature that is me lying prone in the long grass. I swot them away and mutter darkly.
A spry old man strides past us, exchanging pleasantries. He too is walking the Capital Ring. He is the first walker we have come across so far. Our day has been only minimally populated by small children, a few sporty types and childminders. Rolling over, I get up stiffly and we march on.
Beneath the trees it is cool. I’m rather in need of a pee and make a temporary diversion up a secluded path. The ground rises and we edge our way past oaks, holly, ivy and bramble. We stride on through the woods.
The path is now tarmacked and leads us past the most extraordinary mini castle style folly. There is a small neat rose garden. The Capital ring book talks of an alternative route to the ten million steps we have to negotiate otherwise and we turn off hopefully.
Another path leads steeply down beside trees and we pass two older women with nap sacs cheerfully striding along. We walk on. From out of the woods, comes the beautiful song of the blackbird. Magpies rattle like football rattles. We pass a tree in which the low distinctive droo-droo of a stock dove can be heard. I droo=-droo back at him, which seems to annoy him for he shuts up.
From out of the thicket the sharper rasp of another bird comes. Perhaps that’s a jay, but he’s hiding so we don’t know. We walk on.
My companion is uncertain of our way. Mysteriously, all signs denoting the path’s relationship with the Capital Ring or Green Chain are absent and my companion fears we have gone the wrong way. Composing grumpy letters in our heads to the authorities about the lack of signage on the step free route, we walk on.
A grumpy chap with dog directs us up a flight of stairs which lead back to the original rose garden we visited some thirty minutes earlier. Now we are grumpy too! Optimistically we turn again down another path and march hopefully along.
The woods are quiet, save for the occasional call of a bird high up in the trees. We are still skirting the trees rather than walking through them. We ascend a steep path and follow the sounds of a jack hammer (pneumatic drill) and magpie dieting uncertainly. At the bottom we encounter a cheerful chap plus dog who seems to know the woods and who offers new and different directions.
We have to go up. We take a path and begin to climb through the woods. Tired now, I stop and lean against a handy young oak tree. I sniff the air, and breathe deeply. All is quiet bar the banging of the drill and the magpies. We have the woods again to ourselves.
I push away from the tree and stagger on. Up and up we climb until the path levels out. Uncertain still, my companion looks around vainly for someone to ask. Alas, the path is deserted and we plod on, this time going steeply down.
My knees are not enjoying this encounter with what feels like the almost perpendicular but is in fact just rather a steep path. I am tired. The tarmac is cracked. Mid sentence about what I do when I fall over, I suddenly take a nose dive forward and lurch down the path. I fall heavily on my knees and sliding down hill, I scrape my elbows as I tumble.
The air is blue with my language as I lie on my back swearing. Everything hurts. I roll over and sit up, giving way to frustration and tears.
“Ow!” I yelp and swear a bit more. My companion hands me water and I search for the arnica and rescue remedy. In time, I am ready to go on. I stagger to my feet, amidst much grumbling an swearing and we trudge on.
At last, the pavilion café is in sight. I sink down in the shade on a bench and examine my wounds. A stiff black coffee and piece of chocolate cake, chased by two Neuraphen Plus go some way to lessening the pain and I sit quietly as my companion describes the view.
Over the heads of the trees are meadows, then more trees and in the far distance, the North Downs, rolling southwards. The A2 Rochester Way Relief Road rumbles on in the distance. A dog barks merrily and children shriek at each other.
The café worker is talking loudly about her life, her colleagues, the owner and bingo. We listen in fascinated silence as she shares details of her life and her opinions with a sympathetic customer.
“One day, I’m going to do a guide to the cafes of London’s Park and green spaces” says my companion. “It’ll be fun doing the research!”
There’s still a way to go before we’re done today. We walk down more steep paths, this time, treading carefully in case of further trips. Past a four trunked tree we turn and are met by watt my companion at first takes to be a small bouncy brown bear but which turns out to be a lovely soft and friendly Portuguese water dog. Clearly aware of how handsome he is, he sits obligingly to be stroked and admired.
On through the trees we walk until we emerge onto the Rochester Way relief road itself. Somehow we have to get across but the traffic is streaming insistently on without a break. We decide to dice with death, hold our breath and march out. Fortunately someone stops!
Safely on the other side, the path plunges into the woods again. We are in cool dappled shade with the low sun slanting through the trees. The path opens out into a meadow edged with a long pond. A moorhen and her still fluffy chick sit by the water and three charming mallards perch in a row alongside. The roar of the road is louder here across the wide meadow. The long grass rustles and dances in the early evening breeze as we walk towards Falconwood station.
Sunday, 31 May 2009
4 West Ham to North Woolwich
Saturday May 30, 2009:
I stand in front of the so-called super-loo outside West Ham station and growl. It’s eaten my companion’s ten pence and remains resolutely shut to all-comers. I’m dying for a pee! Grumbling, I trail after my companion onto the Greenway, where abandoning all thoughts of modesty I retreat to the middle of a small meadowed verge to relieve myself.
It is an absolutely glorious day! The sun shines, the sky is clear bar a few little wispy clouds. There is a lovely cooling breeze and we have the world to ourselves, or so it seems. Hurrah for the F.A. Cup final!
On the banks of the walk, someone has planted a range of native plants and grasses. Strips of flower-strewn meadows are flanked, first on one side and then on both by tangling profusions of pink and white dog roses, lifting their frail petals to the sun. This is absolutely their time of the year!
I breathe deeply. Behind the faint sour sewerage aroma dances the rosy leafy sweet top-notes of the meadow flowers. Above us, at decent intervals from each other, blackbirds are belting out their glorious song. My grumpiness forgotten, I bow and smile at the golden cascades of song as we stride purposely forth.
We pass terrace houses, a grotty looking estate, and more houses. We’re quite high up for a while but when the houses on one side level with us, they are small and a little down at heal. Despite the singing blackbirds, the cheerful dog roses, the dancing meadow strips with their nodding tender wild flowers, the softness of the air, I feel the struggle of communities trying to make ends meet. we’re walking through the heart of the poor East End. Here, poverty and disadvantage sit side by side with hopeful regeneration via the Olympic development not far away. Small but heart lifting gestures of greening such as that of the Northern Output Sewerage Effluent (or NOSE) pipe upon which we walk stretch thin green fingers amongst the shabby dwellings with their insubstantial little gardens and grim balconies. I wonder if their inhabitants ever walk this green line.
I’m tired, so we sit down, our backs against a rusty barred fence and listen to the birds. The “Woodpigeons, tits and wrens compete with the ubiquitous noisy blackbirds. I stroke the soft grasses, gather up the tenderest most velvety of them to make a small bouquet to tuck behind my left ear (where all such tributes sit best!). We are alone, bar a curious jogger whose swift glance, my companion informs me, holds curiosity. No doubt, she wonders what on earth we want to sit down on top of a sewer pipe for. I imagine we are sitting in a meadow far away from East London, and am happy.
In time, we move. My companion spies a peacock butterfly rising from the sweet meadow. We pass more houses, more dog-roses and some small industrial sites. Since West Ham, we’ve crossed about five roads which intersect the Greenway. We turn off now down a ramp festooned with cultivated and wild flowers into a small housing estate.
Here, the houses show individuality, a legacy of the Right to buy opportunities of Thatcher’s Britain. Young Asian men pass us, talking loudly on their mobiles. We turn towards the roaring A13 over which we have now to pass to reach the next finger of green.
The metal bridge trembles beneath our feet as we walk quickly across it. On the other side, we pass the sign to Beckton Alps (a dry-ski complex) and turn down a road beside some houses towards Beckton District Park. At the opening, stands a lone young police officer guarding a stretch of black and yellow “Scene of Crime” tape.
“Is there a dead body behind there?” asks my companion pruriently.
“I’m afraid I can’t comment”, the police officer replies dryly. We walk on leaving her to guard her frail barrier against the curious and ghoulish.
Circling a lake in futile search of a cup of tea, we encounter the Beckton District Park toilets, which are a disgrace to behold! Not for the first time I’m glad not to be able to see, if the smell is anything to go by. Trying not to breathe, we scurry outside quickly.
Under the benevolent noonday sun, we settle ourselves on a bench by the lake. The chocolate we share is the consistency of blue-tac . Nevertheless, it is delicious and just what is needed. As we rest, Canada Geese importune us aggressively. Clearly, human sitting on bench means dinner! I honk back at them and quack cheerfully at the ducks dabbling about in the lake beyond.
Wood pigeons swoop and raise their wings scirring the air insistently. Amongst them, my companion tells me, a smaller completely white pigeon with pink markings about the eyes hops about. An albino pigeon perhaps, or more likely a little white dove! Ah, I think and coo at it softly.
We walk on. The park is long and narrow and soon bisected by a road. Beyond this, it is wilder. Small stands of trees shade the path, tangled undergrowth at their ankles. Now on either side lie stretches of meadow, dotted with wild flowers. In the middle of a sunny patch sits a young woman and her black and white dog, both peacefully basking in the sun. For a moment, I contemplate joining her but am drawn on by my companion’s cry of delight as she spies the first of a number of tethered horses.
The smell of them dances to us on the breeze, warm, heavy and brown, pungent, yet sweet. The horses are tethered and patiently stand in sun or shade quietly observing the day, their empty feed buckets lying toppled and abandoned at their feet.
“Hello” I say to a docile mare who allows me to stroke her velvety nose. She breathes back at me and lets me pet her. We stand together in the dappled shade and commune.
Insects buzz about busily, the humming city disappears beyond the sighing trees and the whispering grass. Soft horse breath on my arm, like the tenderest of kisses, brings a smile to my face and I remember Epona the horse goddess. Caught in a moment of lazy peacefulness that comes when standing with horses at rest, I blow through loose lips and the horse blows back.
But we have to move on. I feel the horses following us with their eyes as we walk through a stand of scrubby trees and across another road. Here , the parkas reverted to municipal order.
Beyond the children’s playground, another horse stands and whinnies; for she has spied someone she knows. An old man tells us the horse is called April and she is his. We stand stroking the horse and tell him of our walk. He tells us of the joys of “RedRovering ” in his youth and then shambles off, horse in tow to watch the football.
We walk on. I fantasise allowed about man and horse settling down together in front of the telly. I imagine them with steaming cups (or in the case of the horse, a bowl) of tea, companionably enjoying the match.
New Beckton Park, fringed by houses is almost deserted. It is neat and pleasant. Here the Ring deviates from the book. But there are helpful signs so we negotiate our way round a closed gate on the edge of a small estate and turn onto the main road. We skirt the East London University campus and head towards the river.
The road is busy. We cross two fingers of water or “reaches”, and follow the signs leading us between uninspiring blocks of flats with forbidding balconies. On a wall, a small sign tells us that to find “Michelle’s beauty” turn left. For good measure, Michelle has obligingly left her phone number. We speculate about what services she could be offering and to whom and walk on.
At last we come to the river, beyond a concrete wall. The water stretches out emptily, shimmering silver in the bright sunlight. We flop down onto an uncomfortable metal bench and feast briefly on cheesy oatcakes and nuts and raisons.
The river walk and its environs are deserted. Over in far away Woolwich, an ice-cream van’s chimes peal out tantalisingly. Dead leaves scuttle down the road in front of us like bashful toddlers running an egg and spoon race. I imagine them as they skitter past, some fast, some trailing behind, a group followed by a poor straggler, alone and desolate, red faced and tearful. Just when I think the race has ended, another leave skips by, desperately trying to catch up. Idiotically, I want to reach out a finger and edge it forward, to lighten its load in some way.
“It’s a bit like one of those Sci-Fi films where bustling busy London has been emptied of humanity and only we and the scuttling leaves are left.” I say to my companion. “Except, we’re glad to have the city to ourselves,” I add, picking a cashew nut out of the little container in my hand and popping it into my mouth.
“We’ve probably got quite a bit more to do,” says my companion as she scoops the last nuts out of the pot. WE climb to our feet and head west.
We are in the land of the gated community. We walk along the river, heading towards North Woolwich and the Woolwich Ferry. ON another unforgiving hard metal bench, someone lies sunbathing, on one or two balconies, other figures, as still as statues watch the dancing river. Some rather pleasant African music saunters out from an open window. For a moment, I think I can hear a clear tenor voice singing along. The wind shifts and the sounds melt into the city rumble.
We find an unlocked gate and walk through. A boat slipway gives direct access to the water’s edge. Two mallards waddle in front of us as we carefully negotiate the rough concrete. They launch themselves into the river with a flurry of feathers and a fair bit of flapping. I think how nice it would be to do the same.
The silvery water begins to tremble agitatedly as a huge barge approaches. The lapping is drown by the growling roar of its engine. We step back from the river edge to avoid the barge’s tumbling wake and the threat of wet feet.
The Earnest Bevin ferry cleaves the water as it heads across the river. Behind it the water tumbles noisily. We walk past a broken down pier and my companion comments on it’s similarity with the West Pier in Brighton.
We turn into a riverside park. The city’s not deserted. The park is dotted about with groups of adults and children picnicking in the sunshine. A mother calls a toddler to order; across the grass, another child wails and is soothed in a language which is not English. We walk on, tired now for our journey is almost at its end.
The DLR is not working. WE climb aboard a replacement rail service and rock our way through the East End to Canary Warf and home. My feet are sore and my arms feel suspiciously warm. I have caught the sun – how nice that sounds! My arms are sunburnt just in the place where I would have hugged the sun!
I think about the gloriously singing blackbirds, the companionable horses, the warmth of the day and the soft breeze and the gentle sound of the river lapping against the hard concrete bank. What a city of contrasts, swathes of concrete interspersed with fingers of green. The peace is embraced by the hubbub and the hubbub is framed by the green.
“When I get home, I say to my companion as we climb stiffly from the bus, “I’m going to sit in the garden with my feet in a bowl of warm warder and drink a nice cup of Lady Gray tea. ”.
Saturday May 30, 2009:
I stand in front of the so-called super-loo outside West Ham station and growl. It’s eaten my companion’s ten pence and remains resolutely shut to all-comers. I’m dying for a pee! Grumbling, I trail after my companion onto the Greenway, where abandoning all thoughts of modesty I retreat to the middle of a small meadowed verge to relieve myself.
It is an absolutely glorious day! The sun shines, the sky is clear bar a few little wispy clouds. There is a lovely cooling breeze and we have the world to ourselves, or so it seems. Hurrah for the F.A. Cup final!
On the banks of the walk, someone has planted a range of native plants and grasses. Strips of flower-strewn meadows are flanked, first on one side and then on both by tangling profusions of pink and white dog roses, lifting their frail petals to the sun. This is absolutely their time of the year!
I breathe deeply. Behind the faint sour sewerage aroma dances the rosy leafy sweet top-notes of the meadow flowers. Above us, at decent intervals from each other, blackbirds are belting out their glorious song. My grumpiness forgotten, I bow and smile at the golden cascades of song as we stride purposely forth.
We pass terrace houses, a grotty looking estate, and more houses. We’re quite high up for a while but when the houses on one side level with us, they are small and a little down at heal. Despite the singing blackbirds, the cheerful dog roses, the dancing meadow strips with their nodding tender wild flowers, the softness of the air, I feel the struggle of communities trying to make ends meet. we’re walking through the heart of the poor East End. Here, poverty and disadvantage sit side by side with hopeful regeneration via the Olympic development not far away. Small but heart lifting gestures of greening such as that of the Northern Output Sewerage Effluent (or NOSE) pipe upon which we walk stretch thin green fingers amongst the shabby dwellings with their insubstantial little gardens and grim balconies. I wonder if their inhabitants ever walk this green line.
I’m tired, so we sit down, our backs against a rusty barred fence and listen to the birds. The “Woodpigeons, tits and wrens compete with the ubiquitous noisy blackbirds. I stroke the soft grasses, gather up the tenderest most velvety of them to make a small bouquet to tuck behind my left ear (where all such tributes sit best!). We are alone, bar a curious jogger whose swift glance, my companion informs me, holds curiosity. No doubt, she wonders what on earth we want to sit down on top of a sewer pipe for. I imagine we are sitting in a meadow far away from East London, and am happy.
In time, we move. My companion spies a peacock butterfly rising from the sweet meadow. We pass more houses, more dog-roses and some small industrial sites. Since West Ham, we’ve crossed about five roads which intersect the Greenway. We turn off now down a ramp festooned with cultivated and wild flowers into a small housing estate.
Here, the houses show individuality, a legacy of the Right to buy opportunities of Thatcher’s Britain. Young Asian men pass us, talking loudly on their mobiles. We turn towards the roaring A13 over which we have now to pass to reach the next finger of green.
The metal bridge trembles beneath our feet as we walk quickly across it. On the other side, we pass the sign to Beckton Alps (a dry-ski complex) and turn down a road beside some houses towards Beckton District Park. At the opening, stands a lone young police officer guarding a stretch of black and yellow “Scene of Crime” tape.
“Is there a dead body behind there?” asks my companion pruriently.
“I’m afraid I can’t comment”, the police officer replies dryly. We walk on leaving her to guard her frail barrier against the curious and ghoulish.
Circling a lake in futile search of a cup of tea, we encounter the Beckton District Park toilets, which are a disgrace to behold! Not for the first time I’m glad not to be able to see, if the smell is anything to go by. Trying not to breathe, we scurry outside quickly.
Under the benevolent noonday sun, we settle ourselves on a bench by the lake. The chocolate we share is the consistency of blue-tac . Nevertheless, it is delicious and just what is needed. As we rest, Canada Geese importune us aggressively. Clearly, human sitting on bench means dinner! I honk back at them and quack cheerfully at the ducks dabbling about in the lake beyond.
Wood pigeons swoop and raise their wings scirring the air insistently. Amongst them, my companion tells me, a smaller completely white pigeon with pink markings about the eyes hops about. An albino pigeon perhaps, or more likely a little white dove! Ah, I think and coo at it softly.
We walk on. The park is long and narrow and soon bisected by a road. Beyond this, it is wilder. Small stands of trees shade the path, tangled undergrowth at their ankles. Now on either side lie stretches of meadow, dotted with wild flowers. In the middle of a sunny patch sits a young woman and her black and white dog, both peacefully basking in the sun. For a moment, I contemplate joining her but am drawn on by my companion’s cry of delight as she spies the first of a number of tethered horses.
The smell of them dances to us on the breeze, warm, heavy and brown, pungent, yet sweet. The horses are tethered and patiently stand in sun or shade quietly observing the day, their empty feed buckets lying toppled and abandoned at their feet.
“Hello” I say to a docile mare who allows me to stroke her velvety nose. She breathes back at me and lets me pet her. We stand together in the dappled shade and commune.
Insects buzz about busily, the humming city disappears beyond the sighing trees and the whispering grass. Soft horse breath on my arm, like the tenderest of kisses, brings a smile to my face and I remember Epona the horse goddess. Caught in a moment of lazy peacefulness that comes when standing with horses at rest, I blow through loose lips and the horse blows back.
But we have to move on. I feel the horses following us with their eyes as we walk through a stand of scrubby trees and across another road. Here , the parkas reverted to municipal order.
Beyond the children’s playground, another horse stands and whinnies; for she has spied someone she knows. An old man tells us the horse is called April and she is his. We stand stroking the horse and tell him of our walk. He tells us of the joys of “RedRovering ” in his youth and then shambles off, horse in tow to watch the football.
We walk on. I fantasise allowed about man and horse settling down together in front of the telly. I imagine them with steaming cups (or in the case of the horse, a bowl) of tea, companionably enjoying the match.
New Beckton Park, fringed by houses is almost deserted. It is neat and pleasant. Here the Ring deviates from the book. But there are helpful signs so we negotiate our way round a closed gate on the edge of a small estate and turn onto the main road. We skirt the East London University campus and head towards the river.
The road is busy. We cross two fingers of water or “reaches”, and follow the signs leading us between uninspiring blocks of flats with forbidding balconies. On a wall, a small sign tells us that to find “Michelle’s beauty” turn left. For good measure, Michelle has obligingly left her phone number. We speculate about what services she could be offering and to whom and walk on.
At last we come to the river, beyond a concrete wall. The water stretches out emptily, shimmering silver in the bright sunlight. We flop down onto an uncomfortable metal bench and feast briefly on cheesy oatcakes and nuts and raisons.
The river walk and its environs are deserted. Over in far away Woolwich, an ice-cream van’s chimes peal out tantalisingly. Dead leaves scuttle down the road in front of us like bashful toddlers running an egg and spoon race. I imagine them as they skitter past, some fast, some trailing behind, a group followed by a poor straggler, alone and desolate, red faced and tearful. Just when I think the race has ended, another leave skips by, desperately trying to catch up. Idiotically, I want to reach out a finger and edge it forward, to lighten its load in some way.
“It’s a bit like one of those Sci-Fi films where bustling busy London has been emptied of humanity and only we and the scuttling leaves are left.” I say to my companion. “Except, we’re glad to have the city to ourselves,” I add, picking a cashew nut out of the little container in my hand and popping it into my mouth.
“We’ve probably got quite a bit more to do,” says my companion as she scoops the last nuts out of the pot. WE climb to our feet and head west.
We are in the land of the gated community. We walk along the river, heading towards North Woolwich and the Woolwich Ferry. ON another unforgiving hard metal bench, someone lies sunbathing, on one or two balconies, other figures, as still as statues watch the dancing river. Some rather pleasant African music saunters out from an open window. For a moment, I think I can hear a clear tenor voice singing along. The wind shifts and the sounds melt into the city rumble.
We find an unlocked gate and walk through. A boat slipway gives direct access to the water’s edge. Two mallards waddle in front of us as we carefully negotiate the rough concrete. They launch themselves into the river with a flurry of feathers and a fair bit of flapping. I think how nice it would be to do the same.
The silvery water begins to tremble agitatedly as a huge barge approaches. The lapping is drown by the growling roar of its engine. We step back from the river edge to avoid the barge’s tumbling wake and the threat of wet feet.
The Earnest Bevin ferry cleaves the water as it heads across the river. Behind it the water tumbles noisily. We walk past a broken down pier and my companion comments on it’s similarity with the West Pier in Brighton.
We turn into a riverside park. The city’s not deserted. The park is dotted about with groups of adults and children picnicking in the sunshine. A mother calls a toddler to order; across the grass, another child wails and is soothed in a language which is not English. We walk on, tired now for our journey is almost at its end.
The DLR is not working. WE climb aboard a replacement rail service and rock our way through the East End to Canary Warf and home. My feet are sore and my arms feel suspiciously warm. I have caught the sun – how nice that sounds! My arms are sunburnt just in the place where I would have hugged the sun!
I think about the gloriously singing blackbirds, the companionable horses, the warmth of the day and the soft breeze and the gentle sound of the river lapping against the hard concrete bank. What a city of contrasts, swathes of concrete interspersed with fingers of green. The peace is embraced by the hubbub and the hubbub is framed by the green.
“When I get home, I say to my companion as we climb stiffly from the bus, “I’m going to sit in the garden with my feet in a bowl of warm warder and drink a nice cup of Lady Gray tea. ”.
Monday, 13 April 2009
3 Hackney Wick to West Ham
Saturday April 11, 2009:
You know, it is the devil’s own job getting back to Hackney wick, where we left off the big London hug last time. Engineering works have closed off most of East London. WE wind our way round the backstreets of Hackney in a rail replacement bus whose driver is thrown by a sudden and unexpected diversion around about the Eastway. So we clamber off hoping that the canal is not far away.
The green Capital Ring signs talk of diversion and helpfully point two ways at once! For the first of several times this day, my companion wishes aloud for an A to Z. The locals seem bemused when we ask directions to the canal; some even shake their heads in mild bewilderment at the thought of anyone wanting willingly to go there! Do they know something we don’t?
“I think it’s that way,” I say, jerking my thumb leftwards towards what turns out to be the Trowbridge Estate. We set off gamely, following my somewhat dubious sense of direction. Behind us, a blackbird is singing in a grimy ornamental cherry.
A man stands next to a brace of calmly feeding horses – all eight hooves firmly planted on the pavement, their noses in buckets. One neighs as we approach. At last, we’d found someone who knew where we were trying to get to and who only mildly regards it as an odd thing to do. The horse man directs us back the way we have come!
“Oh well, “I say ‘Polly-Anna-ishly’, “at least it’s not raining, and we met two pavement grazing horses.” A sudden gust of wind blows a gout of dampness into our faces as we cross the canal bridge beneath the arch of the blackbird’s song. A family of cheerful walkers reassures us that we are indeed about to step onto the canal tow path but confuses us further by declaring that they have just walked from Victoria Park!
“We came past here last time” my companion says disappointedly, “I wish I’d bought some chocolate!” We trudge on past the Olympic site hoardings. Bare of their decorations, they stare back blankly at the quiet canal and the two women walking stoically along.
“We’re passing the place where we came off last time” says my companion, as the most disgusting stench of rotting waste assails us. I gasp and coughed, and we hurry on.
Ahead of us, the canal bubbles. From amongst its gurgling, a swaying guitar blues struts, followed closely by the sweet, dusty smell of wood smoke. A large narrow boat, the “Queen Vic” sits moored in the middle of the canal; the music and wood smoke are coming from her.
“What would it be like to be invited in there?” I mused to my companion. We fall to discussing the tea they would serve us, the low cushions we would sit upon cross-legged and bare-footed as they offer us joints (which I would of course politely refuse) or home-baked cookies laced with a little something it was best not to know about. It sounds to me very much like a narrow boat one might find in Old Amsterdam and the blues, the joint, the cookie, the tea and the low cushions would all be in keeping with the style of the place. Alas, no one beckons us aboard and we walk on leaving the queen Vic in a haze of woods smoke and lazy afternoon blues.
Past the lock, we turn left onto the Greenway – a concrete covered sewer leading down to the Beckton Treatment works and which skirts the Olympic stadium. The canal shoots off to our right, and the River Lee snakes into a series of bow backed channels and small pools stretching towards the Thames.
On our left, the bare ribs of the Olympic stadium rises from a tangle of cranes with a clutter of temporary structures round the base. An artist sits sketching the view, patiently polite to passers by peering over his shoulder. ON the right, a wasteland of piles of materials and building supplies stretches as far as the eye can see. Dotted about the place, stand trios of security guards whilst in the distance, a huge concrete mixer rumbles persistently.
Here, the greenway crosses the Docklands Light Railway. The railway tunnel below is unexpectedly quite clean and we soon returned to the greenway, to sink damply onto a wet seat beneath a rather fetching metal sign.
Resting a while, we eat fruit bars (in lieu of chocolate,) and listen to the clear silver arching song of two wrens. In front, new apartment blocks rise up amongst the pointing fingers of the construction cranes. WE move on.
Now the A11 crosses the Greenway and we make a slight detour to cross it. Returning to the path, we walk under the arching songs of the blackbirds. It is as though they herald our coming with their triumphant call. I am happy.
Lisenced by my blindness, I imagine I am walking along a quiet country road. I picture the blackbirds sitting in a high hedge, his song soaring through the clear sweet air. The verge is festooned with a riot of wild spring flowers. There is nothing to do but to admire the smells and sounds of the spring.
In reality, as my companion informs me, the bow back rivulets have formed small lakes beyond the scrub, behind them; a fringe of industry can be seen. There is however apparently, a rather smart Victorian water treatment centre with an elegant domed copula and the occasional house.
WE move on. By the side of the path is a stand of young birches, their leaves the tenderest and lightest of greens, their branches frail and lacy. Through them one of the bow backed rivulet’s has fashioned itself into a shimmering pond upon which two swans glide silently and elegantly. For a moment, my country fantasy is with me.
But it is time to return to real urban life. Due to our circumnavigation of East Hackney, we don’t have time to get to Beckton. WE leave the Greenway at West Ham station and head for home and the long yearned for chocolate.
Saturday April 11, 2009:
You know, it is the devil’s own job getting back to Hackney wick, where we left off the big London hug last time. Engineering works have closed off most of East London. WE wind our way round the backstreets of Hackney in a rail replacement bus whose driver is thrown by a sudden and unexpected diversion around about the Eastway. So we clamber off hoping that the canal is not far away.
The green Capital Ring signs talk of diversion and helpfully point two ways at once! For the first of several times this day, my companion wishes aloud for an A to Z. The locals seem bemused when we ask directions to the canal; some even shake their heads in mild bewilderment at the thought of anyone wanting willingly to go there! Do they know something we don’t?
“I think it’s that way,” I say, jerking my thumb leftwards towards what turns out to be the Trowbridge Estate. We set off gamely, following my somewhat dubious sense of direction. Behind us, a blackbird is singing in a grimy ornamental cherry.
A man stands next to a brace of calmly feeding horses – all eight hooves firmly planted on the pavement, their noses in buckets. One neighs as we approach. At last, we’d found someone who knew where we were trying to get to and who only mildly regards it as an odd thing to do. The horse man directs us back the way we have come!
“Oh well, “I say ‘Polly-Anna-ishly’, “at least it’s not raining, and we met two pavement grazing horses.” A sudden gust of wind blows a gout of dampness into our faces as we cross the canal bridge beneath the arch of the blackbird’s song. A family of cheerful walkers reassures us that we are indeed about to step onto the canal tow path but confuses us further by declaring that they have just walked from Victoria Park!
“We came past here last time” my companion says disappointedly, “I wish I’d bought some chocolate!” We trudge on past the Olympic site hoardings. Bare of their decorations, they stare back blankly at the quiet canal and the two women walking stoically along.
“We’re passing the place where we came off last time” says my companion, as the most disgusting stench of rotting waste assails us. I gasp and coughed, and we hurry on.
Ahead of us, the canal bubbles. From amongst its gurgling, a swaying guitar blues struts, followed closely by the sweet, dusty smell of wood smoke. A large narrow boat, the “Queen Vic” sits moored in the middle of the canal; the music and wood smoke are coming from her.
“What would it be like to be invited in there?” I mused to my companion. We fall to discussing the tea they would serve us, the low cushions we would sit upon cross-legged and bare-footed as they offer us joints (which I would of course politely refuse) or home-baked cookies laced with a little something it was best not to know about. It sounds to me very much like a narrow boat one might find in Old Amsterdam and the blues, the joint, the cookie, the tea and the low cushions would all be in keeping with the style of the place. Alas, no one beckons us aboard and we walk on leaving the queen Vic in a haze of woods smoke and lazy afternoon blues.
Past the lock, we turn left onto the Greenway – a concrete covered sewer leading down to the Beckton Treatment works and which skirts the Olympic stadium. The canal shoots off to our right, and the River Lee snakes into a series of bow backed channels and small pools stretching towards the Thames.
On our left, the bare ribs of the Olympic stadium rises from a tangle of cranes with a clutter of temporary structures round the base. An artist sits sketching the view, patiently polite to passers by peering over his shoulder. ON the right, a wasteland of piles of materials and building supplies stretches as far as the eye can see. Dotted about the place, stand trios of security guards whilst in the distance, a huge concrete mixer rumbles persistently.
Here, the greenway crosses the Docklands Light Railway. The railway tunnel below is unexpectedly quite clean and we soon returned to the greenway, to sink damply onto a wet seat beneath a rather fetching metal sign.
Resting a while, we eat fruit bars (in lieu of chocolate,) and listen to the clear silver arching song of two wrens. In front, new apartment blocks rise up amongst the pointing fingers of the construction cranes. WE move on.
Now the A11 crosses the Greenway and we make a slight detour to cross it. Returning to the path, we walk under the arching songs of the blackbirds. It is as though they herald our coming with their triumphant call. I am happy.
Lisenced by my blindness, I imagine I am walking along a quiet country road. I picture the blackbirds sitting in a high hedge, his song soaring through the clear sweet air. The verge is festooned with a riot of wild spring flowers. There is nothing to do but to admire the smells and sounds of the spring.
In reality, as my companion informs me, the bow back rivulets have formed small lakes beyond the scrub, behind them; a fringe of industry can be seen. There is however apparently, a rather smart Victorian water treatment centre with an elegant domed copula and the occasional house.
WE move on. By the side of the path is a stand of young birches, their leaves the tenderest and lightest of greens, their branches frail and lacy. Through them one of the bow backed rivulet’s has fashioned itself into a shimmering pond upon which two swans glide silently and elegantly. For a moment, my country fantasy is with me.
But it is time to return to real urban life. Due to our circumnavigation of East Hackney, we don’t have time to get to Beckton. WE leave the Greenway at West Ham station and head for home and the long yearned for chocolate.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
2 Stoke Newington to Hackney Wick
Sunday March 29, 2009:
AS we march purposefully round the back of Stroud Green on our way to the bus station at Finsbury Park, the spring sun peaks over the rooftops and says “morning!” The streets are deserted, the clock change keeping walkers in their beds. So much the better for us. Our walk this day will be peaceful then.
Amazingly, the 106 bus is busy so early on a Sunday morning. Smartly dressed folks on their way to church perhaps? Unusually now for London, the bus doesn’t talk. We scuttle off at Stanford Hill (we think), not certain - on account of the silent bus - if this is the right stop.
It’s so peaceful to walk the suburban streets today. We have the city to ourselves, hardly anyone is about. The houses sit quietly, as though in contemplation of the coming day behind their cheerful front gardens.
The trees lining the pavements are frothed with the sensual softness of cherry blossom, a magnolia glossy and glorious hangs abundantly over one neat wall. The air perfumed with the blossom’s gentle sweetness, tangles with the dusty smell of car exhaust and morning coffee. I breathe deeply and walk on down Casanova Road.
Spring field Park, when we cross over its threshold is a green oasis of peace and quacking ducks. Daffodils dance in the spring wind, cigarette smoke sachets through the air behind a black clad Hasidic man out for a morning constitutional smoke. WE retreat to the café for a welcome cup of tea and a pee break.
Fred Estair sings effortlessly in the background as we sip our drinks, other patrons chat softly as my companion describes the view of the ducks from the big windows. But our walk has hardly started and it is time to move on.
The park slopes down to the canal. AS we walk along the paths, now gradually filling with children, dogs and their guardians, I hear a blackbird sing persistently in a tree over to our right. I stop to listen and feel my heart lift with the joy of living, just to hear his triumphant liquid call as it rises above the “poc-poc-poc” of wacked tennisballs and the shrieks of happy children..
Down the steps and through a gate we move, past the marina with it’s variety of colourful narrow-boats onto the Lee Navigation canal where we cross to walk on the east side. To our right, a range of down-at-heal balconyless flats line the waterway, to our left the wider green of the Walthamstow Marshes spreads out to the light industrial landscape to the north. Here, the canal flows smoothly on our right, a drainage ditch choked with thick green duckweed moves sluggishly to our left. Across the marshes, the greenness is darkened with a random scattering of boggy pools into which the occasional wetland bird swoops. Stark electrnicty pilons quarter the sky, and I imagine the dark shape of waterfowl siluetted against the pale sky as they roost, kings of all they survey.
The sun shines on. The wind brings us the canal in damp wafts, laced with diesel fumes. The tow path is occasionally peopled with walkers, alone or in small groups but on the whole it is quiet.
Into that quietness, the most extraordinary arpeggio of silver trilling parts the air. In a small thorn bush, a wren sits singing his heart out. We stop and I stand spellbound as the brave song makes my heart dance. My spirit bows to his spirit and we walk on obediently crossing over a bridge where the canal meets the River Lea.
I need another pee! My companion knows of a place a bit further on where I might dive unseen behind a bush. WE walk under the Lea bridge Road bridge and there is a pub – the Prince of Wales - , open and obliging on the toilet front. No need to bare my bottom to an unknown bush! Relieved and lightened, I follow my companion back over the canal to the eastern path again.
And now we make a detour to the former Middlesex Filter Beds to visit the ‘Ackney ‘enge. Islanded by the roaring River Lea and the more sedate Lee Navigation Canal, sits a peaceful and modest nature reserve. The filter beds are gone; in their place lie their abandoned outline. In the middle of this is a perfect circle of granite stones with a centrepiece of two angled carved stones. Lichen and the hard London rain have started to soften their edges; the structure of the filter bed has left intriguing perfectly carved holes and cuts where once pipes had channelled the water. I greet each stone with my inquisitive hands and rest a while on the centre stones and wonder it this has become someone’s makeshift alter. I imagine urban celebrants, hoodied and trainered, working the space and the spirits.
We walk on round the island. Hard by the rushing river, not three feet from the path sits a magnificent cormorant, his wings spread out in the sun, his white beak preening purposefully as he tidies himself up after a swim. I remember Kirin Island in the Enid Blyton Famous Five books and how very different this island is, yet we share the same birds! WE walk on, nodding pleasantly and quacking at the frolicking ducks by the eddying waters near the frothing weir. Finally we leave the island, turning back onto the Eastern canal path.
Just as the path gets rougher, a lone thorn tree stands already in flower, its leaves new and tender looking. Experimentally, I pop a leaf into my mouth and taste the familiar flavour of the bread and cheese tree. I pluck a soft blossom and chew that thoughtfully. The rosy almond taste explodes against my tongue and I breathe happily raising my face to the still beaming sun. Such a taste of spring fills my whole body even though I suspect I am eating from the blackthorn rather than the hawthorn tree. I wonder fleetingly if it is poisonous and then dismiss the thought.
We walk along the eastern canal path, with dozens of Hackney football piches stretching out to our left and the old Lesney matchbox toy factory over the canal on the right. My knee begins to grumble persistently. I limp on, smiling into the still shining sun. Now we walk by tall hoardings enclosing the Olympic site. Every so often their blank facades are punctuated by small windows through which the building works can be seen.
Under a road ridge and a little further on we come to the ramp leading away from the water. The streets are dirty and deserted. Empty light industrial buildings stare blankly back at us as we pick our way across scattered little tumbling in the breeze.
The North London Line takes us back to Highbury and Islington where we can catch a bus back to Finsbury Park. We sit on the crowded train eating apples and oatcakes, glad at last to rest, if only for a few minutes. The train is full; the streets across which it passes are busy with Hackney residents going about their Sunday afternoon business. My left knee is twanging unpleasantly and I rub it trying to soothe the pain. I resolve to buy cabbage on the way home to make a poultice to ease the inflammation.
Sunday March 29, 2009:
AS we march purposefully round the back of Stroud Green on our way to the bus station at Finsbury Park, the spring sun peaks over the rooftops and says “morning!” The streets are deserted, the clock change keeping walkers in their beds. So much the better for us. Our walk this day will be peaceful then.
Amazingly, the 106 bus is busy so early on a Sunday morning. Smartly dressed folks on their way to church perhaps? Unusually now for London, the bus doesn’t talk. We scuttle off at Stanford Hill (we think), not certain - on account of the silent bus - if this is the right stop.
It’s so peaceful to walk the suburban streets today. We have the city to ourselves, hardly anyone is about. The houses sit quietly, as though in contemplation of the coming day behind their cheerful front gardens.
The trees lining the pavements are frothed with the sensual softness of cherry blossom, a magnolia glossy and glorious hangs abundantly over one neat wall. The air perfumed with the blossom’s gentle sweetness, tangles with the dusty smell of car exhaust and morning coffee. I breathe deeply and walk on down Casanova Road.
Spring field Park, when we cross over its threshold is a green oasis of peace and quacking ducks. Daffodils dance in the spring wind, cigarette smoke sachets through the air behind a black clad Hasidic man out for a morning constitutional smoke. WE retreat to the café for a welcome cup of tea and a pee break.
Fred Estair sings effortlessly in the background as we sip our drinks, other patrons chat softly as my companion describes the view of the ducks from the big windows. But our walk has hardly started and it is time to move on.
The park slopes down to the canal. AS we walk along the paths, now gradually filling with children, dogs and their guardians, I hear a blackbird sing persistently in a tree over to our right. I stop to listen and feel my heart lift with the joy of living, just to hear his triumphant liquid call as it rises above the “poc-poc-poc” of wacked tennisballs and the shrieks of happy children..
Down the steps and through a gate we move, past the marina with it’s variety of colourful narrow-boats onto the Lee Navigation canal where we cross to walk on the east side. To our right, a range of down-at-heal balconyless flats line the waterway, to our left the wider green of the Walthamstow Marshes spreads out to the light industrial landscape to the north. Here, the canal flows smoothly on our right, a drainage ditch choked with thick green duckweed moves sluggishly to our left. Across the marshes, the greenness is darkened with a random scattering of boggy pools into which the occasional wetland bird swoops. Stark electrnicty pilons quarter the sky, and I imagine the dark shape of waterfowl siluetted against the pale sky as they roost, kings of all they survey.
The sun shines on. The wind brings us the canal in damp wafts, laced with diesel fumes. The tow path is occasionally peopled with walkers, alone or in small groups but on the whole it is quiet.
Into that quietness, the most extraordinary arpeggio of silver trilling parts the air. In a small thorn bush, a wren sits singing his heart out. We stop and I stand spellbound as the brave song makes my heart dance. My spirit bows to his spirit and we walk on obediently crossing over a bridge where the canal meets the River Lea.
I need another pee! My companion knows of a place a bit further on where I might dive unseen behind a bush. WE walk under the Lea bridge Road bridge and there is a pub – the Prince of Wales - , open and obliging on the toilet front. No need to bare my bottom to an unknown bush! Relieved and lightened, I follow my companion back over the canal to the eastern path again.
And now we make a detour to the former Middlesex Filter Beds to visit the ‘Ackney ‘enge. Islanded by the roaring River Lea and the more sedate Lee Navigation Canal, sits a peaceful and modest nature reserve. The filter beds are gone; in their place lie their abandoned outline. In the middle of this is a perfect circle of granite stones with a centrepiece of two angled carved stones. Lichen and the hard London rain have started to soften their edges; the structure of the filter bed has left intriguing perfectly carved holes and cuts where once pipes had channelled the water. I greet each stone with my inquisitive hands and rest a while on the centre stones and wonder it this has become someone’s makeshift alter. I imagine urban celebrants, hoodied and trainered, working the space and the spirits.
We walk on round the island. Hard by the rushing river, not three feet from the path sits a magnificent cormorant, his wings spread out in the sun, his white beak preening purposefully as he tidies himself up after a swim. I remember Kirin Island in the Enid Blyton Famous Five books and how very different this island is, yet we share the same birds! WE walk on, nodding pleasantly and quacking at the frolicking ducks by the eddying waters near the frothing weir. Finally we leave the island, turning back onto the Eastern canal path.
Just as the path gets rougher, a lone thorn tree stands already in flower, its leaves new and tender looking. Experimentally, I pop a leaf into my mouth and taste the familiar flavour of the bread and cheese tree. I pluck a soft blossom and chew that thoughtfully. The rosy almond taste explodes against my tongue and I breathe happily raising my face to the still beaming sun. Such a taste of spring fills my whole body even though I suspect I am eating from the blackthorn rather than the hawthorn tree. I wonder fleetingly if it is poisonous and then dismiss the thought.
We walk along the eastern canal path, with dozens of Hackney football piches stretching out to our left and the old Lesney matchbox toy factory over the canal on the right. My knee begins to grumble persistently. I limp on, smiling into the still shining sun. Now we walk by tall hoardings enclosing the Olympic site. Every so often their blank facades are punctuated by small windows through which the building works can be seen.
Under a road ridge and a little further on we come to the ramp leading away from the water. The streets are dirty and deserted. Empty light industrial buildings stare blankly back at us as we pick our way across scattered little tumbling in the breeze.
The North London Line takes us back to Highbury and Islington where we can catch a bus back to Finsbury Park. We sit on the crowded train eating apples and oatcakes, glad at last to rest, if only for a few minutes. The train is full; the streets across which it passes are busy with Hackney residents going about their Sunday afternoon business. My left knee is twanging unpleasantly and I rub it trying to soothe the pain. I resolve to buy cabbage on the way home to make a poultice to ease the inflammation.
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Finsbury Park to Stoke Newington
Saturday January 3, 2009:
It couldn’t have been a more perfect day to begin our project of walking the Capital Ring. A brilliant winter sun gleamed low from a clear winter blue sky. The frosty mud crackled beneath our boots, the air cold and fresh buffed our quickly warming cheeks. Bar the occasional panting jogger, not a soul was about.
We climbed the newly fixed stairs running between 97 and 99 Florence Road and which lead up to the Parkland walk, London’s longest nature reserve. Above the houses, we walk between bare graceful ashes and oaks, fringed by tangled thorn and brier on a rutted path in which muddy puddles have frozen.
We share Finsbury Park with the geese. Only their hooting and the rumble of the Cambridge train disturb the stillness of the winter morning. The roar of Green Lanes is a temporary assault upon our peace before receding as we turn into the New River walk.
Edging past a tree and skirting a tumble of discarded cans , we step carefully along the canal bank. Gazing at us incuriously sit three coots. Beyond them, the frozen canal has captured a football, ice-bound and still. The backs of dishevelled flats on our right and slightly down at heal industrial units on our left flank the ribbon of green, edging the half frozen sluggish canal. This is the New river, which once brought fresh drinking water to teeming London a hundred years ago.
Squeezing through a kissing gate, we dodge the insanity of seven sisters Road before finding our way back to the quiet canal. The traffic recedes behind the scruffy blocks of flats of the Woodbury Down estate and we walk on.
I talk of a meeting with a pair of swans and their signets last summer. They had sat by the footpath watching us. My companions that day had been nervous, remembering that a cross swan could break a man’s leg with one flap of their wing. I had sung to the swans as we approached them, a gentle song about the beauty of the silent swan. Calmed, my companions walked by, the swans watching our progress, still and unruffled.
And there on the canal bank are some swans. Surely these are the same? Six almost grown signets, still grey and fluffy and their dame, white and magnificent. And not far beyond them the other parent watches to see that his brood is safe. As we walk past, they honk and snort as though to say, “Oh look, another human on a morning walk – boring!”.
Across another road flanked by two more kissing gates, we move onto the path leading to the West reservoir. The Canal runs between us and it, and provides a barrier beyond which flocks of merrily quacking ducks loiter in untidy groups. Further away, three long legged white birds which are not herons and are unknown to my companion hang out like gossiping neighbours on a street corner. Out on the water, a white bird belts along like a speed-boat and beyond it, geese honk like poorly oiled metal gates.
The second reservoir is entirely another matter. It is neat and tidy. The bird life here is less in evidence. We move quickly now, for I have begun to regret the large cup of early morning tea and need fairly swiftly to find a toilet. Alas, the reservoir centre is closed, but relief is found in the Climbing Centre opposite, a former Victorian water tower built like a castle, complete with different shaped turrets and crenulations in the butch Scottish style.
A short walk down Green Lanes brings us to Clissold Park. There is a very fetching little cottage on the left just inside the gate. We wonder if it is a private residence or something to do with the park. We speculate on what it would be like to live in it and have the whole park as a back garden.
Soon we hear the distinctive sound of water going somewhere in a hurry. Could this be the new River with a new lease of life? We head towards a tumbling water feature and a frozen lake. Here, ducks skate happily on the ice then scoot into the churning water. A babble of honking, snorts, quacks and hoots competes with the white noise of the fountain.
We walk on, bent on finding a refreshing cuppa and maybe a nice cake too. Someone is standing on the grass nearby doing something energetically marshal arty. Deer lye down in a fenced off area, dogs and their owner’s dash about amongst toddling wayward children and their admonishing parents. The sun lures us to sit outside the café and bask whilst munching on home-made shortbread.
Time to move on. We pass someone else doing a noisier and jerky form of marshal art, watched by his cohorts. WE walk between two churches and out onto Stoke Newington Church Street. Turning left, we march up the obstacle strewn pavements, past posh cafes, book stores, a double-bass shop and someone setting out bric-a-brac on the pavement to sell.
To our left, the steps of Abney Park Cemetery lure us away from the bustle of a Stoke Newington Saturday into the peace and quiet of this nature reserve in the heart of the bustling city. Cracked and fallen headstones, ornate obelisks and tombs jumble together. Ivy rampages about in competition with the immovable carved Victorian wreaths.
On a breath of wind the pungence of wood smoke greets us. A log lies smoking and smouldering. Last year’s blackberries hang dried and unpicked, tangled with the dark hedges of the vigorous holly.
As though the greenery and the tombs willed it, the world beyond the walls of this place cannot be heard. Time moves on and so do we, moving out of the gates and back to the world.
Stoke Newington High Street is the end of this days walk. The 106 bus bears us back to Finsbury Park. Tired but exhilarated, I sink gladly into my chair beside the gas fire to snooze contentedly over the afternoon play.
Saturday January 3, 2009:
It couldn’t have been a more perfect day to begin our project of walking the Capital Ring. A brilliant winter sun gleamed low from a clear winter blue sky. The frosty mud crackled beneath our boots, the air cold and fresh buffed our quickly warming cheeks. Bar the occasional panting jogger, not a soul was about.
We climbed the newly fixed stairs running between 97 and 99 Florence Road and which lead up to the Parkland walk, London’s longest nature reserve. Above the houses, we walk between bare graceful ashes and oaks, fringed by tangled thorn and brier on a rutted path in which muddy puddles have frozen.
We share Finsbury Park with the geese. Only their hooting and the rumble of the Cambridge train disturb the stillness of the winter morning. The roar of Green Lanes is a temporary assault upon our peace before receding as we turn into the New River walk.
Edging past a tree and skirting a tumble of discarded cans , we step carefully along the canal bank. Gazing at us incuriously sit three coots. Beyond them, the frozen canal has captured a football, ice-bound and still. The backs of dishevelled flats on our right and slightly down at heal industrial units on our left flank the ribbon of green, edging the half frozen sluggish canal. This is the New river, which once brought fresh drinking water to teeming London a hundred years ago.
Squeezing through a kissing gate, we dodge the insanity of seven sisters Road before finding our way back to the quiet canal. The traffic recedes behind the scruffy blocks of flats of the Woodbury Down estate and we walk on.
I talk of a meeting with a pair of swans and their signets last summer. They had sat by the footpath watching us. My companions that day had been nervous, remembering that a cross swan could break a man’s leg with one flap of their wing. I had sung to the swans as we approached them, a gentle song about the beauty of the silent swan. Calmed, my companions walked by, the swans watching our progress, still and unruffled.
And there on the canal bank are some swans. Surely these are the same? Six almost grown signets, still grey and fluffy and their dame, white and magnificent. And not far beyond them the other parent watches to see that his brood is safe. As we walk past, they honk and snort as though to say, “Oh look, another human on a morning walk – boring!”.
Across another road flanked by two more kissing gates, we move onto the path leading to the West reservoir. The Canal runs between us and it, and provides a barrier beyond which flocks of merrily quacking ducks loiter in untidy groups. Further away, three long legged white birds which are not herons and are unknown to my companion hang out like gossiping neighbours on a street corner. Out on the water, a white bird belts along like a speed-boat and beyond it, geese honk like poorly oiled metal gates.
The second reservoir is entirely another matter. It is neat and tidy. The bird life here is less in evidence. We move quickly now, for I have begun to regret the large cup of early morning tea and need fairly swiftly to find a toilet. Alas, the reservoir centre is closed, but relief is found in the Climbing Centre opposite, a former Victorian water tower built like a castle, complete with different shaped turrets and crenulations in the butch Scottish style.
A short walk down Green Lanes brings us to Clissold Park. There is a very fetching little cottage on the left just inside the gate. We wonder if it is a private residence or something to do with the park. We speculate on what it would be like to live in it and have the whole park as a back garden.
Soon we hear the distinctive sound of water going somewhere in a hurry. Could this be the new River with a new lease of life? We head towards a tumbling water feature and a frozen lake. Here, ducks skate happily on the ice then scoot into the churning water. A babble of honking, snorts, quacks and hoots competes with the white noise of the fountain.
We walk on, bent on finding a refreshing cuppa and maybe a nice cake too. Someone is standing on the grass nearby doing something energetically marshal arty. Deer lye down in a fenced off area, dogs and their owner’s dash about amongst toddling wayward children and their admonishing parents. The sun lures us to sit outside the café and bask whilst munching on home-made shortbread.
Time to move on. We pass someone else doing a noisier and jerky form of marshal art, watched by his cohorts. WE walk between two churches and out onto Stoke Newington Church Street. Turning left, we march up the obstacle strewn pavements, past posh cafes, book stores, a double-bass shop and someone setting out bric-a-brac on the pavement to sell.
To our left, the steps of Abney Park Cemetery lure us away from the bustle of a Stoke Newington Saturday into the peace and quiet of this nature reserve in the heart of the bustling city. Cracked and fallen headstones, ornate obelisks and tombs jumble together. Ivy rampages about in competition with the immovable carved Victorian wreaths.
On a breath of wind the pungence of wood smoke greets us. A log lies smoking and smouldering. Last year’s blackberries hang dried and unpicked, tangled with the dark hedges of the vigorous holly.
As though the greenery and the tombs willed it, the world beyond the walls of this place cannot be heard. Time moves on and so do we, moving out of the gates and back to the world.
Stoke Newington High Street is the end of this days walk. The 106 bus bears us back to Finsbury Park. Tired but exhilarated, I sink gladly into my chair beside the gas fire to snooze contentedly over the afternoon play.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)