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.
Monday, 13 April 2009
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.
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