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.