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.