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.