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.