9 Richmond to Brentford

Monday August 31, 2009:

“Last time I came here, I got horribly lost” says my companion anxiously, leading the way into the quiet park. It is still relatively early for a bank holiday. There aren’t a lot of people about, although the parakeets are vocal and abundant in the horse chestnut trees. Richmond Park appears to be above signs and it is but a matter of steps before we are confused and, yes – lost!

Instead of striking out on a path across a meadow, as the book describes, we are walking parallel to a road. My companion is convinced that we are going the wrong way. Helpfully, I suggest we take the other path. Soon we are alone amongst the bracken.

My companion’s silence brings me to awareness that my Pollyannaish optimistic utterances about not minding being lost and enjoying the walk are not helping matters. She likes to know where she is going. At this moment in time, I’m prepared to go with the flow. Momentarily wishing I could take that attitude in all aspects of my life, wisely I shut up and wait for the situation to resolve itself.

We walk along the soft path between the tall bracken under a part cloudy sky, our hair and faces Brushed gently by a soft wind, I feel it is a good day for a walk, but I don’t say so right now.

The path begins to climb gently. We are passing a small wood, but don’t think it is Spanking Hill Wood. In the distance, a group of figures stop to look at a map. My companion scampers off to ask for directions.

She returns to retrieve me and we exchange pleasantries with them about the day and enquire why they are wearing full hiking gear plus loaded rucksacks on a walk in a London park. It turns out that they are training to climb Cuillin Ridge on Skye! They have a map which my companion consults. We have been walking in exactly the opposite direction to where we want to go! We turn and cut obliquely across the park on yet another track, now heading in the right direction.

Anxiety assails my companion once more. The interrogation of a family out on a pre perandial promenade on the whereabouts of Pen Ponds leads us through more horse chestnuts and then oaks. Water is at last spotted and relief overcomes her.

We trail after a family of small boys, bent on finding the Beverley Brooke (which in turn leads to said ponds). We finally sink gratefully down onto a damp bench to rest.

A pair of coots is hunting for lunch, bottoms up in the water. Canada geese march boldly up to us, importuning for food. A cavalcade of small children on mainly white ponies pass, their middle class bottoms bouncing up and down as they trot by.

From the relative comfort of our bench and the security of knowing where we are right now, we analyze why we got lost. “I think we suffer from “Are we nearly there syndrome”, I say sagely as we get up to go.

Richmond residents and their offspring plus dogs are at play in the park. Flocks of geese assail bread toting brats, other waterfowl frollick with the children on a small beach upon which gentle white topped waves dance.

Just beyond the path we need to take, my companion spies a squat hollow oak. I rush to explore and pay homage to its sturdiness. I reach inquisitive fingers into its hollow inside and wish I was small enough to squeeze in. Reluctantly, I turn away and walk on.

We walk through a well-maintained Oakwood. In the distance, someone is saluting the spirit of blackberry, hands raised above head, standing on tiptoes to reach the juiciest and fattest specimens she can. Her mouth and fingers are smeared with the tell tale dark red juice of the inveterate blackberrier. We exchange pleasantries about the day, the park and blackberries, discuss the glories of the Capital ring and then part, only to pause a little further on and honor the blackberry by consuming some ourselves.

Emerging from the woods, we walk on. Crossing a very busy road, we are growled at by inconsiderate cyclists demanding that we “get off the road!” Too late, I think of a pithy rejoinder

The path we walk is lightly wooded and leads to the top of the ridge overlooking the Surrey and Berkshire hills beyond the green, mildly populated near vista. To one side stands a screeching metal gate which takes us along a path past little white cottages to a terraced café where we eat less than perfect cheese rolls and rather delicious Victoria sponge cake.

Replete and rested, we leave the semi-gentility of the café and walk through the formal gardens to the edge of the ridge. WE gingerly negotiate the steep escarpment, my knees only mildly protesting.

A small girl in yellow party frock, red cape and pink crocks squeals exuberantly as she roles headlong down the hill. Shortly after, she pelts back up again chased by her more soberly dressed big sister. Families picnic neatly around spread table cloths and generous cool-boxes and hampers. Dogs rush about amongst the tumbling children. Posh West London is en fete, champagne glasses in hand.

Leaving the park, we negotiate another main road. We walk between the church and a pub, dodging a number of slowly moving cars who ought not to be there.

Still in one piece, we finally find our way onto Petersham Meadow (as painted by Turner). This is a flat grassy field boarded by the river on one side and the road on the other. The tarmac pathos straight. We march along amongst other Bank Holiday walkers down to the river’s edge beyond a gate.

The river bank is teeming. Rowers are out on the river, energetically splashing downstream. More picnickers sit in tents pitched on the grass. We caper nautically past a busker playing cheerful hornpipes. Not for the first time this day, we take the wrong way and end up on the West side of the river at Twickenham, sooner than we had anticipated. It doesn’t matter though as we had to cross at some point. We sink down onto a handy bench and contemplate the low flying aircraft.

This side of the river is entirely different. There are a lot of water fowl at the river’s edge, including some rather magnificent swans. Quiet pedestrians pass and after resting, we get up and move on too.

Momentarily diverted from the river, we skirt the high walls of a college beforefinding our way back. The river terrace of the Town Wall pub provides a peaceful place in which to rest and admire the isleworth Ait, a long thin, thickly wooded and uninhabited island in the middle of the river that is now a wildlife sanctuary. My companion spies two herons at the water’s edge. Meanwhile Canada geese paddle happily in the mud.

The Duke of Northumberland’s river, tumbles noislily into the Thames below. , For the second time this afternoon, we are diverted from the river bank. Isleworth village is quiet. Houses hug the road’s edge. The sun is slanting low across the street as we turn towards the entrance of Syon Park.

We walk alongside a high brick wall. Meadows spread beyond a fence on the other side of the road. Sun worshippers lie spread out on the grass beside the path. We walk on and out into a busy road.

As is by now traditional, once more we lose our way . This time, it is in the confusing junction of locks that is the meeting of the Grand union Canal with the river. But it doesn’t matter. We walk through an attractive canal side new build onto a boring high street, then up a nondescript main road to Brentford Station and our journey’s end this day.