10 Brentford to Greenford


Sunday October 18, 2009:

“We might as well get the getting lost bit over a done with first thing,” I think to myself as I lean casually up against the railing of a large flight of stairs. My companion has bounded off to ask some cyclists the way and we’ve not yet left Brentford station!

Our way discovered, I totter cheerfully after she who questions the confusing instructions of the Capital ring book and is often right. Well this is not quite the Inca trail (from where my companion has recently returned); but the walk between Brentford and Greenford is pleasantly undemanding. I’m glad because I’m still twisted (but not bitter) after a recent unfortunate encounter with a parked car. The resulting whiplash makes me feel a bit like a corkscrew. Whilst I generally find spirals uplifting, right now, I’d settle for a straight spine and appropriately attached limbs.

Soon I am regretting the pint of black coffee I quaffed at Vauxhall. Brentford is the kind of place that is shut at 9 am on a Sunday morning. Happily though, a kind buddleia bush provides a discreet screen behind which nature’s call can be privately answered. And thus relieved we bend our steps to the noisy Great Western Road hard by and the canal...

“It’s a bit nippy”, I say, pulling on my hat and gloves. The canal is quiet. Only the coots seem to be alive on this not yet sunny but rather cool morning. Dodging the bicyclists (both rude and polite), we walk along past the Glaxo building with its brightly coloured sculpture and curious eco waterfall. The buildings soon give way to a small park with mature trees, golden and russet, mirrored in the still clear water below.

The Great Western road roars away behind us and the coots call cheerfully to each other. A pair of swans breakfast contentedly side by side; dipping their heads into the water. A narrow boat and a cruiser bob up and down silent and deserted.

We cross the canal, via a humped back bridge and walk under mature trees. Robins and wrens chatter away above our heads. Coots splash noisily in the shallow water. I am caused to regret again the coffee and we climb over a rickety style into some handy bushes to seek further relief.


Soon, the bushes are replaced by the lightly wooded beginnings of Brent river Park. It is really very pleasant, with the trees leaning down to stroke our hair gently as we pass. Now, the voice of the water begins to call us to the weir, a zig-zagof white water splashing amongst scrubby bushes and small trees. The canal side opens up. On our left, behind the water lie shrubby wetlands and on our right, the neatness of playing fields. At last, the sun struggles through the cloud and begins to warm our faces. I peel off my top layer of clothing.

The way now runs through a sweet little coppice boarding the River Brent, an inky black softly moving ribbon of water running through a tunnel of overhanging trees. We cross and pass through a wide meadow running beside the serene river.

Momentarily, we stand on a bridge spanning the clear silver water and the softly frothing weir just downstream. We could be in the middle of the country, so still is it.

Above our heads, one of many great arches stretches up to meet the sky. On either side of it, the viaduct marches steadily across the peaceful field. Every few minutes, the stillness is punctuated by the rumbling and hooting of intercity trains. The intrusion is not unpleasant.

It’s time for a snack. We detour slightly and walk across the springy grass of Brent Lodge Park in search of a comfortable bench. The sun warms us as we sit contentedly chewing on oatcakes, dried figs and yummy fruit and seed bars. A cup of tea would be nice I think as I sit back and allow the sun to warm me.

Refreshed, we stride purposefully across the park in search of more toilets and a cup of tea! To our delight, here, in the middle of the park, we encounter a yew maze. The Millennium Maze has grown well in the nine years since its planting. Shoulder high, it offers many mysterious ways to wander under the clearing sky.

We enter and follow the turns and twists of a traditional labyrinth. Small children hurtle excitedly about us, swiveling and skidding their way along, importuning their parents to “no, comes this way” as they hurtle round and round. How lovely it would be to walk this maze, alone and under a spring moon, I think as we follow its meanderings. Emerging at last, we make for the smelly toilets and a pleasant cup of tea before moving on across the park and back to our river walk.

Our path now takes us through a lightly wooded area and across a golf course. The trees are red, gold and green and shake in the slight breeze. I pick up a sprig of green and red willow and tuck it behind my left ear.

As we cross the river again and walk through brambles. All is quiet; only a motorbike drives slowly back and forth along the reclaimed rubbish heap, which is now a tussocky meadow. The river bubbles and gurgles, gulls ”nyic-nyic-nyic” to each other as they circle above the flowing waters.
In time, we leave the peace of the river park behind. Jarringly, the roar of the Ruyslip East road assaults our senses as we emerge into the noise and bustle of frenzied suburbia. . I stand above the river and strain to hear its flow beyond the howling traffic behind me.

Dicing with death, we cross the road and walk past art deco suburban houses, heading for Perivale Park. More of a meadow than a formal garden, the park only offers a slightly uncomfortable fence upon which to sit. Unused as I am to sitting on fences, I soon find it expedient to make ready to move on. We cross a babbling brook and enter Perivale Golf Course where we find a comfortable but low bench donated by the Bahai community of Ealing, bless them. I am essentially rather grateful for the resting place until I try to get up from its lowness, which offers a bit of a challenge to my arthritic knees.

But we still have some way to go before journey’s end this afternoon. We walk on, passing tennis courts and a bolwling green and other sundry sporting facilities. Our peace is once again shattered as we cross the thundering M4, via a high concrete bridge. Gratefully we turn into a quiet alleyway, edge a playing field populated with medium sized boys energetically engaged in Sunday afternoon football, and emerge into a quiet suburban street, to sink down onto a comfortable brick wall to rest a while.

Whilst my companion enjoys the canine Sunday strollers suffering the escort of their human companions, I think about the quiet river. London is criss-crossed with moving water, snaking its way amongst the houses, a cross the city meadows, flowing from springs in the hills, running down to the great river at its heart. The meandering waters are intersected by purposeful straight canals, our watery motorways from the north and the west. Below ground, hidden streams move determinedly through the clay. The water is embraced by the curving land and the trees, old and new edging the houses that sprawl out in all directions.

Not far now till our journey’s end. We walk past a row of varied semi detached houses. The Greenford Road is choked with purposeful Sunday traffic. We pass a parade of shops and turn into an industrial estate. A group of Asian children in their diwali best clutch balloons as they wait for a bus. We bend our steps to the railway Tavern and a well-deserved cupper before climbing aboard the Central Line train back east.