12 South Kenton to Brent Cross (West Hendon

Friday December 11, 2009:

It’s a foggy grey morning, but at least it is not raining. The weather forecaster says that the sun will come out at noon. Layered up against the nasty wind which persistently stirs the fog, we march from South Kenton station through somewhat disheveled streets of reasonably sized semis. The houses are not particularly objectionable but there is something a little neglected about the area.

Preston Park is another matter. Gently landscaped, the undulating ground dotted with clumps of mature trees is pleasant enough. Tits sing in the trees and other feathered souls batter the shrubs as they ascend into the cool cloudy sky.

We turn from the park past a primary school and some more houses. A calm wood pigeon is peacefully singing in one of the back gardens.

“Ah”, I sigh, pulling my companion to a halt so I can listen. The pigeon shuts up!

We turn into an unhappy looking high street. A halal butcher sits side by side with closed pizza restaurants, travel and estate agencies. The uncared for atmosphere of the neighboring streets is explained by the many advertisements offering houses to rent. Perhaps the residents are all passing through and not particularly interested in the surroundings.

It is just past nine o’clock and we are hungry. We search a little nervously for a café, fearing there isn’t going to be one. Coffee wafts towards us as a woman speeds across the road clutching a steaming polystyrene cup. My companion spies the plainly named “Coffee House” and we cross the road.

It’s a cheerful café and efficiently serves up perfectly delicious scrambled eggs on whole meal bread and really quite decent filter coffee. Best of all, it has a clean and handy toilet.

We turn away from the high street into a quiet residential road. Here the houses are detached with larger leafy gardens. Most front gardens have been concreted over to provide off street parking. The atmosphere is altogether much more prosperous.

Slipping between neat semi-detached dwellings, we move along a soft green alleyway and out into a small copse edged with the tube line. This is the beginning of Fryent Country Park. I breathe deeply and savor the soft mossy sweetly sour smell of rotting foliage and fungus that typifies a wood in winter. The ground is yielding and squidgy underfoot and we have to be careful, lest we slip. Falling here would cover us in oozing mud.
We pick our way gingerly across a sodden meadow. Everything is soaked. Its poured non-stop for days and the earth feels heavy with rain. In the distance, a woman surrounded by a whole pack of assorted dogs is briskly striding forth. Above us in the dull and misty grey sky, crows circle cawing to each other.

We ascend through a tangled Oakwood, their curled limbs, black against the grey sky. The earth beneath my feet shifts stickily. The sweetly gagging smell of fox rises up to dance with the moldy mushroom dampness and the more acid smell of bruised grass. Three fearcesome Alsatians, held in check by their three middle-aged minders are being taught their manners. They bark fiercely and I begin to sing quietly under my breath to calm me and them. They take no notice and bark some more. Under a hail of admonitions, their owners drag them off.

We subside onto a handy seat to rest a while. The smell of fox is stronger here. My companion spies a hole in the bank which might be something to do with the foxes.

The peace is shattered as a pack of assorted cheerful dogs appears, panting and scrabbling through the trees. The human in charge of them, calls them to heel and is ignored. The pack is a mixed bag of smart pedigree and mutts and is a complete United Nations of caninedom. They pass happily on and we climb to our feet and strike our way through the wood.

The path rises and we slither and slip. Still we move on, growing warm as the sun thinks about braking through the misty cloud above. We are climbing Barn Hill. Reaching its summit, we find a bulrush fringed pond gleaming muddy brown under the sky. The water is populated by mallards in their winter coats

Standing by the Trig point, my companion describes the roundness that is Wembly stadium. Above it, the arch, like a basket handle is half shrouded by cloud and gilded by the sun which is still obscured by said cloud. Beyond, the urban sprawl is grey.

Carefully, we step along the treacherously muddy path. In time, The Oakwood gives way to a meadow. Dicing with death, we reach the far side of the busy main road in one piece and strike out across more meadow. A young Asian woman in sunny yellow Chalwoir chemise stretches energetically as her companion in running shorts pounds across the meadow.

Our way is barred by a rain swollen water-hole spread across the path. We edge carefully past and on across the sticky mud-clogged grass.
A squat hawthorn bush, its twisting twigs covered in yellow-green lichen offers its velvety complexity to my curious fingers. I stroke its softness and breathe in the sweet mossy odour.

WE pass carefully through gaps in the hedges; placing each foot purposefully one in front of the other as the mud sucks greedily at our boots. The ground continues to rise as we climb of Gotfords Hill.

This round hill offers a panoramic view of London. In the south, the sun shine’s mistily behind the arches of Wembly Stadium. To the west rises St Mary’s spire from the wood encrusted harrow on the Hill. To the north a grey urban-scope is edged with the blue hills of Hertfordshire. To the east, London stretches out greyly towards Essex, far, far away.

Having climbed up, we now need to get down. Foot by foot we move, down amongst the Oakwood.

The clouds clear, the sun shines down. It is noon exactly! Birds chirrup cheerfully in greeting. I take off my hat and raise my face to the golden warmth.

We leave the country park, crossing a main road and skirting round the new St Andrew’s Church, only 150 +years old, we climb in and walk across the much older churchyard behind, with its tumbled-down graves and old sheltering yew tree. Exchanging greetings with an ancient dog and its heavily made up owner. We walk on. The fuchsia bushes are still in flower, and glow cheerfully in the sunshine. It is time for a much needed cupper tea and pee break and we head for the garden centre café, hard by the gaudy Christmas trees.

The “café” turns out to be a French bloke with a kettle and a few shelves of packaged snacks. In keeping with the season, I dig out from the depths of my rucksack, mince pies, clementines and chocolate money.

“Oh enough already!” I mutter as rested, hydrated and after a fashion fed, we hastily speed away from the hideous festival musak. “I’m going to kill Bing Crosby”, I growl, exiting the building hurriedly and coming a cropper on a modest curb.

“Bugger!” I snarl, getting awkwardly up. Every bobble of the concrete has etched itself onto my already tender knees. I take a swig of rescue remedy , an arnica tablet as I extricate myself from the helpful chap who seems bent on pulling my arm off as he assists me rather gracelessly to rise.

We march off down the road, past two alternately bum-sniffing and quarrelling dogs and enter Brent Reservoir Park.
Hardly a human is to be found. The water, silver in the sunshine is heavily populated with a cheerful abundance of water fowl. Canada geese vie with the mallards, a teenage swan, and his beauty not yet come, glides amongst the terns, their bottoms rather superciliously out of the water. The M1 roars ferociously in the distance. We stride on.


Urban traffic roars at us as we leave the peace of the waterside behind. We cross a busy road bridge spanning the howling M1 and the mainline railway. The houses here are reasonably sized semis. I hope they’ve got double-glazing to cut out the din of the motorway. At length, we turn off and passing rather neat little terraced cottages make our way towards Brent Cross shopping centre and our destination this day for this, our penultimate walk. We are only seven miles from home and a little retail therapy beckons!