This journey taken on Saturday November 28, seemed not to have been posted, although I know I did it! Hmmm. So this comes before 12 …. Are you all following???

Grumpy and confused Rock Dove!


11 Greenford to South Kenton

Saturday November 28, 2009:
“Yum” I drool, popping a piece of toast with some delicious scrambled eggs balanced carefully on top of it into my mouth. “This is the way to start a walk!” I declare taking a deep draft of black Earl Gray tea, which has just reached the perfect temperature for quaffing.

It is still early, but the café opposite Greenford station is busy. We eat breakfast and enjoy the snug warmth. But there is a walk to do and it’s time we set off.

We cancelled our last walk just over two weeks ago, on account of a dire weather forecast which offered blustery torrential rain. But today, the skies are clear and a soft winter sun shines down on us. Still it’s darn nippy and I am glad to be wearing my hat, scarf, gloves and heavy duffle coat

We walk along the Greenford road and then slip through a tunnel into an oasis of peace. A mini wetland nature reserve with reeds, fine trees and chirruping birds offers surprising tranquility, even though the main road can be heard roaring behind us.

Standing on a mini viewing platform in the sunshine, I breathe the pond damp air. My companion excitedly admires the grey and white terns as they wheel above us. Landing with delicacy onto the surface of the pond, they hold their tails carefully free from the water in a neat if fastidious way.

The sun gilds a birch trees yellow leaves bright against the silver bark. A great oak tree with all its leaves still on, shakes its full head in the wind. We walk on down to the side of the Grand Union Canal.

The canal is flanked by shrubs, amongst which coots and moorhens waddle, splashing swiftly into the water as we approach. Terns skid on the surface, bottoms up. All scatter before the approach of the narrow boat Tolerance, festooned with cheerfully waving, well wrapped up passengers.

The canal speeds by busily, its black water glossy under the blue sky. A smart houseboat, the Oden, complete with an appropriate black cat loitering nearby bobs peacefully on the water. A polite cyclist greets us as he passes.

We climb steps and take the bridge over the canal to our first opportunity to get lost, on the slopes of Horsenden Hill.

The ground squelches thickly under foot. We wind our way through a small copse out onto Dyers Green, a meadow which is home to a rare plant used to make yellow dye.

Several ways offer themselves to us but there is no clue as to which is the right one. We take the left path and descend into another copse, the way lined with blackberry bushes, heavy with late unripe red fruits.

Now we’re on a tarmac path and the road sounds awfully close. My companion is confused but there are no signs. Optimistically we turn up a cobbled path and then climb steps which bring us onto the summit of Horsenden Hill.

“It’s not as steep as I remembered” observes my companion, scowling at the Capital ring book. Glad to have made it up the hill without too much trouble, I stand and raise my face to the sun, its warmth tempered by the blustery wind blowing vigoursly now.


My companion describes the rolling hills of three counties. I imagine the horizon, blue and mysterious which I always thought was the sea, when I was a very partially sighted child. London lies fuzzily below us, framed by trees.
“Where are the Wembly Arches?” asks my companion for the third time. We sit down with our back to the wind and feast on fruit bars and clementines. Still the wind brings the sweet tangy smell of the fruit to our noses. It dances with the damp smell of the grass. I breathe it in and think suddenly of Christmas.

The hill top is flat. There is an ordinance survey trig point which we touch (to prove we were here). We walk through an oak wood. The branches curve and tangle, darkly superimposed upon the pale blue sky. The ground is soft underfoot.

Out of the woods, we walk along beside a playing field. Beyond a rundown row of shops, Ugly houses line the street. There is another countratant between the book and the signs and, after a slight purposeless detour, we turn and follow a striding walker and her Capital ring book through streets of indifferent houses. . Nodding to a magnificent oak tree on a strip of green, we turn down more streets past several profusions of flowering fuchsias’, it being that time of year apparently. Arriving at last at Sudbury Hill, we repair for lunch to the Metro Juice Bar.
Full of falafel wrap, we walk up Sudbury Hill High Street. Several pizza joints are interspersed with healthy looking fruit and vet shops. There’s a Boots and a hardware store and several Indian restaurants.

We turn off and ascend a hill, lined with oak trees growing in a narrow finger of uncultivated land. I’m beginning to puff, but not badly. Now suburbia smiles smugly at us as we toil up a street lined with very posh large houses, not all divided into flats. One or two are prosperous and solid behind their high walls and tall trees.

We sink down to rest upon a bench in the middle of Harrow village green. It is just past two and we’ve made good time. My companion describes the circle of smart cafes, restaurants and shops which make up the village. Then she spies the lighting shop and is diverted to pres her nose up against the window and admire the chandeliers.

The road slopes steeply down through Harrow School buildings, smart and magnificent, neat and prosperous. Behind a wall, a boy plays noisily with a football. The smell of fresh coffee sachets tantalizingly down the street. A car edges it way slowly past us.

We turn onto the path across the school playing fields. Boys of various ages are gathered on pitches tossing the ball to each other. Three long legged girls stride briskly past, deep in conversation. Various adults with sleek dogs wander by.

Suddenly I am halted in my tracks by the piercingly sweet sound of bagpipes. We turn and my companion peers over a hedge. A boy stands in the middle of the field. Players lock arms and bend their heads in the pre match scrum. A whistle blows, they break apart, the pipes stop and a ball thuds.

Leaving the grounds, we cross a busy road and turn into ducker’s path, another narrow finger of trees and scrub. I am tired and plonk myself down on a handy tree stump for a quick rest.

Now our way lies along a muddy narrow path between Northwick Park Hospital and a golf course. We are imprisoned by the scrub and a fifty foot net. Grumbling, we stump along sulkily for ages. We both agree that this is not a nice path.

But it ends at last. My companion spies a deserted swing park. Immediately, I am eight again and want to play. Oh and I’ve not lost the knack. I swing as high as I dare considering that the seat is very low. My legs hurt but it feels good to be arching through the air, the wind rushing against my cheeks. “Weee” I call infantilely, a broad smile splitting my face.

We are neared our journeys end. We tear ourselves away from the park and walk on. A canoodling couple clinches desperately; an annoying brat repeatedly sounds the horn of a car he has got access to. . Playing fields lie deserted. Only a group of smoking teenagers stand at the park gate deep in conversation about who is dating who. Fast trains roar along the railway line. And here now is South Kenton and our journey’s end.