13 Brent Cross to Finsbury Park

Saturday January 2, 2010:


“It’s another lovely day for a walk”, enthuses my companion as we strike out along a glittering pavement, heading for the bus stop. The adverse weather and my companion’s recent bout of illness have prevented us finishing this project at Solstice.

The country is gripped by the icy claws of winter as she used to be. It’s not only snowed but the snow has hung around for days, stubbornly refusing to melt as the temperature doesn’t rise much above freezing. Thin sheets of black ice invisibly glaze the most innocent-looking of pavements. I skitter helplessly on it, comically (well for the watchers anyway) landing on my overlarge bottom on more than one occasion. I retire indoors muttering and growling and prod my gas fire into reluctant heat, determined to hide till spring.

Today, the hard surfaces are frosted with a sparkling rind of frost. On the whole, the pavements are safe, although there are sometimes still hidden pockets of lethal, invisible ice waiting to upend the unsuspecting and more unstable of pedestrians.

As is by now traditional, a certain amount of confusion ensues at the commencement of our journey. Today our attempts to get out of the rear of Brent Cross shopping centre are temporarily impaired by centre employee’s inability to tell north from south! En fin, we find ourselves out in the crisp morning air. Wrestling a sudden urge to go shopping, on discovering that John Lewis has a clearance sale. Iron-willed, we march purposefully up to Park Road, turn right and head towards the A41.

My companion is just commenting upon the dullness of the street when my ear catches what I am sure is a blackbird, belting out a cheerful song. I strain to listen to the spaces between the happy chirruping of the robins and tits in the hope of catching it again. But surely it is too early, I think as we cross the A41 via a rather unattractive subway.

Here in another network of dull suburban streets clearly the car is king. The ugly detached houses have all paved their front gardens over to provide off-street parking. Still, the garden birds valiantly sing away out back, glad, like us that the sun is shining.

Climbing over a footbridge across the tube line we enter Hendon Park, a modest affair of grass and pleasant trees, edged by more of the unexciting semis. Squirrels and pigeons rollick unmolested for the park is empty.

Some streets further on, we come across the busy River Brent charging purposefully under a bridge. Two semi dilapidated brick gazebos flank the rushing waters, the purpose of which is not clear to us. Hard-by, the A406 North Circular Road roars.

For an ear-shattering and lung-clogging ten minutes, we walk beside what is officially the noisiest road in Britain, before carefully stepping down a steep rutted incline and entering the relative haven of Decoy Woods. Here, in times gone by, a series of ponds lured unsuspecting ducks to their fate which brought them to the plates of hungry locals, hence the name.

The river hurtles on. Bare trees shake in the wind. TheMoorehens stand uncertainly upon the frozen surfaces of the ponds. The sour tang of stagnant water, duckweed and waterlogged clay pervades the air. We sink gratefully upon a bench to eat a snack and commune with a curious robin who has come to stare at us.

We walk amongst the ponds and greet the variously chattering, splashing and stalking wild fowl. A passing dog-walker enthuses briefly with us about the variety and happiness of said waterfowl.

Crossing another road, we say goodbye to the River Brent for the last time. We turn to walk beside the Mutton brook which will take us through to Hamstead Garden Suburb.

. At this stage of its progress, babbling, this brook is not. Confined by a concrete culvert and guarded by a high fence, the brook seeps slothfully on. It and we enter the subway taking us under the A406.

Here, an invisible bit of ice upends me. My feet slip from under me, I sit down suddenly and my companion lands on top of me. I am sure I feel a twang as my left knee hyper-extends. But I am determined to reach home before sunset this day, so I rise, muttering darkly under my breath, and we walk on.

The Mutton oozes on through a long narrow park bisected by the busy Finchly Road. The path is treacherously ice-glazed. We crunch carefully along on the grass, stepping cautiously lest we end up on the ground again.

Now the Mutton Brook has lost its concrete jacket and is edged by humble earth banks. It appears to be flowing better neigh almost babbling. It is not so sluggish and there are no longer ominous notices about polluted water. Leaving the Park, we skirt a housing estate and find a bench near the brook. The sun beams down upon us as we rest momentarily.

We cross another main road and enter the edges of Hamstead Garden Suburbs. Here, the houses are much more to my companions Taste. Happily, she describes their features to me as we walk. Soon, we turn into a rather pleasant park called Northway Gardens. Here, elegant birch trees stretch their slim limbs to the sky and sunny tennis courts ring with the phut of ball on racket. Most enviously the gardens of the surrounding houses all have gates leading directly into the park. I briefly fantasize about the delights of private access to such a space. .

In Northway Park, the Mutton Brook babbles its way between neat brick walls. My companion however has conceived an irrational dislike for this humble waterway and even the willows lining its progress do not as wage her feelings of loathing.

I’m more than in need of refreshment now. It is with delight that we turn from the park and find the neat looking if misspelled Toulous Café waiting to offer us sustenance. We make short work of cheese omelet’s and coffee and, sated and refreshed, rise to continue our journey.

The Mutton Brook and we part company as we turn into another neat little park. This is part of what used to be The Bishop of London’s hunting grounds. The silver birches dot the neat grass; posh voiced brats skid about on the ice noisily. There are more tennis courts and some of the surrounding houses again have direct access to the park.

Hamstead Garden suburb is quiet and neat. The houses are individual, yet share enough common components to make them fit in with each other. Mature silver birches edge the pavements. We stop to rest under a bare leaved weeping willow which stands with its companion on a neat little piece of green between the houses. There is an energy of gentle courtesy about this little green and, although there is nowhere to sit, I feel rested as I lean against the willow’s trunk.

We walk on. In time, we leave the suburb and walk through East Finchly tube station. Crossing the busy A1, we are soon surrounded by the sturdy tranquility that old oaks bring. The mature oaks in Cherry Tree Park are part of what is left of the ancient Forest of Middlesex. I sink gratefully onto a handy park seat and am glad that I am wearing several layers on my bottom as the metal of the bench is very cold.

The sun is still warm, although the breeze has got up somewhat. Beyond the park, a northern line train chugs its way towards Highgate as crow’s wheel and caw in the still clear blue sky. It is a truly glorious day!

Reluctantly, I get to my feet. My knee is getting really quite sore. The thought of a cupper and a piece of lemon polenta cake however, spurs me on. We leave the park and walk down a street of extremely desirable houses before staggering up a steep concrete incline and into Highgate Woods.

The woods are busy. Dogs gamble about ignoring their owners. After several false moves, we turn down a path and head for Tina’s bench. Here, in a pool of sunlight, we sit and rest. The early afternoon winter sun is gentle, the trees around us benevolent. I think of Tina and am glad that we have this bench upon which to sit and remember and appreciate her, the trees and the beauty of the natural world.

But that cup of tea is calling me. I get up and slowly walk to Tina’s tree. The great beech stands solidly amongst the tangle of the wood. I walk clockwise around her, taking care to always keep contact with her trunk and then bow low in appreciation.

“This is the proper way to greet a tree”, I inform my companion, not for the first time during our year of walking. Turning away, we walk through the woods and make for the café.

Blessed with good circulation, I am warm and want to sit outside. We find a bench in the sun next to a planter full of aromatic herbs. We feast on tea and lemon polenta cake and remember that we were doing precisely this when we hatched the plan to walk the Capital ring more than a year ago.

But if we’re going to get home before dark, it is time to leave now. We walk down into Queen’s Wood. Passing a number of secret groves in which I gather with others to mark the festivals of the year, we step carefully upon the steep paths, mindful of hidden ice pockets. The sweet smoky tang of the undergrowth merges with the more bitter moldy smell of decomposition to make that beautiful aroma that is the wood in winter. I breathe in deeply and, for a moment I forget that my knee is now killing me and that these woods are notoriously hilly.

We walk slowly on. Finally we leave the trees and emerge onto a series of suburban streets with neat terraced houses. How lovely it would be to live next to the wood, I think as I trudge on.


I am breathless with pain as we slowly ascend the rough track into the Parkland Walk. I wonder if I’m going to make it home, so sore has my knee become. But there is less than 2 miles to go and surely I can do it before dark and in one piece? We walk on.

Step by step I move, growing ever slower, every change in surface brings a jagged pain through my knee. The sun sinks low behind the houses. Cheerful walkers pass us, many with dogs. My companion expresses puzzlement at the odd attire of the joggers in their baggy shorts akin almost to divided skirts, worn over leggings and topped with a vest!

The last mile home is the hardest. The path is muddy but even. It is slippery mainly due to it being wet. The houses have moved from being on our level to being above us and then below us as we near our destination. At one point, I slip and fall whilst edging our way up a bank. I don’t know that I can go on, so painful has my knee become. But my companion, calm and practical urges me on and I stumble forward doggedly.


I describe the gap in the roofs that my companion needs to look out for. There it is in front of us. The steps down are inviting. The sturdy metal handrail freezing to touch, but a great aid to my descent. The space between the houses is aglow with the warm gold of the setting sun. I feel it warm me as I arrive at the bottom of the stairs and emerge out into the peace of Florence road. .
Only a hundred yards to go. We walk on, and now we are here, fumbling with our muddy boots, kicking them into a pile in the bathroom where their muddiness won’t matter.

I lie back in the armchair, my feet on the poof and sip champagne. My companion subsides into the warmth of the sheepskin covered sofa and puts her nose into her glass and inhales luxuriously.

We’re drinking English champagne. It’s fresh, apple-flavoured and sweet.

“75 miles …” says my companion from inside her glass.

“75 miles and more, what with all that getting lost.” I say, taking a great big swig and holding the bubbly liquid in my mouth, I swallow and sigh.

WE fall to discussing our next venture. I want to connect the green spaces of London together, to necklace them if you will, like a string of green beads, like precious emeralds. I have a plan in my head which requires a bit of research. Soon there will be another opportunity to pay homage to the city of my birth and domicile. Once more I will honour our green city spaces, because they are special, vital and life giving. But more of that another day, for I have champagne to drink!