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.

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!

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.

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.

8 Balham to Richmond

Friday August 7, 2009:

“the weatherman says the sun will shine at 4 pm this afternoon” opines my companion as we set off the wrong way down Balaam High Road under a low sky. It is still quite early and we are both in need of some caffeine before we begin our eighth leg of the Big London Hug. Coffee drunk and our mistake realised, we retrace our steps and cross to enter Wandsworth Common via Balham Park road.

“I didn’t realise how close Wandsworth Common is to Balham”, I say as we stride along a tarmac path. I am already remembering a number of somewhat muddy and damp adventures which took place on this very common when I was a pre teen. We swerve from the path to avoid the sparks of an oxyacetylene torch. The path leads through the railway station and across two busy roads to the part of the common that was the scene of the aforementioned episodes.

I’ve always liked Wandsworth Common. It is edged with excellent climbing trees and it’s various ponds are easily accessible to anyone who wants to explore them. No Nanny-State railings here. We pass a large tree with a parent admiring his harvest of small children.

The pond is long. Water-fowl of various kinds waddle about in its shallows. We climb onto the boardwalk where my companion is immediately captivated by the sight of a golden eye duck and her three fluffy ducklings. The duck is rather unsuccessfully trying to round up her offspring who are inquisitively exploring every exciting tuft of grass and leafy overhang.

We settle ourselves down on a bench on the edge of a shingly beach to rest. Our peace is disturbed momentarily by the regular clatter of the London to Brighton Line, running parallel to this part of the common. It is further intruded upon by a riot of splashing, barking, quacking and hooting generated by the appearance of a badly controlled and disobedient Rhodesian Ridge-Back pup intent on a morning dip amongst the geese. Finally rounded up by its apologetic owner, the dripping dog is dragged protestingly away.

It feels like Autumn. The earth is sodden, the air smells damp, the leaves could turn at any moment. Last night’s torrential rain has left the city smeared with mud. The alders around the pond are loving it!

The traffic is a mere hum in the distance. When there are no trains, the common is surprisingly peaceful. I sit quietly and silently reminisce.

I feel again the embrace of the comforting trees, the expectation at the end of a nail and string fishing line, the coldness of the water as I fall in yet again. I sniff the air and catch that dank pondy smell and I am eight years old again, peering short-sightedly through the water at a half glimpsed wriggling tadpole escaping my pursuing jam jar as I lean dangerously across the pond. I see again the light on the grainy grey water, the reflection of the grey sky above, that slightly oily iridescence that is pond water everywhere and the undulating pond bottom, like a landscape painted in green sepia.

On the other side of the common, we cross another road and play our game of “houses I would like to live in”. the object of our admiration today is a rather pleasant row of cottages overlooking the common which are probably worth an arm and a leg these days. We turn and skirt the forbidding wall of Wandsworth Prison, past some more modern houses, down another road or two and cross into Wandsworth Cemetery.

Burial fashions change and it is possible to chart the ages simply by the style of the graves. Newly dug plots near the entrance are gaudy with plastic flowers, older ones are neatly planted with shrubs and others, housing perhaps forgotten friends are tatty and unkempt. A neat enclosure houses the memorial to Australian soldiers fallen in the first war.

The Wimbledon line trains rumble past, a strimmer whines. Beyond the high walls, the traffic snarls. We are near my father’s family home. Fleetingly I wonder if any of his relatives are buried here. Momentarily I wish I’d enquired of my mother before coming here and then let the thought go.

Emerging from the cemetery, we cross Garret Lane, go under the bridge by Earls field station and turn down a side street. Our path takes us across the river Wandle as it snakes its way to the Thames. I remember how, as a twelve year old, I would stop to watch the foaming river as it rushed under the Garrett Lane bridge further up, on my way to the King George’s outdoor Swimming pool. A keen swimmer, I loved nothing better than to take advantage of my school’s class-free Friday afternoons to enjoy the peace and solitude of the empty pool.
With grace and ease I would cleave the water, efficient and determined. Flicking my feet as I turned, I revelled in my power in the water, satisfied at least that in this, for once I excelled.

WE walk on through the streets and turn into the rather plain and almost deserted Dernsford Recreation Ground. A father swishes by with his empty double Decker buggy. I fall to musing about whether he has mislaid the babies and hasn’t noticed or is taking the buggy to Sainsbury’s to get the shopping. It feels like rain but the poplar tree under which we sit provides an effective shelter. The Wimbledon train rattles along and a Labrador pup with very big feet hurtles up to us, barks joyfully and turns tail and pelts back to his owner.

This may be a plain park, but it’s darn confusing getting out of it again. Finally, we make it and find our way to the suburbanly not so exclusive Café Du Parc, for a spot of lunch.

Befitting its environs, a quiet little row of shops, the Café Du Parc is not so much a greasy spoon, more a sandwich shop with pretensions, but without a toilet. Modestly consuming a more refined omelette with salad, we bend our steps towards Wimbledon Park.
Designed by Capability Brown, Wimbledon Park makes a feature of the hill upon which it is set. We climb down wide steps and walk past tennis courts and a playground. The toilets are serviceable enough but the children also using them are remarkably revolting. My mind turns to what use the nearby lake could be put and I almost pity the adults attempting to supervise them. The lake when approached is found to be full of organised groups of crash-helmeted children energetically learning to boat.

“’Ealth an’ safety gorn mad” my companion mutters mockingly, suddenly overcome by a Daily Mail moment. I feel compelled to defend the caution of the boating school, but soon drop it as there are always much more interesting things to talk about. We skirt the athletics ground and emerge onto the relative peace of Wimbledon Park road and our first really decent hill of the walk today.

The tree lined road into which we turn is really very nice. Large detached houses hide snootily behind mature holly hedges which grow arrogantly across the pavement. We pass the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club, peer inquisitively into a gated community at a mini Niagara Falls of a tumbling waterfall and, grinning foolishly wave at the CCTV cameras.

Walking on, in a matter of roads, we arrive at the beginning of Putney Heath. This is a rather pleasant copse of Birch on one side and of other mixed native trees on the other. The birch leves are yellowing acidly. The wood is pungent with softly rotting dampness. We subside briefly onto a handy bench.

We walk on. The woods give way to a patch of gorse and then a modest little lake of purple flowering heather. We walk past the famous Windmill with it’s café and then the London Scottish golf club with their red clad players.

Turning down a steep rutted path between holly and oak trees we emerge at a small mere of green still water, fringed by trees. The yaffle of a woodpecker echoes across the water. Four swans, their heads tucked down, snooze in the peace of the afternoon. Blocking out the shrieks and barks of some children and their dog, I stand and breathe in the tranquillity of the space. Somewhere in the distance, if I listen very hard, I can hear the A3 beyond the tree fringed water.

Climbing up through the woods, we follow the inviting smell of wood smoke through holly and oak trees. We traverse some golf course fairways without incident to find the source of the smoke, a nearly out little bonfire of fallen logs and woodland detritus.

The path beneath our feet is soft but not yielding. It slopes steeply down. The rain has driven a channel down the middle. The earth feels brim full. Autumn is slowly sneaking into the woods but yet everything desires to continue to grow. The sun comes out between the clouds. It is 4 O’clock!

Beech trees have come to join the others. We turn and walk alongside the babbling Beverley Brook, which though only a streamlet, chatters noisily along its course. My companion describes its crystal clearness as it flows beside us and I wonder what it might be like to dip a toe into it. We walk on.



We turn across a bridge spanning the brook, green with healthy looking pond weed at this point and walk towards the roaring A3 growing louder by the moment.
We are almost at our walk’s end. Richmond Park, where we will pause for this time is beyond the almost impassable A3. There is an unpleasant footbridge which we cross. We begin walking up the main road in search of a bus stop.

Rather pleasant cottages fringe the road at this point. I wonder how they can stand the noise. As we walk on, a second terrace of cottages, much more down at heel and mainly empty, sit barely a few yards from the roaring traffic. Buses pass us but there is no sign of a bus stop.

I’m beginning to feel a bit fed up. My feet are hurting, not liking the hardness of the pavement after the soft gentle wood. The only compensation is that my knees are much better and grumpy stumping along is still possible.

I grit my teeth against the roar of the traffic. It is deafening. I feel my nerves jangling and my brain wobbling inside my head. At last we find a bus and thence a tube back to North London and home.

How extraordinary London is, I muse, stumping along the Stroud Green Road. There we are, held in an embrace of green peacefulness, gentled by trees and babbling brooks. Moments later the world is roaring at us bad temperedly as though nothing else exists.

“Oh bollocks!” I mutter as I trip over a guerrilla tree root pushing up the pavement! I right myself and playfully slap its trunk as I pass.