I hoped to test out whether I could still climb hills, after breaking my ankle in February. I aimed to do this in wet and dry weather. Wet went well, dry hardly happened, but the hill climbing was back to normal.
This is pleasing.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
A hilly interlude: just add water
I hoped to test out whether I could still climb hills, after breaking my ankle in February. I aimed to do this in wet and dry weather. Wet went well, dry hardly happened, but the hill climbing was back to normal.
This is pleasing.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Day Nine
Sunday 8 November –
Hatfield to Leagrave
After the glorious weather of the previous day, things had taken a turn for the gloomy. But it was not raining, and no rain fell throughout the day. A road walk of about a mile due North from Hatfield station (for the grim story of how I got there, read the previous entry) took me back to the Lea Valley Walk, last seen at Enfield Lock.
The river and the walk squeeze through a narrow gap between Hatfield and Welwyn. And I soon entered Stanborough Park, a joint effort over the years between Hatfield Council and Welwyn's New Town Development Corporation. The park has a couple of lakes, one for fishing, one for boating, and both for the use of a lot of noisy ducks. I'm always astonished by how much kit fishermen need. The largest two items are usually the elaborate easy chair and the trolley to put it on, together with all the actual fishing gear.
The map rather imprecisely indicated a Westward direction for my walk, with the snag that the A1(M) was in the way. After giving up on finding any signs, I made up my own route for half a mile, rejoining the planned walk at Lemsford Mill, now the offices of Ramblers Worldwide Holidays.
I walked across a golf course, always a less than comfortable experience. But this was a particularly beautiful course, and the clue to why wasn't hard to find. This was the Brocket Estate, and I was walking through the grounds of Brocket Hall. Built in the 18th Century, the current house replaces two previous houses, the first going back to the 13th Century. The house is now the clubhouse for the golf courses (there are two), a hotel and a conference centre, the conversion being made by the third Lord Brocket, a “convicted fraudster and reality television presenter” (Wikipedia).
Leaving the Brocket Estate, I followed pleasant paths to Wheathampstead, an overgrown village. More paths took me to Leasey Bridge, where a fine bridleway, which probably used to be a railway track bed, took me Westwards, very close to the Lea, hardly more than a stream at this point. I discovered the reason for the quality of the path when I reached the outskirts of Harpenden – it was the local Ramblers wot dun it, thirty years ago. It's holding up very well.
The only thing I associate Harpenden with is the late, self-proclaimed Maharajah of Harpenden, Eric Morecambe. I didn't need any further knowledge of the place; after crossing a busy road at a nasty bend, I was back to the old railway track bed, heading North West and fast closing with the still-operating (occasionally) railway line.
It takes a quarter of an hour to walk past Luton's sewage works, which is a fine tribute to its inhabitants. When I last walked in this neck of the woods, the footpath was a muddy affair at the top of some meadows by the railway line. Now it is a tarmac super-highway, evidently destined to be a major cycle route. They weren't quite ready for me, since all useful signs petered out as I reached the outskirts of Luton. So I moved to plan B, navigating my way through the centre of the town (I get self-conscious about consulting an Ordnance Survey map in towns, so I snatch a series of quick looks, stashing it away in my pocket between-whiles).
I successfully outflanked the Arndale Centre, had a quick refuelling stop, and pressed on towards Leagrave. The narrow streets of the Bury Park district were more lively than the town centre had been, with a combination of shopping and hurrying to worship (mostly at mosques, but the United Reform Church was getting some customers). Sari shops – seen 'em. Exotic vegetable – two a penny. But a halal public house – what's that all about? Leagrave was shut when I arrived, so I quietly left by the next train.
The map on the right shows my progress so far.
Hatfield to Leagrave
The river and the walk squeeze through a narrow gap between Hatfield and Welwyn. And I soon entered Stanborough Park, a joint effort over the years between Hatfield Council and Welwyn's New Town Development Corporation. The park has a couple of lakes, one for fishing, one for boating, and both for the use of a lot of noisy ducks. I'm always astonished by how much kit fishermen need. The largest two items are usually the elaborate easy chair and the trolley to put it on, together with all the actual fishing gear.
The map rather imprecisely indicated a Westward direction for my walk, with the snag that the A1(M) was in the way. After giving up on finding any signs, I made up my own route for half a mile, rejoining the planned walk at Lemsford Mill, now the offices of Ramblers Worldwide Holidays.
I walked across a golf course, always a less than comfortable experience. But this was a particularly beautiful course, and the clue to why wasn't hard to find. This was the Brocket Estate, and I was walking through the grounds of Brocket Hall. Built in the 18th Century, the current house replaces two previous houses, the first going back to the 13th Century. The house is now the clubhouse for the golf courses (there are two), a hotel and a conference centre, the conversion being made by the third Lord Brocket, a “convicted fraudster and reality television presenter” (Wikipedia).
Leaving the Brocket Estate, I followed pleasant paths to Wheathampstead, an overgrown village. More paths took me to Leasey Bridge, where a fine bridleway, which probably used to be a railway track bed, took me Westwards, very close to the Lea, hardly more than a stream at this point. I discovered the reason for the quality of the path when I reached the outskirts of Harpenden – it was the local Ramblers wot dun it, thirty years ago. It's holding up very well.
It takes a quarter of an hour to walk past Luton's sewage works, which is a fine tribute to its inhabitants. When I last walked in this neck of the woods, the footpath was a muddy affair at the top of some meadows by the railway line. Now it is a tarmac super-highway, evidently destined to be a major cycle route. They weren't quite ready for me, since all useful signs petered out as I reached the outskirts of Luton. So I moved to plan B, navigating my way through the centre of the town (I get self-conscious about consulting an Ordnance Survey map in towns, so I snatch a series of quick looks, stashing it away in my pocket between-whiles).
The map on the right shows my progress so far.
First Capital Disconnect - a traveller's tale
I was eating my breakfast, paying half attention to the news on the telly, when they came up with one of those “who'd credit it” stories, a bit of a laugh after all the war and recession stuff. It seemed that there was this railway company who couldn't run their railway today – not at all, not a single train. It wasn't a strike, but they didn't have seven-day contracts for their staff and depended on volunteers to run the trains on Sundays. Since the company don't pay overtime rates for this overtime, the drivers had decided, very understandably and not for the first time, to enjoy their Sundays with a lie-in. And the service involved was the one I had been planning to use, to Hatfield. I'd even got a ticket!
Because I'm an “information professional”, I was able to hunt down further information on the First Capital Connect (the incompetent train operators) and Network Rail ('nuff said) websites – nothing obvious, of course, you had to look really hard. I could, they were graciously pleased to inform me, able to catch a train from St Pancras to St Albans (First Capital Connect's other service - alarm bells should have rung), and then a bus to Hatfield. So no tragedy, just a bit of a nuisance.
I polled up at St P in good time for the 8.34. 8.34 came, but no train. The poor guys on the front line (the yellowcoats), had had the “standby for the train” message from Network Rail, so they were surprised when it didn't appear. An increasingly-large straggle of people, including many with huge cases as they were expecting to be taken to Luton Airport, were taking it in turns to question one of the yellowcoats, who were unfailingly polite but had to admit that they know nothing.
Then the call came: the trains were starting at Kentish Town, and everyone would be taken there by the buses which were outside the station. The yellowcoats raced over to the window, while I asked myself, if “they” knew the trains were starting up the line sufficiently well in advance to lay on buses, why didn't “they” tell the blokes on the ground, It began to seem like an academic question, as there were no buses, but it turned out that they were lurking shyly up the street. We all – me with my little rucksack, almost everyone else with tons of luggage, struggled down the escalator and went outside to the waiting buses. Very slowly, the buses remaining in strict convoy, we made our way to Kentish Town, where they were ready for us – oh no, sorry, I made that bit up.
There were a couple of trains there, but nobody to tell us which to catch. A helpful man (a passenger of course, not a First Capital Connect person) told us all that he'd been informed (who by?) that the train on platform 3 was for Luton. So we jostled our way down the narrow steps to platform 3. Ten minutes or so later, the friendly driver (no irony intended) informed us that the train was indeed going to Luton, but stopping at every stop; a faster train was about to depart from platform 4. Panic – cases were unshipped in haste, All the would-be flyers (and I) clambered back up the steps, across the bridge and down to platform 4.
The alleged departure time of the train had just passed (I looked at the information board, which also said “Bedford only”), and all the doors were closed – except one, which was being held open by a beckoning woman (no, of course not – she was another passenger). We all duly filed through the single door, with me leaning back out again to bark, interrogatively, “St Albans?” to the driver, who shouted “yes”.
It did indeed go to St Albans, and the bus connection went like clockwork – luckily the bus was run by Arriva, not the First Group!
Because I'm an “information professional”, I was able to hunt down further information on the First Capital Connect (the incompetent train operators) and Network Rail ('nuff said) websites – nothing obvious, of course, you had to look really hard. I could, they were graciously pleased to inform me, able to catch a train from St Pancras to St Albans (First Capital Connect's other service - alarm bells should have rung), and then a bus to Hatfield. So no tragedy, just a bit of a nuisance.
I polled up at St P in good time for the 8.34. 8.34 came, but no train. The poor guys on the front line (the yellowcoats), had had the “standby for the train” message from Network Rail, so they were surprised when it didn't appear. An increasingly-large straggle of people, including many with huge cases as they were expecting to be taken to Luton Airport, were taking it in turns to question one of the yellowcoats, who were unfailingly polite but had to admit that they know nothing.
Then the call came: the trains were starting at Kentish Town, and everyone would be taken there by the buses which were outside the station. The yellowcoats raced over to the window, while I asked myself, if “they” knew the trains were starting up the line sufficiently well in advance to lay on buses, why didn't “they” tell the blokes on the ground, It began to seem like an academic question, as there were no buses, but it turned out that they were lurking shyly up the street. We all – me with my little rucksack, almost everyone else with tons of luggage, struggled down the escalator and went outside to the waiting buses. Very slowly, the buses remaining in strict convoy, we made our way to Kentish Town, where they were ready for us – oh no, sorry, I made that bit up.
There were a couple of trains there, but nobody to tell us which to catch. A helpful man (a passenger of course, not a First Capital Connect person) told us all that he'd been informed (who by?) that the train on platform 3 was for Luton. So we jostled our way down the narrow steps to platform 3. Ten minutes or so later, the friendly driver (no irony intended) informed us that the train was indeed going to Luton, but stopping at every stop; a faster train was about to depart from platform 4. Panic – cases were unshipped in haste, All the would-be flyers (and I) clambered back up the steps, across the bridge and down to platform 4.
The alleged departure time of the train had just passed (I looked at the information board, which also said “Bedford only”), and all the doors were closed – except one, which was being held open by a beckoning woman (no, of course not – she was another passenger). We all duly filed through the single door, with me leaning back out again to bark, interrogatively, “St Albans?” to the driver, who shouted “yes”.
It did indeed go to St Albans, and the bus connection went like clockwork – luckily the bus was run by Arriva, not the First Group!
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Day Eight
Saturday 7 November
- Enfield Lock to Hatfield
Heading West from Enfield Lock station, I soon rejoined the Capital Ring, alongside the Turkey Brook – at this point a canalised stream between a recreation ground and a line of back fences. It was a wonderful day, cloudless and quite cold. There was a bit more cloud to come, but nothing to disturb the sunshine for long, and no threat of rain.
Crossing the A10, I came across another watercourse, the New River. The clue of course is in the name: spot the word “new” on a map and be sure you're in antique territory. “The New River is a man-made waterway in England, opened in 1613 to supply London with fresh drinking water taken from the River Lee and from Amwell Springs (which ceased to flow by the end of the 19th century), and other springs and wells along its course. Its original termination point was at New River Head near Clerkenwell, Islington, close to the current location of Sadler's Wells theatre — where water from the river was used to flood a large tank to stage an Aquatic Theatre at the beginning of the 19th century. Today by following the New River Path it is possible to walk almost the whole length of the New River from its source between Hertford and Ware to its destination in Stoke Newington, Hackney.” (Wikipedia) Indeed, my route took in the the New River Path for a few hundred yards.
Leaving the Capital Ring, I followed the old course of the New River (that is, even older than the new course!), then headed North. I passed two recently-dead foxes, lying on the ground within three yards of each other. Poisoned, presumably. I used a footbidge to cross the M25. Was it busy? Guess. Yes, right again! I was now entering Theobalds Park. Theobald House (later Palace) was built by Lord Burghley (Elizabeth the First's hatchet man) in the mid-16th Century. The Cecils later swapped it for Hatfield House, for the usual nefarious reasons. Later owners included the Meux family, best known as brewers. I believe today it's a hotel and conference centre, and I never saw it!
But the estate provided some very efficient through routes, farm roads doubling up as bridleways and footpaths. I turned North just before the rather impressive Soper's Viaduct and then had a skirmish with Cuffley, skirting round it for a bit before plunging into the middle. Emerging from this suburban interlude I walked through Home Wood, once owned by St Alban's Abbey.
I was annoyed by a stretch of busy road. This is part of the signposted Hertfordshire Way, yet it lacks even a decent verge to escape the traffic. I'm big and ugly enough to take care of myself, but families are induced to follow routes like this; I just hope the guide book has a pretty prominent warning. Moan, moan.
Grateful to turn off this horrid stretch of road at Newgate Street, I found a secluded bench in the churchyard of St Mary's Ponsbourne for my lunch. I also found the latest addition to my occasional photo series, “abandoned footballs” – very pleasing.
A very quiet road Westwards petered out to become a bridleway and then a footpath, and then a road again! But this and succeeding roads were more in the quiet lane category. After passing a man schooling a young horse (he was trying to slow the horse down, lest he have to run after it!), I was overtaken by a trotting cart.
I had been hoping to walk through Millward's Park. The Web was ambiguous on whether this was feasible – it wasn't. So I turned South and then West again to reach Welham Green. The “business area” (sic) was, this being Saturday afternoon, peaceful if uninspiring. Taking a tarmac footpath from Welham Green to Hatfield, I passed a huge Tesco complex, with warehouses, offices, even its own multi-storey car park.
Almost the whole of the remaining couple of miles was housing-estate boring, so I daydreamed my way towards the station. But there was one last treat – Howe Dell, an beautiful piece of ancient woodland wedged between houses and the railway. This provided a few more decent photos, and the shop at the station provided a decent mug of coffee.
- Enfield Lock to Hatfield
Crossing the A10, I came across another watercourse, the New River. The clue of course is in the name: spot the word “new” on a map and be sure you're in antique territory. “The New River is a man-made waterway in England, opened in 1613 to supply London with fresh drinking water taken from the River Lee and from Amwell Springs (which ceased to flow by the end of the 19th century), and other springs and wells along its course. Its original termination point was at New River Head near Clerkenwell, Islington, close to the current location of Sadler's Wells theatre — where water from the river was used to flood a large tank to stage an Aquatic Theatre at the beginning of the 19th century. Today by following the New River Path it is possible to walk almost the whole length of the New River from its source between Hertford and Ware to its destination in Stoke Newington, Hackney.” (Wikipedia) Indeed, my route took in the the New River Path for a few hundred yards.
Leaving the Capital Ring, I followed the old course of the New River (that is, even older than the new course!), then headed North. I passed two recently-dead foxes, lying on the ground within three yards of each other. Poisoned, presumably. I used a footbidge to cross the M25. Was it busy? Guess. Yes, right again! I was now entering Theobalds Park. Theobald House (later Palace) was built by Lord Burghley (Elizabeth the First's hatchet man) in the mid-16th Century. The Cecils later swapped it for Hatfield House, for the usual nefarious reasons. Later owners included the Meux family, best known as brewers. I believe today it's a hotel and conference centre, and I never saw it!
I was annoyed by a stretch of busy road. This is part of the signposted Hertfordshire Way, yet it lacks even a decent verge to escape the traffic. I'm big and ugly enough to take care of myself, but families are induced to follow routes like this; I just hope the guide book has a pretty prominent warning. Moan, moan.
Grateful to turn off this horrid stretch of road at Newgate Street, I found a secluded bench in the churchyard of St Mary's Ponsbourne for my lunch. I also found the latest addition to my occasional photo series, “abandoned footballs” – very pleasing.
A very quiet road Westwards petered out to become a bridleway and then a footpath, and then a road again! But this and succeeding roads were more in the quiet lane category. After passing a man schooling a young horse (he was trying to slow the horse down, lest he have to run after it!), I was overtaken by a trotting cart.
Almost the whole of the remaining couple of miles was housing-estate boring, so I daydreamed my way towards the station. But there was one last treat – Howe Dell, an beautiful piece of ancient woodland wedged between houses and the railway. This provided a few more decent photos, and the shop at the station provided a decent mug of coffee.
Friday, 6 November 2009
Day Seven
Thursday 5 November 2009 -
Royal Albert to Enfield Lock
As I walked down the steps from Royal Albert DLR station, my immediate worry was where I was going to find my third cup of coffee. Two at breakfast is enough, but by nine-ish I'm starting to need a third. But no panic – a kiosk nestles beneath the legs of the DLR, so I was able to satisfy my craving as I watched the morning flights take off from the City Airport.
My route lay North across a main road, but I was protected from the traffic's roar by a cordon sanitaire of shrubs and bushes. This is the docklands standard approach: housing developments are connected by a chain of pedestrian routes with thick planting to hide the traffic. I'm not knocking it – it works pretty well. I rejoined my old pal, the Capital Ring (inner orbital path) to penetrate some older housing and cross the A13, turning to the West along the Greenway. This could be a puzzle – a well-surfaced route for pedestrians and cyclist along the top of a long, straight embankment. But why build the embankment? The occasional fruity whiff gives a clue. I was walking on top of the Northern Outfall Sewer, 'a major gravity sewer which runs from Wick Lane in Hackney to Beckton Sewage Works in east London; most of it was designed by Joseph Bazalgette after an outbreak of cholera in 1853 and "The Big Stink" of 1858.' (Wikipedia) The result for walkers is an elevated and largely peaceful journey towards Stratford.
While the roads climb to cross the embankment at right-angles to the Greenway, tube and rail lines go underneath. I wonder how many passengers realise what is flowing over their heads. As I approached Stratford, things got a bit complicated. The pedestrian route threaded its way through several construction sites, yellow-jacketed men posted at regular intervals to protect workman from marauding walkers. The reason, indeed the reason for almost all activity in the area, is the Olympics. The building site, which seems to require more complicated access arrangements than the Channel Tunnel, sprawls across what used to be Stratford Marsh, a flood plain for the various rivers which converge here and enter the Thames.
I had to make a short detour where a bit of the Greenway was blocked entirely, regaining my desired route by crossing yet another site access road. A sign instructed me to 'give way to all traffic'. I treated this with silent contempt; luckily there was no traffic so my resolve was not tested. The final few hundred yards of the Greenway gave me a grandstand view of the grandstands (arf arf). The main Olympic Stadium, which appears from the outside to be more or less finished, almost loomed over the footpath. As I turned off the Greenway and on to the towpath of the River Lea to head North, the Olympics site continued to dominate the scene, huge lorries roaring along a roadway just a large fence away from the river and me.
A word about the spelling – it doesn't really matter. The Lee navigation flows through the Lea Valley, and over the centuries twenty-odd others spellings have apparently been used. So I'll stick to Lea.
When I started the walk it was a cold but sunny day, now it was turning cloudier. There was a brief shower. There was a curious contrast between the social aspect of the Greenway and towpath sections of my walk. On the former, people kept their heads down and avoided eye contact, let alone conversation. On the towpath, it wasn't exactly long lost brother stuff, but people did say 'hello', or at least grunt in a friendly fashion.
'Wiv a ladder and some glasses' - I didn't need the equipment as there were no 'ouses in between me and 'ackney Marshes. From this point Northwards the value of the Lea Valley as a playground for East Londoners becomes obvious. There is a lot of industry and commercial activity, but it's usually held at bay by the river and its green corridor. At one point I was convinced that a London bus was bearing down on me along the towpath but, even here, there was a thin strip of walkway protected from the traffic by a crash barrier.
I passed the factory where Matchbox Toys were made, sadly no more.
The shale and dirt towpath made a nice change from the metalled surfaces earlier in the day. As I reached Walthamstow Marshes, the sun came out again. I left the Capital Ring at Upper Clapton, continuing to follow the Lea Valley Way along the towpath. Three orthodox Jews sat on a bench. The middle, older man, exchanged a cheery greeting with me. Was he instructing the two younger men, or were they just enjoying the waterside? Traffic noise rose to a crescendo as I drew nearer to the North Circular Road. I passed beneath it and hurried on. The noise level returned to the more normal low hum, the most intrusive sound being the constant warning sirens of fork lift trucks.
There was now an astonishing contrast between the dark banks of cloud in front of me and the sun coming over my shoulder, picking out the double row of yellow-painted electrical pylons which follow the line of the river. Further North, the pylons were green, and were indeed being painted by intrepid workmen as I passed. As usual, people doing actual work were being shadowed by other people standing around in yellow jackets. That's the business to be in in this neck of the woods – hi-viz jackets and vests. If I'd collected a pound from every person I'd passed wearing one during the day, I haven't the faintest idea how rich I'd have been, but I would struggled under the weight of the pounds.
The autumn colours here were as impressive as anything I'd seen in Kent and Sussex earlier in earlier legs of my walk. A stainless steel interpretation board informed me that otters could be seen in the area (albeit mostly at night), the 'sign of a healthy river.' I was pleased to see my regular companions, sheep, grazing the embankment of several of the valley's reservoirs; later, horses took over the grass-munching duties.
As I approached Enfield, the London Loop (outer orbital path) swung in from the East. I followed it past Enfield Island Village. This used to be the Royal Small Arms Factory where the Lee Enfield Rifle was manufactured. The island had a church, school, its own police station and housing for the 1700 workers. The Lee Enfield was a key weapon during the Boer War and two World Wars. End of history lesson. From here it was a short journey by footpath and pavement to Enfield Lock station, the end of today's walk.
Royal Albert to Enfield Lock
My route lay North across a main road, but I was protected from the traffic's roar by a cordon sanitaire of shrubs and bushes. This is the docklands standard approach: housing developments are connected by a chain of pedestrian routes with thick planting to hide the traffic. I'm not knocking it – it works pretty well. I rejoined my old pal, the Capital Ring (inner orbital path) to penetrate some older housing and cross the A13, turning to the West along the Greenway. This could be a puzzle – a well-surfaced route for pedestrians and cyclist along the top of a long, straight embankment. But why build the embankment? The occasional fruity whiff gives a clue. I was walking on top of the Northern Outfall Sewer, 'a major gravity sewer which runs from Wick Lane in Hackney to Beckton Sewage Works in east London; most of it was designed by Joseph Bazalgette after an outbreak of cholera in 1853 and "The Big Stink" of 1858.' (Wikipedia) The result for walkers is an elevated and largely peaceful journey towards Stratford.
While the roads climb to cross the embankment at right-angles to the Greenway, tube and rail lines go underneath. I wonder how many passengers realise what is flowing over their heads. As I approached Stratford, things got a bit complicated. The pedestrian route threaded its way through several construction sites, yellow-jacketed men posted at regular intervals to protect workman from marauding walkers. The reason, indeed the reason for almost all activity in the area, is the Olympics. The building site, which seems to require more complicated access arrangements than the Channel Tunnel, sprawls across what used to be Stratford Marsh, a flood plain for the various rivers which converge here and enter the Thames.
I had to make a short detour where a bit of the Greenway was blocked entirely, regaining my desired route by crossing yet another site access road. A sign instructed me to 'give way to all traffic'. I treated this with silent contempt; luckily there was no traffic so my resolve was not tested. The final few hundred yards of the Greenway gave me a grandstand view of the grandstands (arf arf). The main Olympic Stadium, which appears from the outside to be more or less finished, almost loomed over the footpath. As I turned off the Greenway and on to the towpath of the River Lea to head North, the Olympics site continued to dominate the scene, huge lorries roaring along a roadway just a large fence away from the river and me.
A word about the spelling – it doesn't really matter. The Lee navigation flows through the Lea Valley, and over the centuries twenty-odd others spellings have apparently been used. So I'll stick to Lea.
'Wiv a ladder and some glasses' - I didn't need the equipment as there were no 'ouses in between me and 'ackney Marshes. From this point Northwards the value of the Lea Valley as a playground for East Londoners becomes obvious. There is a lot of industry and commercial activity, but it's usually held at bay by the river and its green corridor. At one point I was convinced that a London bus was bearing down on me along the towpath but, even here, there was a thin strip of walkway protected from the traffic by a crash barrier.
I passed the factory where Matchbox Toys were made, sadly no more.
The shale and dirt towpath made a nice change from the metalled surfaces earlier in the day. As I reached Walthamstow Marshes, the sun came out again. I left the Capital Ring at Upper Clapton, continuing to follow the Lea Valley Way along the towpath. Three orthodox Jews sat on a bench. The middle, older man, exchanged a cheery greeting with me. Was he instructing the two younger men, or were they just enjoying the waterside? Traffic noise rose to a crescendo as I drew nearer to the North Circular Road. I passed beneath it and hurried on. The noise level returned to the more normal low hum, the most intrusive sound being the constant warning sirens of fork lift trucks.
There was now an astonishing contrast between the dark banks of cloud in front of me and the sun coming over my shoulder, picking out the double row of yellow-painted electrical pylons which follow the line of the river. Further North, the pylons were green, and were indeed being painted by intrepid workmen as I passed. As usual, people doing actual work were being shadowed by other people standing around in yellow jackets. That's the business to be in in this neck of the woods – hi-viz jackets and vests. If I'd collected a pound from every person I'd passed wearing one during the day, I haven't the faintest idea how rich I'd have been, but I would struggled under the weight of the pounds.
The autumn colours here were as impressive as anything I'd seen in Kent and Sussex earlier in earlier legs of my walk. A stainless steel interpretation board informed me that otters could be seen in the area (albeit mostly at night), the 'sign of a healthy river.' I was pleased to see my regular companions, sheep, grazing the embankment of several of the valley's reservoirs; later, horses took over the grass-munching duties.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Day Six
Saturday 31 October -
Swanley to Royal Albert
No special skill was needed to leave Swanley. Following the railway Westwards on an enclosed footpath, I quickly went under the A20 and reached fields. The day was grey, but I had no rain. A footbridge took me across the railway, and then things went slightly haywire.
The footpath shown on the map would have gone through a huge heap of of building rubble, but a path slightly further on looked promising. After a bit of GPS and map work I found the road I was aiming for, struck off across fields again, and got lost again. Nothing drastic - I soon reached the safe environment of a bungalow estate in St Mary Cray. I self-consciously pocketed my GPS and map.
A mile or so of suburbia led me into Scadbury Nature Reserve and three-quarters of an hour of traffic-free walking (hurray!). I passed a group of people being put through their paces by a zealous leader. Two women were sentenced to three sprints each up the hill I was puffing my way up at walking pace; it made me quite tired to watch them. As I crossed fields on the outskirts of Chislehurst, I startled some exotic birds, bright green and looking like parrots. At the same time, the dull crump of gunfire began in the distance. Parrot hunters? Small patches of blue sky were starting to appear.
As I was about to enter a housing estate, a fox passed me in an adjoining field, Glancing uneasily back at me, it loped off into some scrubby woodland, It needn’t have worried - the seven foot fence was ample protection from the likes of me.
More road walking through Longlands and New Eltham, then I picked up one of the Green Chain Walks. The Green Chain is a little bit of magic. In 1977 the magicians, four London boroughs and the Greater London Council, got together to create a network of paths, starting in three places on the Thames and finishing at Crystal Palace. The technique – stringing together footpaths across parks, commons and other green spaces, with as little road walking as possible - has since been adopted by other routes such as the Capital Ring (which indeed shares part of its route with the Green Chain). With route guides and maps freely available, with good signage and transport links clearly indicated, it’s easy for Londoners to find a short or a long walk without the need for poring over the A to Z.
An enclosed footpath between Charlton Athletic’s training ground (supply your own joke) and the University of Greenwich sports ground led to Avery Hill Park. Football matches were in full swing, but I found a bench in a quieter bit of the park for the next item of business - lunch.
The Green Chain, now joined by the Capital Ring, wove its cunning way towards a highlight of the day’s walk, Oxleas Wood. One of the oldest pieces of woodland remaining in London (6,000 years old, according to the interpretation board). Although you never quite lose the background noise of traffic, somehow the place still seems completely tranquil.
Apart from its natural delights, the area has another jewel, a rightly-popular café. After a welcome mug of coffee (no cake, how abstemious of me), I followed the waymarked walk through the former rose garden of Castlewood House, soon reaching Severndroog Castle. Named after an Indian fortress, this semi-derelict tower was erected in memory of Commodore Sir William James by his widow. In the Eighteenth Century, Sir William owned the land hereabouts. Crossing Eltham Common, Shooters Hill and the South Circular Road, I reached Woolwich Common. Here I left the Green Chain and the Capital Ring (bound like me for Woolwich Foot Tunnel but by a roundabout route) to take a direct route through the centre of Woolwich to the Thames. A bit late in the day, the sun was now quickly burning off the clouds, and I was walking in shirtsleeves.
Saturday shopping in Woolwich was being disrupted by pavement “improvements”, so I took my place in a queue of shoppers snaking their way through an obstacle course of barriers and holes, before escaping to the riverside.
The entrance to the Woolwich Foot Tunnel is hidden behind a leisure centre. Spurning the lift, I trotted down the spiral staircase, echoed my way through the tunnel, and climbed 126 steps (I counted) on the other side of the river.
Walking West alongside the old railway to North Woolwich (superseded by the Docklands Light Railway, DLR), I couldn’t help contrasting the abandoned warehouses and derelict pubs with the sleek signs for the London City Airport.
A footbridge beneath a busy road (complete with Swing Bridge) took me across Royal Albert Dock. As I turned East towards the Royal Albert DLR station, I picked up a well-deserved bottle of pop and a chocolate bar from a trailer-café. I enjoyed the incongruous sight of rowing eights practising on the water, with jet aircraft blinking in the background, before catching a train back into town.
Swanley to Royal Albert
No special skill was needed to leave Swanley. Following the railway Westwards on an enclosed footpath, I quickly went under the A20 and reached fields. The day was grey, but I had no rain. A footbridge took me across the railway, and then things went slightly haywire.
A mile or so of suburbia led me into Scadbury Nature Reserve and three-quarters of an hour of traffic-free walking (hurray!). I passed a group of people being put through their paces by a zealous leader. Two women were sentenced to three sprints each up the hill I was puffing my way up at walking pace; it made me quite tired to watch them. As I crossed fields on the outskirts of Chislehurst, I startled some exotic birds, bright green and looking like parrots. At the same time, the dull crump of gunfire began in the distance. Parrot hunters? Small patches of blue sky were starting to appear.
As I was about to enter a housing estate, a fox passed me in an adjoining field, Glancing uneasily back at me, it loped off into some scrubby woodland, It needn’t have worried - the seven foot fence was ample protection from the likes of me.
An enclosed footpath between Charlton Athletic’s training ground (supply your own joke) and the University of Greenwich sports ground led to Avery Hill Park. Football matches were in full swing, but I found a bench in a quieter bit of the park for the next item of business - lunch.
The Green Chain, now joined by the Capital Ring, wove its cunning way towards a highlight of the day’s walk, Oxleas Wood. One of the oldest pieces of woodland remaining in London (6,000 years old, according to the interpretation board). Although you never quite lose the background noise of traffic, somehow the place still seems completely tranquil.
Apart from its natural delights, the area has another jewel, a rightly-popular café. After a welcome mug of coffee (no cake, how abstemious of me), I followed the waymarked walk through the former rose garden of Castlewood House, soon reaching Severndroog Castle. Named after an Indian fortress, this semi-derelict tower was erected in memory of Commodore Sir William James by his widow. In the Eighteenth Century, Sir William owned the land hereabouts. Crossing Eltham Common, Shooters Hill and the South Circular Road, I reached Woolwich Common. Here I left the Green Chain and the Capital Ring (bound like me for Woolwich Foot Tunnel but by a roundabout route) to take a direct route through the centre of Woolwich to the Thames. A bit late in the day, the sun was now quickly burning off the clouds, and I was walking in shirtsleeves.
Saturday shopping in Woolwich was being disrupted by pavement “improvements”, so I took my place in a queue of shoppers snaking their way through an obstacle course of barriers and holes, before escaping to the riverside.
The entrance to the Woolwich Foot Tunnel is hidden behind a leisure centre. Spurning the lift, I trotted down the spiral staircase, echoed my way through the tunnel, and climbed 126 steps (I counted) on the other side of the river.
A footbridge beneath a busy road (complete with Swing Bridge) took me across Royal Albert Dock. As I turned East towards the Royal Albert DLR station, I picked up a well-deserved bottle of pop and a chocolate bar from a trailer-café. I enjoyed the incongruous sight of rowing eights practising on the water, with jet aircraft blinking in the background, before catching a train back into town.
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