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.