Please enjoy! I did, I am.
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| Statue of Old Father Thames one of two remaining. |
Upwards and Onwards to the Thames Source and back
By M. J. LondonChapter 1
So when did it all start and why? I asked myself, as no one else was about to. When, was back in 2009 after being made redundant or perhaps even before while still at work. During my lunch break I would stroll around Hackney Wick, especially the canals. The Hertford Union and The Regents Canal these were my two nearest, with the Grand Union Canal linking in for further-afield walks of the weekends.
Being near water, being tucked away under roads and in cuttings, is reflective as well as it gives one a feeling of not being in the city any more. These are both desirable states of awareness in this hurly burly world, providing that is, you look beyond the oil spills and occasional shopping trolley.
So now the Why? Let me start at the point after redundancy, the date is April 2009 when I finished working for a plant and machine hire company, "hooray!" admittedly about twenty eight years later than planned, but at last that chapter, or should I say War and Peace, is over with.
I now had plenty of time on my hands, when not job-hunting on the computer that is, which actually took a while to get around to doing as I felt I owed it to my redundancy money to spend it first.
I decided both for physical and mental health reasons that walking was good for me, but better if in salubrious locations hence the rivers and canals of London [yes I know I said salubrious well in parts they are, give them a try]. I started by walking as many of the London canals as possible, they all link up flowing both grudgingly and agreeably into each other.
From Hackney I eventually reached Little Venice and Paddington Basin, not a bear or gondola in sight at either location.
I had strolled past Islington, Camden, amongst many other notable place names. Poking my head above the parapet of crumbling walls and bridges, to see what was happening in the other world, as it had now become. I would some times visit if there was an oddity to see or I needed to get bus or train home, or something better than a bush to pee behind, well they do go on for miles and miles these rivers and canals. I would take up the walk on another day, from where I left off on my last walk.
This is how my travels would take shape in the future, returning by the end of each day home, this may change in the future as I am getting further and further away from home all the time, leaving less walking time against train and bus time, but we shall see.
Any way to-date and what has been, not what might be!
I trundled the towpath-ways avoiding dog turds, cyclist and joggers, all three of who seem to think they own these walkways. This is obvious in the way they aim at you, or groan in dismay, at the actual presence of a slow, sauntering person such as I, and that’s only the dog turds. While I am at it “Why Oh why” dog owners do you bag your bloody doggy pooh up only to hang it like Christmas decorations all over the place, on trees and fences “TAKE THE PHOO STUFF WITH YOU, IT BELONGS TO YOU NOT US." Please, please take it home or bin it at a later date. I know many who do therefore so can you, “Thank you.”
But enough about doggy excrement for now, and its only my first page!” Well there is just one other thing about pooh, what ever happened to white dogs pooh? I remember often seeing it, when I was a child, in the curbside. These were the times when many dogs ran feral and free and another thing what ever happened to the good old friendly mongrel? It’s all pedigree breads now! With foul tempers as well as foul owners.
These three items aside, the canals are a delight to walk beside, a nature-filled place, to wander and wonder, in peace and in altruism for the humane race.
"Oh yes" that is apart from disgruntled swans “Brake your arm as soon as look at ya type,” of which there are many. Not that I have my arms in plaster to prove my point, as I decided prudence was the better half of valour so always steered well clear of an advancing "Bloody, Queen protected swans.” Though they’re lovely-ness and photogenic-ness is with out parallel, except maybe the Serengeti and herds of wildebeest in the sunset. But apart from that they do pose elegantly well. Swans that is, not wildebeest they tend to charge around a bit.
Back to altruism, the humane race really is worth saving, so I took it upon myself to try and work out how to do this as I negated the navigations of London. I spent fifteen minuets planning World Peace, which is probably ten minuets more than the Security Council of the U.N. does.
I then moved onto more important problems such as, if that fat fisher-man were to topple into the canal, will they then have to build a new lock to bypass him? It also occurred to me, it must have been years since he last saw his real rod!
These thoughts took precedence as I moved around this human mound, that sat contemplating the murky waters in front of him, chucking handfuls of yellow, wiggling and horrid maggots, onto the waters.
This draws my attention to that other curiosity called “the fisherman” or fisher-person to be more P.C. as women are also, occasionally, found drifting reels of nylon into rivers and canals seeking to hook something from its depths. There are allegedly over three million persons in the U.K. that participates in the venture of fishing.
Now being in a lovely part of the world I understand, sitting idly I understand, meditating I understand, being challenged I understand but for the life of me I do not understand the pass time of fishing, specially opposite a gas works or brick wall. But then again there are many things I do not understand from quantum physics to hurting or killing of a fellow humane being.
This draws my attention to that other curiosity called “the fisherman” or fisher-person to be more P.C. as women are also, occasionally, found drifting reels of nylon into rivers and canals seeking to hook something from its depths. There are allegedly over three million persons in the U.K. that participates in the venture of fishing.
Now being in a lovely part of the world I understand, sitting idly I understand, meditating I understand, being challenged I understand but for the life of me I do not understand the pass time of fishing, specially opposite a gas works or brick wall. But then again there are many things I do not understand from quantum physics to hurting or killing of a fellow humane being.
I moved on, the sun was a watery haze of yellow keeping most of its warmth to itself or at least the arse side of the clouds. I decided that I would head North, up the Hertford canal.
Gel and Roz friends over form Oz at new Olympic stadium
At the start I spend time passing the new build of the Olympic stadium at Stratford, now well on its way for 2012. It is a massive building site, full of movement, trucks, buses, cranes and somewhere workers, allegedly locally employed, if locally is Eastern Europe rather than Eastern London, then they have lived up to their pledge. Okay I have now checked, it is apparently one in four who are from outside of the UK, so I shall shut up moaning.
The building site is now apparently one London’s top tourist sights, you can view from high up on the raised bank, which is the top of the Great Northern Outfall. Below your feet runs a flow of humane effluence some that has travelled from as far as Hampstead. Down below my feet the rich and famous rubs, well not shoulders, more like boulders with the working class, on their heading to the Beckton sewage works in East London.
The cycle and pedestrian pathway now known as the “Greenway” runs atop the sewage thruway, on reflection perhaps the “Brown-way” might have been more appropriate name! but hey I’m colour blind, what do I know? I could give you a great deal more information about the sewage network building, but you can look it up on “Wickapedia” as I would have to, and it would be more than accurate me. But one thing I can recommend while here, to visit “The View Tube “ café, great food with best coffee going. Built out of old steel containers, the building that is not the coffee.
After leaving here not too far on when you reach the canal, you pass a lock keepers cottage at the Old Ford Lock, it has quite a history of notability, for starters it was used for a number of years as The Big Breakfast studios an early morning talk show back in 1992 it finished production in 2002. It may also appear in the soon to be discovered, new novelist’s, second book “The Sequential Man.”
I have passed the Hackney Marshes where acres of football pitches stretch into the distance, the River Lee encircles this zone bumping against the Hertford Canal a couple of times like twin snakes slivering towards the Thames. It has done this most of the way down from Dobbs Weir lock where the River Stort joins its company.
I find for some ridiculous reason I appear to be always walking up hill, guess this is being as that I am walking away from the Thames, at this point, [or up stream when it comes to the Thames which is still a paragraph if not chapter or two away, so if you want to skip this bit go to page four] so that my tread is slightly more energetic. Yes I know it a gradual slope, well almost imperceptible but it is upwards or behind me downwards as gravity demands. I don’t think I complain unreasonably. But if you decide on doing any of these walks you may think about starting at the top and letting gravity, as with the canals and rivers do, some of the work. Okay another sore point out of the way.
I pass by Lower Clapton, which is dotted with many factories of high walls that come down to the canal pathway. Oh yes I was meaning to say I passed the old Match Box Toy company at Hackney Wick sadly it was being pulled down, yet another slice of the past is demolished.
I travel on, most towns I pass try to make the best of the resources they have flowing past them. They do this by linking in both the ordinary green deserts parks, along with many now wonderful countryside parks that incorporate the waterways. These countryside parks benefit nature thus us, in that process. It enriches us, "The Lee Valley Park” is a great example at what and how it should be done.
Apparently the Vikings as well as King Alfred used the River Lee or Lea as it was known, it did not have all the locks back in those days of course, most were introduced in the 1700, although Waltham Abbey had the first Pound Lock with mitre gates, in England, back in 1577. The Pound part is the space in-between the gates. While I am on Waltham Abbey did you know King Harold is buried in the Norman church there? The things you can learn are never ending if you enquire, people love talking about their bit of history or herstory as it should also be known, or theirstory, even ourstory, but enough trying to be P.C
Waltham Abbey where King Harold is buried
But onwards, upwards for some reason I am seeing numerous amounts of acidic Jews, how come they are so acidic? as they are very friendly, every one I have passed male or female have smiled, waved and said hello. "Ah" I realise I am passing Tottenham [oops thank you wikapedia its Hasidic Jews] or Stanford Hill to be more exact so it is the very studious and religious Hasidic members of Judaism that are passing me, with their long coats, flat hats, ringlets and big smiles. Some on cycles some on boats others just walking, like me. Soon they begin to thin out, as do all other members of the public. I am aloud to walk un-waved at again, left to my own meanderings both physically and mentally.
I am still seeking to become an author to this end I am trying to write both long novels as well as a collection of short stories. While walking I devise and often forget plots for both of these genre’s, it is indeed a great place for it, as is getting ideas in the bath, where I don’t have pen or paper, well apart from toilet paper that is. Also at 3 to 4am in the morning I will awake with the most implausible plots on my mind, for which I cannot be bothered to turn on the light, in the belief I will remember it in the morning, of course I rarely do. But the few do stick in my mind or I manage jot them down in my black moleskine note book, which is now my constant companion on walks where, as I said “inspiration comes a-knocking.”
I have now reached Tottenham Hale from where I return home by train but eventually come back to pick the trail. At Enfield I find delightful canal side cottages only half a mile from bleak concrete warehouses and factories. I go under the M25 at some point, heading up to along the cannal towards Broxbourne, Hoddesdon and Ware.
One of my cousins, Micky Cook, has recently bought himself a barge, it had long been a dream of his, to own one. At the moment it is in dry dock being serviced by Micky, I said that at some point in time I would trot along to give him a hand, like making the tea or cleaning the windows, oops or are the portholes? Any way unless I show my face, then I am unlikely to get a ride/cruse on it once it is all ship shape, or so he has informed me! so guess I aught to find time.
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| Mick's pride and joy being craned to dry dock for repairs |
But in the meantime, after another day of enjoyable site seeing and mussing about the world or my writings, I arrive in Ware. I have always like Ware it has a village feel about it while being in contact with the world. I had mistakenly approached it via the hills as I left the canals without intention, it was too far to walk back this time, so kept going in the company of a retired artist we had a very enjoyable conversation. Here I have ended my Hertford canal walking’s for now, but it had installed in me the desire of long distant canal walking as an enjoyable pass time. Yes, I know the Thames is a river not a canal stop being pedantic that’s my job.
Chapter 2/ The real Beginning of the Thames Walk.
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| Seems a pretty long way to go |
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| Tower Bridge on one of its rare days opening up for shipping |
I love walking around London, both with guidebook or just meandering with out a book, so many streets and ally-ways to explore, Bridges, museums, galleries, buildings new and old. Pubs, hotels, shops, squares and gardens. Not to mention the people, tourists and workers, vagrants and the rich, all rubbing shoulders, if some time undesired in their doing. But London is cosmopolitan end of story, love it or hate it, that is the way of it. I personally love it. So trundling around its many ways is always an enjoyable learning curve being constantly surprised and humoured by its antics in both its lay out and its occupants. So of course to walk beside the Thames [“Ah at last” you say] is to walk in London. It is refreshing, open, deep dark, muddy, murky, turbulent and full of stories, both from the past and those in the making as I write.
I have walked the South Bank numerous times both in company and on my own it is a wonderful place to observe people at play be they at work on lunch brakes, in love, out of love, in new relationships, or in old ones. You see also thousands of tourists from all over the world, admiring our wonderful city. To walk across Tower Bridge in all its gothic style, to look back, at that place where it was easy to loose your head, The Tower of London, you realise how lucky we are to have such a great City with a long although often unsavoury but colourful past.
Round the streets of Southwark, cobbled lanes with the overhanging remains of warehouse’s crisscrossing the streets, these are now mostly homes. Only affordable for the above the normal income bracket of wage earners, as are most of the water facing homes in London. But still it has a great atmosphere, the old pubs that have managed to survive do a roaring trade with tourists and office workers, many offering great assortment of beers, worth a visit if you want a change from pissy lager.
Borough Market, on Friday and Saturdays it holds a wonderful food market not just its normal fruit and veg but everything, fresh baked bread and all types of snacks or street food from around the world. You can walk around filling your stomach or take it away. Mind you its bloody well packed with tourists on Saturdays, so watch your pockets and bags or the "pickpockets" will relieve you of your money, old Bill Sykes is alive, kicking and stealing.
On wards to the west you will eventually pass the new –old globe not quite on the spot of the original, but near enough, plus a good reproduction to get the feel of old Will’s world of plays. Doth thee not belive-ess me then goest and book up, stand as the poor did or sit on wooden benches like the rich, who obviously had better padded bums than me. Thus so, enjoy new and old versions of Shakespeare plays.
All the time casting an eye to the Thames watching launches, both private and business, mixed in with passenger ferries, along with the many "party boats" that pass up and down on the grimy looking, yet very clean Thames water's.
The colour is from sediment mud being stirred up by the income and out going tidal flows; it is not pollution, although in it’s past it most certainly was. Back then the pollution wiped out most species of fish that had previously bred and swam there for centuries. Now due to filtering process the sewage out flow at Beckton on the North side and Crossways on the South side is again drinkable, advisable not to scoop it out of the Thames to drink but rather via our taps. For in fact, as Londoners, we do drink water from our taps that has been through other people’s bodies approximately up to five times. But don’t fret just hope they were all your family! that way it don’t seem so bad, or does it?
Keep going you will come across the Tate Modern with the new wobbly bridge opposite it, which sadly does not wobble any more since the engineers put in extra restrainers. “Ha ho” it was great fun until then, now you are just wind blown as you cross it. You do also get a great view of St. Paul’s Cathedral, but more importantly a grand view of Jenny and Marks flat.
Tate Modern you either love it or hate it, I love it’s space inside, its grimy gigantic size outside, for me it has full marks “oh” and some of the art work inside is quite worth a look at while you are at it. Bear in mind all those rotten teeth that paid for this building, as it was the philanthropist Mr Tate and Lyle, sugar barons, that gave us this one, plus the one at Vauxhall, and while we are at it don’t forget the other two, Tate Liverpool and Tate St. Ives.
You have to leave the Thames path for a diversion as I write this due to Blackfriars train-bridge being turned into a station [now finished and you can pass under the bridge again]. Quite reminiscent of old, old London-bridge, as that was full of houses and shops way, but that was way back.
Look out for the Mad Hatter pub, Stamford St. before you rejoin the path via Blackfriars Bridge. Strolling along before you get to The National Theatre there is a bit of a dog leg here, where when the tide retreats out, sand is revealed. You often get artist buskers building wonderful sculptures of sand, well worth dropping fifty pence over the side into their hats.
Anyway more important than that, one ridiculously busy Saturday we encountered a water vole, no defiantly not a rat most defiantly a water vole. I took pictures to prove it, the poor thing was scampering around dodging size ten’s and eight clodhoppers, not to mention stiletto heals. I decided it was my job in life to save this tiny creature from being flattened, so I followed it around with a plastic bag to capture it, so as to be able to release it far away from said marching feet. Thankfully in my chasing it and waving all and sundry out of the way, it made its own way to safety. Of course other pedestrians could not see the vole only some lunatic bent over double scurrying around waving his empty sandwich bag trying to reclaim, no-doubt, his lost sandwich.
Under Waterloo Bridge a quick look at the second hand book stalls, this place is always so cold even in summer but I guess it keeps the rain off. Past the Royal Festival Hall, great cheap seats to top-notch plays, music buskers are all along this part especially at weekends. There is often a fantastic South American band playing Latino music, boy you just wish you could do the Tango or Salsa dancing, as your feet just want to join in. Forget your British and enjoy, but you can’t and you are British so you don’t, as I walk away I remember the words,
“When the time comes to sit it out or dance, always dance my friend always dance, plenty of time to sit it out when you are dead, for now dance.”
I have drifted away now watching the mime actors and “think too late I have all ready died.”
You are now approaching the big wheel, or London Eye as they prefer to call it, built originally only on a temporarily basis, in as much as the planning order was only for five years. But its popularity has been such that it is now a permanent feature, looking over towards the Houses of parliament also a permanent feature, least until the uprising starts.
It was here one day in the spring of 2010 that my walk along the Thames escalated into what it has become a journey to the source. What actually happened was this I was thinking to myself “I have never walked on the south-side seeing The Palace of Westminster from this angle, to-day I will, so set off. I then kept walking wandering what is around the next bend past the next bridge? The Thames coils and curls like a snake bending around on itself, straightening, narrowing, widening. In-fact just doing what any respectable river dose, it meanders, it carves, it finds its way from an upper higher trickle, down to the great seas, being joined in this process by tributaries of smaller rivers all along its route. Most of these rivers that ran trough London have been concreted over, lost from view, yet still running. They are the Fleet River, which can be heard in various basements along its route down from Hampstead Heath and empties out near Blackfriars. Others are the Stamford brook, the Walbrook, which comes out near Cannon Street, the Peck, Ravensbourne, the Earls Sluice and many, many more.
While I am running these name past you I would like to mention a terrific book about London it is called “London The Biography” written by Peter Ackroyd a delightful read, full of information about the History of London, written in an entertaining way, a book you can dip in and out of at leisure. It covers from before the Romans until today, full of places you just want to visit, only problem is it is too dam large and heavy to traipse around with you, when out walking.
Under Lambeth Bridge “Oy doing the Lambeth walk,” Not. Keep a steady heading for Vauxhall. The home of one of our secret service looks not so ideally out onto the Thames nestling next to the bridge. Alongside this is one of the slipways which gives access down into the Thames, this used by the "Duck Tour Company" to launch its amphibious vehicles into the water, on which the tourists can go on their site seeing tours around London's roads and its River.
On this particular day the tide was out, much of the riverbed was exposed, sat in a wheel chair right up to the water line was a lone figure. The amphibious machine rather than flatten the poor chap veered around him to enter the water. The tide would soon be on the turn so some one had no doubt reported the man. A police launch as well as the river fire rescue service came along. I stood up on the higher bank so was unable to hear the conversation but it was obviouse the man refused any help to move him to higher around.
The man has his rights, to do as he wishes, so maybe he now swims with the fishes.
When I carried on my walk he still sat a lonely figure contemplating the waters flow, maybe enough was enough for him, maybe he had adequate muscle power in his arms to get himself across the mud and up the launch slope, maybe his carer was due to return to ensure he would be taken safely out of reach of the swirling Thames. I am afraid I do not know the outcome to his dilemma, if there was even a dilemma, for I had my own ends to attend to, of which this man, this time did not play a roll, apart from being one of the many observations I have made on my journey.
Round yet another curve in the river, to those, huge, four chimneys of Battersea Power Station, which still lays half demolished awaiting its final usage outcome. It has had, many owners who have had marvellous plans for it only, up to now, to run out of money and vision.
Up onto Chelsea Bridge through the gates of Battersea Park, where its reaches down the Thames wall, one of the many parks that accompany me on my walks. It is full of trees ponds and hidden gardens. But my favourite structure in this park is the Golden Buddha in the Peace Pagoda, four sided with the story of his enlightenment to his death or non-death depending on what you believe in, whichever a striking peaceful statue, donated from Japanese Buddhist.
Today is a fine sunny spring day I sit in the warming sunshine chomping into my sandwiches slugging back mouth-full’s of water, all is well with the world, the green, grey Thames slips past, dogs run, children screech and laugh, parents stride to retrieve miss kicked balls or thrown lopsided Frisbees, ah nothing could be finer.
Backpack slung on my shoulders, containing any remaining sandwich, along with indispensable water, cagoule for the no-doubting wet weather, black plastic bin bag that doubles as ground sheet and extra water proof in-case of deluge.
Round yet another curve in the river, to those, huge, four chimneys of Battersea Power Station, which still lays half demolished awaiting its final usage outcome. It has had, many owners who have had marvellous plans for it only, up to now, to run out of money and vision.
Up onto Chelsea Bridge through the gates of Battersea Park, where its reaches down the Thames wall, one of the many parks that accompany me on my walks. It is full of trees ponds and hidden gardens. But my favourite structure in this park is the Golden Buddha in the Peace Pagoda, four sided with the story of his enlightenment to his death or non-death depending on what you believe in, whichever a striking peaceful statue, donated from Japanese Buddhist.
Today is a fine sunny spring day I sit in the warming sunshine chomping into my sandwiches slugging back mouth-full’s of water, all is well with the world, the green, grey Thames slips past, dogs run, children screech and laugh, parents stride to retrieve miss kicked balls or thrown lopsided Frisbees, ah nothing could be finer.
Backpack slung on my shoulders, containing any remaining sandwich, along with indispensable water, cagoule for the no-doubting wet weather, black plastic bin bag that doubles as ground sheet and extra water proof in-case of deluge.
Depending on time of year extra jumper, camera always, book and glasses always, for those ideal, idle moments. Not forgetting to pack a sense of fun, this again always carried about my person. I seem to go most places with my backpack lately, like a snail or tortoise carrying my home on my back ready for all events, except maybe for a dinner and dance, black tie, dinner suite etc.
Chapter 3
It has now become a goal, the idea, that it would be good to walk to the source of this grand water way, although I have no idea how far I have to go, just enjoying the moment of an idea formed. I return, days, some time weeks after to the spot I last left my faithful friend, the Thames, carrying on as though we never parted company. Today the sun for some reason has decided to hide, but still I am still sporting my shorts. Grey skies don’t scare my legs, even if my legs do scare small children and old ladies.
Up past Albert Bridge, named after my own dear father, comes Battersea Bridge. On the opposite side, tied up against Cheyne Walk, are a number of boat-homes. They have been there as long as I can remember. As a child, on our way to Cornwall we would pass through the centre of London in the early hours of the morning, all full of excitement, on route for the A30 to head south. We would pass these water homes, I was so envious of them, to have the water lapping you to sleep each night, to be able to bringing school friends home to such a different place seemed idyllic to a small boy. Ha ho another dream never enacted upon, the important thing is to have those dreams. Some you may turn into a reality while others remain as in the ether, forever to aim at, for that is equally a value to hold in your life, as are goals achieved.
Wandsworth and Putney Bridges come into view, my tramping legs take me under and away from them, under and into the shade of the line of trees in Wandsworth Park.
Teams of rowers come into sight will these be the future Oxford and Cambridge boat race winners I wonder ? Probably not as I have miles to go to reach Oxford yet and Cambridge is up the M11 not even on the Thames!!
At Putney Bridge I decide to cross over to travel on the north side for a while as I wish to walk through Bishops Park, it is again, a lovely park a mixture of old and new. At the entrance stands All Saints Church, within the grounds is also Fulham Palace, apparently well worth a visit inside, although I did not.
It claims to have a 500 year-old oak tree. It has an ancient orchard with lines of gnarled old trees, when I was there they were not bearing fruit, but it is still a delightful walk. Out of the park I have to wonder in the streets away from the Thames, as Fulham Football stadium has claimed that part, stretching, well I would say, the length of a football pitch at a guess. I rejoin the Thames path along a new build, low-rise housing estate what a glorious view they have, for what looks like affordable priced homes.
I stroll onto to Hammersmith Bridge, here are the bends much seen during the televising of the “Boat race” watched each year by some nine million in the U.K. and up to a possible hundred and twenty million worldwide. The race travels from Putney to Chiswick, the course has varied a number of times since its inaugural race back in 1829. Although the second race did not accure until 1836, it was in 1838 that it really took of as a tradition and has taken place every year since, as a real niggle of a battle between Oxford and Cambridge University teams. When I said every year that was misleading as two periods have interrupted the event they were troublesome in their own way as they were the two world wars.
I can remember families being torn apart as to whose side you were on, the races not the wars that is. We would gather around the T.V. cheering on your team, having placed our shilling bet with our mum on the outcome, we had no real allegiance, except my dad he had the same team every year, my brothers believe it was Cambridge. Where as myself and my brothers and sister, would switch teams yearly if not in fact half way through the race, denying we had placed our bets on the loosing team, in fear of saying good bye to our precious shilling, worth today probably about one and half pence. But back then you could purchase all manner of things, from at least seeing a film then a good night out at the pub, to stagger home grabbing a fish super on the way home or something like that, you try that today, no way, I blame inflation, or Magie Thatcher maybe the same thing!
Anyway all that aside, on and around these banks, each year gathering in the April, are about quarter of a million spectators braving the weathers. Some probably hoping to catch sight of a sinking boat, as has happened at least six time. Once with both teams going under. There are no university squads out on this day, but instead numerous amounts of smaller racing row boats with teams of four, plus a few singles sculling. They are all, probably, from some of the eighty or more rowing clubs dotted up and down the river.
As I stand and watch an extremely delightful all woman team who are launching and boarding their racing boat all of them lithe and fit, I wonder how much has the male trainer had to pay to get that job? I am hoping they are heading for the Olympic games, but for now just heading up river, being shouted at by their male coach in his motor boat.
If you want to know which university has won the most race’s, why not Google it, as I did. Today there is just myself, with the occasional dog walker, [don’t get me started] watching these antics of “playing about on the river.” I keep heading west and am soon rewarded with passing under Barnes railway bridge, on-towards Chiswick Bridge I go. The distance covered by my sixty-one year old legs varies, some days I walk five miles other days I will clock up ten all depends on weather, the amount of side tracking of the path I do, or just plain stamina not to mention how soon the aching of the feet set in.
Rain begins to drizzle I afford some protection from the trees that line the path they form a natural archway of beauty. Gradually these become like sponges unable to hold it any longer the water penetrates through, onto yours truly. I have already donned my waterproof jacket but my poor bare knees are feeling the chill, as it is not yet full summer but I still feel my legs need an airing.
By the time I reach Kew Bridge it is chucking it down the rain is running of my cagoule like a blue mini waterfall. I ask at the gates to Kew Garden the quickest way to the tube she points across the Park, but being tight fisted, or on a budget as I like to call it, I refuse to pay the entrance fee, so have to slug it around the outside of the boundary walls, probably an extra twenty minuets walk. Still the coffee bar is all the more welcoming for that, I try to get some warmth back into these fine pumping knees before, I jump on the tube home. Kew Station is lovely, as is the village feel that has been made by all the shops and café’s around it, quaint as anything.
For those who have never been to Kew shame on you, you do not have to be into plants to be amazed by the collection of trees shrubs and flowers. They now have a tree top walk, not quite as long or as high as the one I took while in Australia in the rain forest, but well worth a climb up the steps. The hot houses are both varied and a treat, from desert to rain forest conditions, the orchids alone are worth a day out.
I restart my journey at Kew it’s a long curve of a walk to Richmond the Thames is visible most of the time but often the path descends into thick wooded growth and taking the river from view. As I walk I feel this is well worth the effort. It is as though I am far off in the country, with greenery on both side of the river as far as you can see, I could be miles from any town or city, let alone the great London.
While reading one of the many notice boards dotted along the walk two ladies approach it also to read. They are backpacked up with sturdy walking boots, I venture to ask where they are headed it turns out they are also walking the Thames path but in reverse to me. They had started from the source working their way towards London they also use the same format as me returning by bus and trains home at the end of each walk. They had been doing it since the spring a year ago covering the same sort of distance as myself each day, depending on all the variables.
We wished each other good luck, I watched their receding backs wondering how close their friendship had been before and would be at the end of their marathon walk, who’s idea was it? Was there a shared desire as well as shared decision making? It had occurred to me that at times it would have been good to have some one to chat to who knew me well, but that also had the baggage of responsibility. We each need time for ourselves, to make decisions only pertaining to ourselves alone. So much of our life is interwoven with others, their needs their preferences it is good to take time out for self, never to the determent of those we love. But to find space in our heads for a variety of thoughts, be they earth shattering or simple desirers, fantasies, old memories, new decisions or just plain random action-less sparks of ideas, or even indeed, plots to my books!
I still wonder have they yet finished their walk yet and to how far? Was Tower Bridge their final destination or did they walk the lonely, some times blighted, parts East of Woolwich onto Allhallows-on-sea? Guess I shall never know, up wards onwards, “Blast” I think they had the good sense to walk down hill, unlike myself! [just can't let it go can you, you silly sod]
Chapter 3
It has now become a goal, the idea, that it would be good to walk to the source of this grand water way, although I have no idea how far I have to go, just enjoying the moment of an idea formed. I return, days, some time weeks after to the spot I last left my faithful friend, the Thames, carrying on as though we never parted company. Today the sun for some reason has decided to hide, but still I am still sporting my shorts. Grey skies don’t scare my legs, even if my legs do scare small children and old ladies.
Up past Albert Bridge, named after my own dear father, comes Battersea Bridge. On the opposite side, tied up against Cheyne Walk, are a number of boat-homes. They have been there as long as I can remember. As a child, on our way to Cornwall we would pass through the centre of London in the early hours of the morning, all full of excitement, on route for the A30 to head south. We would pass these water homes, I was so envious of them, to have the water lapping you to sleep each night, to be able to bringing school friends home to such a different place seemed idyllic to a small boy. Ha ho another dream never enacted upon, the important thing is to have those dreams. Some you may turn into a reality while others remain as in the ether, forever to aim at, for that is equally a value to hold in your life, as are goals achieved.
Wandsworth and Putney Bridges come into view, my tramping legs take me under and away from them, under and into the shade of the line of trees in Wandsworth Park.
Teams of rowers come into sight will these be the future Oxford and Cambridge boat race winners I wonder ? Probably not as I have miles to go to reach Oxford yet and Cambridge is up the M11 not even on the Thames!!
At Putney Bridge I decide to cross over to travel on the north side for a while as I wish to walk through Bishops Park, it is again, a lovely park a mixture of old and new. At the entrance stands All Saints Church, within the grounds is also Fulham Palace, apparently well worth a visit inside, although I did not.
It claims to have a 500 year-old oak tree. It has an ancient orchard with lines of gnarled old trees, when I was there they were not bearing fruit, but it is still a delightful walk. Out of the park I have to wonder in the streets away from the Thames, as Fulham Football stadium has claimed that part, stretching, well I would say, the length of a football pitch at a guess. I rejoin the Thames path along a new build, low-rise housing estate what a glorious view they have, for what looks like affordable priced homes.
I stroll onto to Hammersmith Bridge, here are the bends much seen during the televising of the “Boat race” watched each year by some nine million in the U.K. and up to a possible hundred and twenty million worldwide. The race travels from Putney to Chiswick, the course has varied a number of times since its inaugural race back in 1829. Although the second race did not accure until 1836, it was in 1838 that it really took of as a tradition and has taken place every year since, as a real niggle of a battle between Oxford and Cambridge University teams. When I said every year that was misleading as two periods have interrupted the event they were troublesome in their own way as they were the two world wars.
I can remember families being torn apart as to whose side you were on, the races not the wars that is. We would gather around the T.V. cheering on your team, having placed our shilling bet with our mum on the outcome, we had no real allegiance, except my dad he had the same team every year, my brothers believe it was Cambridge. Where as myself and my brothers and sister, would switch teams yearly if not in fact half way through the race, denying we had placed our bets on the loosing team, in fear of saying good bye to our precious shilling, worth today probably about one and half pence. But back then you could purchase all manner of things, from at least seeing a film then a good night out at the pub, to stagger home grabbing a fish super on the way home or something like that, you try that today, no way, I blame inflation, or Magie Thatcher maybe the same thing!
Anyway all that aside, on and around these banks, each year gathering in the April, are about quarter of a million spectators braving the weathers. Some probably hoping to catch sight of a sinking boat, as has happened at least six time. Once with both teams going under. There are no university squads out on this day, but instead numerous amounts of smaller racing row boats with teams of four, plus a few singles sculling. They are all, probably, from some of the eighty or more rowing clubs dotted up and down the river.
As I stand and watch an extremely delightful all woman team who are launching and boarding their racing boat all of them lithe and fit, I wonder how much has the male trainer had to pay to get that job? I am hoping they are heading for the Olympic games, but for now just heading up river, being shouted at by their male coach in his motor boat.
If you want to know which university has won the most race’s, why not Google it, as I did. Today there is just myself, with the occasional dog walker, [don’t get me started] watching these antics of “playing about on the river.” I keep heading west and am soon rewarded with passing under Barnes railway bridge, on-towards Chiswick Bridge I go. The distance covered by my sixty-one year old legs varies, some days I walk five miles other days I will clock up ten all depends on weather, the amount of side tracking of the path I do, or just plain stamina not to mention how soon the aching of the feet set in.
Rain begins to drizzle I afford some protection from the trees that line the path they form a natural archway of beauty. Gradually these become like sponges unable to hold it any longer the water penetrates through, onto yours truly. I have already donned my waterproof jacket but my poor bare knees are feeling the chill, as it is not yet full summer but I still feel my legs need an airing.
By the time I reach Kew Bridge it is chucking it down the rain is running of my cagoule like a blue mini waterfall. I ask at the gates to Kew Garden the quickest way to the tube she points across the Park, but being tight fisted, or on a budget as I like to call it, I refuse to pay the entrance fee, so have to slug it around the outside of the boundary walls, probably an extra twenty minuets walk. Still the coffee bar is all the more welcoming for that, I try to get some warmth back into these fine pumping knees before, I jump on the tube home. Kew Station is lovely, as is the village feel that has been made by all the shops and café’s around it, quaint as anything.
For those who have never been to Kew shame on you, you do not have to be into plants to be amazed by the collection of trees shrubs and flowers. They now have a tree top walk, not quite as long or as high as the one I took while in Australia in the rain forest, but well worth a climb up the steps. The hot houses are both varied and a treat, from desert to rain forest conditions, the orchids alone are worth a day out.
I restart my journey at Kew it’s a long curve of a walk to Richmond the Thames is visible most of the time but often the path descends into thick wooded growth and taking the river from view. As I walk I feel this is well worth the effort. It is as though I am far off in the country, with greenery on both side of the river as far as you can see, I could be miles from any town or city, let alone the great London.
While reading one of the many notice boards dotted along the walk two ladies approach it also to read. They are backpacked up with sturdy walking boots, I venture to ask where they are headed it turns out they are also walking the Thames path but in reverse to me. They had started from the source working their way towards London they also use the same format as me returning by bus and trains home at the end of each walk. They had been doing it since the spring a year ago covering the same sort of distance as myself each day, depending on all the variables.
We wished each other good luck, I watched their receding backs wondering how close their friendship had been before and would be at the end of their marathon walk, who’s idea was it? Was there a shared desire as well as shared decision making? It had occurred to me that at times it would have been good to have some one to chat to who knew me well, but that also had the baggage of responsibility. We each need time for ourselves, to make decisions only pertaining to ourselves alone. So much of our life is interwoven with others, their needs their preferences it is good to take time out for self, never to the determent of those we love. But to find space in our heads for a variety of thoughts, be they earth shattering or simple desirers, fantasies, old memories, new decisions or just plain random action-less sparks of ideas, or even indeed, plots to my books!
I still wonder have they yet finished their walk yet and to how far? Was Tower Bridge their final destination or did they walk the lonely, some times blighted, parts East of Woolwich onto Allhallows-on-sea? Guess I shall never know, up wards onwards, “Blast” I think they had the good sense to walk down hill, unlike myself! [just can't let it go can you, you silly sod]
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Not far from Ham a plaque and momment showing the limits of the Thames Conservancy, who was responsible for its upkeep.
Twickenham here I come, South of Richmond you will pass Ham House, or you may not pass it as I did. But go and venture around it. A beautiful 17th century house set in impressive grounds, it has a sculpture of “Old Father Thames” by John Bacon at the front. I had all ready encountered one at!! Gosh I can’t remember at the moment I shall return to that later.
On the bend lays one of the many islands this one is home to the Twickenham rowing club. Some distance on, I come to a bridge and weir the bridge is very familiar, it’s only a footbridge but I know it, I start to think back where do I know this from then it hits me. A life long friend of mine, well since I was about twenty-three, Jonathan Shaw came into my life, he taught me many things. He was my first yoga teacher he tapped into my universal attitude to the world.
I was already a member of Friends of the Earth, so was growing an ideology within myself about what was right. It was from Jonathan’s influence I have become and remain a vegetarian. I carry yoga with me as a life long attitude and strength, even if not always practising the physical side.
I try to retain the mental side, karma to me is a force that exists, there are no actions that do not have reactions, and there is no escaping our actions, what goes around comes around. To feel good about ourselves is a natural desire, doing to others, as we would have them do to us, is the way to treat everyone we encounter, then we may begin to feel wonderful about the full-of-wonder that we all are.
“All very well” I here you say “And what dose a bridge and a weir have to do with my friendship” It is that as I cross over to Ferry Road to begin my journey home for the day, that I remember staying at the home of Colin, another friends of Jonathans. They lived in Strawberry Vale road, their garden running down to the Thames. A lovely house with twisting lopsided staircase’s, small rooms cluttered with paintings, sculptures, and antique glass bottles. We spent the weekend there talking eating drinking, about half a dozen of us, my ex brother-in-law Len, even went swimming in the Thames. I had to walk past this property to get my bus so knocked on the door, the outside had the same look about, as I peered through there window trying to spot any thing I remembered, and guess what? I did not! and Guess who opened the door? No one! As no one was home, it was forty odd years ago so probably they have moved on anyway, as it was time for me to do also, as had I spied a bus coming. A week on I rejoin the river via the footbridge at the Ferry Road for the second time.
“All very well” I here you say “And what dose a bridge and a weir have to do with my friendship” It is that as I cross over to Ferry Road to begin my journey home for the day, that I remember staying at the home of Colin, another friends of Jonathans. They lived in Strawberry Vale road, their garden running down to the Thames. A lovely house with twisting lopsided staircase’s, small rooms cluttered with paintings, sculptures, and antique glass bottles. We spent the weekend there talking eating drinking, about half a dozen of us, my ex brother-in-law Len, even went swimming in the Thames. I had to walk past this property to get my bus so knocked on the door, the outside had the same look about, as I peered through there window trying to spot any thing I remembered, and guess what? I did not! and Guess who opened the door? No one! As no one was home, it was forty odd years ago so probably they have moved on anyway, as it was time for me to do also, as had I spied a bus coming. A week on I rejoin the river via the footbridge at the Ferry Road for the second time.
Hampton Wick is next to be drawing near. Spacing between bridges are getting further and further apart, as do train stations to return home by. I might just add here that if this is ever printed, if you ever read this Blog or purchase it in print as a book, if ever you go on this pilgrimage DO NOT use this as guidelines for your walk. Reason I say this is that some of my days and walks tend to merge within my paragraphs, in other words this is not full of correct time lines, or mileage accuracy, this is not a day by day diary, apart from the diary in my head that is. I make notes but when typing them up there may be a number of weeks in between walking and writing.
Another reason for this warning is because foolishly do not carrying a map of the path, some times I have been so full of my thoughts that I missed directional arrows for continuing the path across a bridge to the other side, the Thames Path does meander from north to south and back again a number of times throughout its length. It was here at the Horse Fair bridge I missed directional signs, hence a good mile and half walk that at the end of it the path petered out. I asked at a boat yard, about the next bridge to get me back on track. I was told my choices are to go back or go into town, of course had it been at the weekend I could have taken a ferry across at this spot, but being as it was a Wednesday I could not. I decided to retrace my mile and a half steps back, then cross over on the bridge to the north side. Applying my legs to redo my mile and half to get me to where I would have been, yes to are right not a “happy bunny.”
Sit, have sandwich, swig water, chill out contemplate the swans that were eyeing my crust, but not as much as eyed them. "Ha ho" pay more attention in future, “Yeh sure” now move on. I get level with where I had been, I sneer the spot then urge my aching instep to stop moaning we were all in the same boat or pair of boots anyway.
“Ahh” a boat! I wonder if any one has ever tried hitchhike on the Thames path? as numerous private cruisers and barges saunter up and down throughout the day. I just wonder what the reaction would be, were it not for the principle of “Walking” the Thames path I would have been interested to experiment.
I had, in my past, hitchhiked across up and down the U.K. Across Europe, Canada, Ireland and little in New Zealand. It brought with it many introductions to smart, interesting people, along with loonies, once a U.F.O. watcher picked me up and proceeded to interrogate me about any of my close encounters. As he insisted we all knew some one who had such an experience, on learning I had not nor knew anyone who had, he ejected me from his car. Then after this lift I even got to meet an actual extra-terrestrials it's self, or so he claimed, he was posing as a French Canadian from Quebec at the time, well We were in canada making our way across its vast country from East to West and back.
I have survived a completely mad Spaniard, in France who believed he was a racing drivers on a suicide mission. But mainly they were friendly sane, delightful people. Who were of the ilk of humanity that stopped to give lifts to strangers, be it for short or long distances.
I wondered, would the boating fraternity produce the same mix? I pondered as I walked. Well it was irrelevant, as it was the job of my not too complaining body to accomplish this task. And not well meaning sailors, if they even existed! To speed me to the river’s source.
My next bridge and stop was to be Hampton Court, where may I say proudly, that my young brother Peter has exhibited and won three Bronze medals three years running, in his independent gardens entry, at the famous flower and garden show, independent apart from a small subsidy form Barking and Dagenham council once they realised he was a winner, after his first year showing there. He deserved at least silver, if not gold for all three, but just being accepted “to show” is an honour in its self, so well done bro.
The final approach along the path, beside Hampton Court Palace wall, was sunny but cool; as our summers are want to be, at times. I was debating on entering the park for an extra stroll but my feet reminded me of the extra three miles plus, which they had do to get me here, was quite enough, all because the eyes had not paid attention, which is part of their job, as well as absorbing beauty and the all odd sights I encounter.
Up on the bridge I am suddenly acquainted with the size of my undertaking if I am to complete the journey that is. For I find a sign post, most up-to now tell you how far too the next couple of destinations in either direction but this one told me how far I had walked since Tower Bridge, which was 29 miles. Mind you, add on the many times up and down the Thames while in central London as well as detours both meant and not meant, you could add at least another ten miles, not forgetting my excursions east of Tower Bridge, “oh” haven’t I mentioned those yet, well I will. But as I said, the task in hand was still pretty considerable, I have yet to do147 miles West to complete this trip to the river’s source.
The only map I had at this point was one showing where all the train station’s are in relation to the Thames, and that is only rudimentary one not exact by any means. Therefore when I should have crossed over to the North-side path at Walton Bridge, I did not realise it should be so, as I had not seen signs of change of pathway! So I carried merrily along, admiring bird songs that emitted from the greenery, until I reached a diversion of ways in the river. Mine was hither on the other bank. I dreaded another walk back for some miles, but all was not lost, a small ferry plied its service going from Weybridge on the south to Shepperton on the north. When I found I was going in the wrong direction I turned around, not looking forward to the extra hike, to pleasantly find this ferry, which could hold about a dozen people, streaming across to pick up a young lady who had hailed it. For the price of a cup of coffee I joined them and was soon on my way north of the river, west bound.
Not long after eating, walking, admiring and thinking, I pass under the M3 motorway. I’m amazed how far west I have walked, as the only time I have encountered the M3 before, is when driving. I notice more and more airplanes as they descend on their heading to Heathrow. I am again on their flight-path, I say again, as while still in closer bounds to London, their flight paths were to follow the Thames along at Putney region. They would be so low that their underbellies would be looking awfully near, then let alone now.
On my approach to Stains I pass an area known as Penton Hook Lock where you can cross on the lock gates to the islands, they have a number of weirs tumbling, frothing dangerously, as the `Thames makes its way down hill to the sea. I come across four police cars parked down a side road, then policemen standing on duty not allowing any one to gain access to the island, on the island I see more reflector jackets moving about, it dose not take much to realise all is not well. Sadly, on getting home that night on London news, I hear of two young men have drowned at this spot, trying to save their dog. The Thames is beautiful, but is equally unforgiving to those, no matter how brave, who do not respect or underestimate its power.
Over Stains Bridge, originally an early Roman settlement, then again where wasn’t there an early Roman settlement in Britain. “Oh all-right” north of Hadrian’s Wall, Scotland but then again would you? Being a person of Mediterranean blood and memories of constant sunshine would you want to go to Scotland, as if mist covered England wasn’t enough.
It is not long before I go under that great Roman Road “Ye old M25” if you stand under the spans and keep very quite you can still hear the clatter of hooves a the chariots pass over in their ghostly way followed by the thump, thump, thump of marching centurions, as they circled Londinium. I stand listening for ghosts and practise my singing out loud because of the acoustics.
I am looking towards home as I pass the two Large wind turbines erected on what was Dagenham biggest factories, good old Dagenham Fords Motor Company opened in 1931, it had produced over ten million cars in its lifetime. Its last cars, a Ford Fiesta models were built in 2002, it now only makes engines, its scale of production reduced drastically with downturn of the car sales market.
Onwards towards Erith the landscape on both north and south are dotted with factories, metal and paper reclaim yards, car junkyards, concrete distributers, waste landfill or sewage-works.
To the eye it is sometime desolation at work, a hinterland not to be returned to. Then the tied goes out and wildfowl flock to the mud, feeding in great quantities. Reed beds survive, or more likely those who understand the life cycle of rivers and its life force have replanted them.
The sky is mud grey same as the Thames although a wind blows it is not cold, leastways not with woolly hat and scarf as I hunkered down within my warm coat walking, walking, walking, observing finding space both in my mind as well as my the outside world. I get as far as Greenhithe where I take a bus to Blue-water shopping centre to enjoy, yup you got it, a coffee then head home.
Please see my second page, to carry following me on my walking and observations of the Thames, as well as the meanderings of my mind, thank you M. J. London.
I have now also published on this blog the first of my short stories see it on page six i hope you enjoy it.
My next bridge and stop was to be Hampton Court, where may I say proudly, that my young brother Peter has exhibited and won three Bronze medals three years running, in his independent gardens entry, at the famous flower and garden show, independent apart from a small subsidy form Barking and Dagenham council once they realised he was a winner, after his first year showing there. He deserved at least silver, if not gold for all three, but just being accepted “to show” is an honour in its self, so well done bro.
The final approach along the path, beside Hampton Court Palace wall, was sunny but cool; as our summers are want to be, at times. I was debating on entering the park for an extra stroll but my feet reminded me of the extra three miles plus, which they had do to get me here, was quite enough, all because the eyes had not paid attention, which is part of their job, as well as absorbing beauty and the all odd sights I encounter.
Up on the bridge I am suddenly acquainted with the size of my undertaking if I am to complete the journey that is. For I find a sign post, most up-to now tell you how far too the next couple of destinations in either direction but this one told me how far I had walked since Tower Bridge, which was 29 miles. Mind you, add on the many times up and down the Thames while in central London as well as detours both meant and not meant, you could add at least another ten miles, not forgetting my excursions east of Tower Bridge, “oh” haven’t I mentioned those yet, well I will. But as I said, the task in hand was still pretty considerable, I have yet to do147 miles West to complete this trip to the river’s source.
With that I found a café to settled down to a read and rest before getting the train home. The train took me to Waterloo, then on the tube to Dagenham at least a two hour journey, which even if my legs feet had not had enough it was now taking longer and longer to get home. Free that is, as I have the jolly good ole bus and train pass, us old gits are given, one thing the government managed to get right, or maybe a thanks to Ken Livingston, then Mayor of London when it was introduced, may be more in order?
Chapter 4
I take the train to Hampton Court I do enjoy trains on the main lines. I would love to take a long journey to somewhere exotic one of these days, the longest I have ever been on was a night sleeper to the South of France with Kay, Sarah and Hannah, when they were small, we all thought it great fun going to sleep in one place, ending miles away in another place, when we woke up. I can still feel and hear the click-aty-clack of the rails, the metal clunk as we uncoupled or coupled with other carriages, the shunting and whistle blowing. It has an air of adventure and romance to it not surpassed by other forms of travel, in my opinion. Trying to sleep in their bunks, I can see Sarah and Hannah, in my minds eye, peeking through their curtains. The beds folded up into the walls, when we were not sleeping on them even this was magic. We still have, somewhere, one of the sleeping bag sheets with SFNR printed on it, standing some how for French National Railways.
The trip to Hampton Court is not so glamorous, or so the every day commuter will tell you, but I enjoyed it seeing London from the backside view, nosing into other people’s back yards as we pass suburbia. Noting well-kept gardens along side those dedicated to children’s play.
It’s a fine warm summers day, I head towards Mosley and Sunbury –On –Thames. The river has narrowed quite considerably now, compared to central London, it also wiggles and squiggles, looping back and forth all the more, so that curves in front of you will suddenly revel a new visage of delights as it straightens out. Then it will widen again to spreading itself around islands big enough to take a number of houses, boatyards and moorings.
Chapter 4
I take the train to Hampton Court I do enjoy trains on the main lines. I would love to take a long journey to somewhere exotic one of these days, the longest I have ever been on was a night sleeper to the South of France with Kay, Sarah and Hannah, when they were small, we all thought it great fun going to sleep in one place, ending miles away in another place, when we woke up. I can still feel and hear the click-aty-clack of the rails, the metal clunk as we uncoupled or coupled with other carriages, the shunting and whistle blowing. It has an air of adventure and romance to it not surpassed by other forms of travel, in my opinion. Trying to sleep in their bunks, I can see Sarah and Hannah, in my minds eye, peeking through their curtains. The beds folded up into the walls, when we were not sleeping on them even this was magic. We still have, somewhere, one of the sleeping bag sheets with SFNR printed on it, standing some how for French National Railways.
The trip to Hampton Court is not so glamorous, or so the every day commuter will tell you, but I enjoyed it seeing London from the backside view, nosing into other people’s back yards as we pass suburbia. Noting well-kept gardens along side those dedicated to children’s play.
It’s a fine warm summers day, I head towards Mosley and Sunbury –On –Thames. The river has narrowed quite considerably now, compared to central London, it also wiggles and squiggles, looping back and forth all the more, so that curves in front of you will suddenly revel a new visage of delights as it straightens out. Then it will widen again to spreading itself around islands big enough to take a number of houses, boatyards and moorings.
The only map I had at this point was one showing where all the train station’s are in relation to the Thames, and that is only rudimentary one not exact by any means. Therefore when I should have crossed over to the North-side path at Walton Bridge, I did not realise it should be so, as I had not seen signs of change of pathway! So I carried merrily along, admiring bird songs that emitted from the greenery, until I reached a diversion of ways in the river. Mine was hither on the other bank. I dreaded another walk back for some miles, but all was not lost, a small ferry plied its service going from Weybridge on the south to Shepperton on the north. When I found I was going in the wrong direction I turned around, not looking forward to the extra hike, to pleasantly find this ferry, which could hold about a dozen people, streaming across to pick up a young lady who had hailed it. For the price of a cup of coffee I joined them and was soon on my way north of the river, west bound.
Not long after eating, walking, admiring and thinking, I pass under the M3 motorway. I’m amazed how far west I have walked, as the only time I have encountered the M3 before, is when driving. I notice more and more airplanes as they descend on their heading to Heathrow. I am again on their flight-path, I say again, as while still in closer bounds to London, their flight paths were to follow the Thames along at Putney region. They would be so low that their underbellies would be looking awfully near, then let alone now.
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| sculptures outside of Stains |
On my approach to Stains I pass an area known as Penton Hook Lock where you can cross on the lock gates to the islands, they have a number of weirs tumbling, frothing dangerously, as the `Thames makes its way down hill to the sea. I come across four police cars parked down a side road, then policemen standing on duty not allowing any one to gain access to the island, on the island I see more reflector jackets moving about, it dose not take much to realise all is not well. Sadly, on getting home that night on London news, I hear of two young men have drowned at this spot, trying to save their dog. The Thames is beautiful, but is equally unforgiving to those, no matter how brave, who do not respect or underestimate its power.
Over Stains Bridge, originally an early Roman settlement, then again where wasn’t there an early Roman settlement in Britain. “Oh all-right” north of Hadrian’s Wall, Scotland but then again would you? Being a person of Mediterranean blood and memories of constant sunshine would you want to go to Scotland, as if mist covered England wasn’t enough.
It is not long before I go under that great Roman Road “Ye old M25” if you stand under the spans and keep very quite you can still hear the clatter of hooves a the chariots pass over in their ghostly way followed by the thump, thump, thump of marching centurions, as they circled Londinium. I stand listening for ghosts and practise my singing out loud because of the acoustics.
I press on, running into Runnymede where King John signed the famous Magna Carta, about 1215, that’s right just after lunch. The Magna Carta known as the Great Charter for English Liberties, of course it has gone down-hill ever since, not unlike the Thames. If you want to see the original paper work as well as many, many wonderful artifacts visit the British Library at Kings Cross.
It is quite amazing that many other countries have adopted and put into their laws for humane rights for their citizens based on this document.
Before returning to the river path I pay a visit to the J.F.K memorial, Kennedy as you know was assassinated in America in 1963 he was their 35th president. He has a fitting memorial, although I have even greater respect for his brother Robert Kennedy who was also sadly assassinated in 1968, both men altering their country for the better, providing we forget the Vietnam war which J.F.K. helped escalated, but hey no ones perfect. This has been another glorious summer day; my knees are nut brown my face has a healthy colour I am still getting away with T-shirts yet I know Autumn will not be long around the corner. There are greater stretches of countryside in-between towns.
The river is dotted with the normal swans, geese, mallards, coot, gulls and moorhens being the most common. On the banks I see robins, black birds, starlings, thrush, jays and the horrid magpie, but suddenly I am seeing a flock of long tailed birds that are green and red in plumage. They are making a raucous noise, which I remember from Australia, for they are indeed parakeets that have escaped captivity and like their humane counterpart swarm, disturb and take over the place. No I love them all birds and humans both are fun to watch, they moan about our weather yet both manage to survive the winters.
In contrast to these glad to be free birds I came across a more disturbing site of British foul. As I walked under a shady part of the Thames the path went along the bottom a number of gardens, sadly at the end of one of these gardens was a large owl in an aviary true it was of a reasonable size cage but still a cage and nothing to compare to the size of what its natural freedom should be. It swivelled its head at me beady-eyeing me up in away of saying “Pass on bye you know you are not going to do anything” and to my shame I have not, of course I did not know where the house was or its address, and no doubt the poor thing had lost all hunting instincts, the real question is “why do humans do such things to creature especially wild ones?“
As the bridges spread even further apart, I have by now learnt to pay careful attention to pathway signs I am approaching Windsor I can see the turrets to the castle from way back so keep a steady course plodding one foot after the other. I round a curve in the river, the Towns come in view, did you know Windsor and Eaton are in such close proximity to each other? I didn’t, and it’s only the Thames that separates them. It is here that I resuscitate my self with a Costa-coffee [please send advertising fee] then head home for the day.
As I walk further and further west it now takes me anything from two to two and a half hours to get from home to where I last left off my walk, this dose not bother me, I either stick my nose in a book and the journey will soon past, or the observing of people and their antics is equally rewarding. Just watching the world go-by from the overland trains and buses windows holds it own amusement.
So it is in this way that I am back at Windsor via Heathrow. I start my walk on the Windsor south side promising myself one-day to return to look around the castle. Many swans regale the river with their pure white feathers, hissing black beaks and stately progress along the green waters. I soon have to cross over to the north side, as they will not allow a path across the Windsor Race Course, some people are fussy.
I am on route to Maidenhead; this will be my last this year as fewer and fewer grand days are in the offering as autumn pushes on. The colours are marvellous reds, yellows, burnt orange, green and brown many leaves are still in the trees waiting for that big wind.My foot tread is often on a carpet of drying leaves for, peace, just myself crunching along, with the occasional robin or black birds song to lift my spirits, the rivers flows clear, sparkling in the soft sun light. I see shoals of fish an inch to three inches long close to the riverbank edge the river bed is sandy or gravely, a world of flowing waters that have seeped out of the earth at some point way to the north west.
I pass under the M4 now, again this clicks in my head as a road I have often travelled on, paying no heed to this peaceful world below my wheels, from where as now I hear the thunder of rubber on tarmac above, though that fades into the distance as I make my way along side my associate, the Thames.
I have passed many weirs and locks on my travels, a great invention to allow the river to flow down hill in an orderly fashion, not to mention that the river is made friendly to the barges and other craft that sail or motor up and down the wonderful waterways of the U.K. There are some very expensive crafts from cabin cruisers, to homes on water, in the form of the converted barges, most owners and crew are more than happy to wave or have a chat. Once on the canals of Hackney Wick I spoke to a couple that had travelled down, all the way from Yorkshire, by canal or river connections. I was envious of them especially as I was in work at the time seven am to five pm day in day out, I shall find it hard to return to such a regime.
On the opposite bank are many homes, some small some grand, all enjoying the treasure at the bottom of their garden, lets just hope with rising sea waters, they do not have to entertain the river in their front rooms. I arrive at the Bath Road Bridge at Maidenhead this has been a good ten-mile stint from Windsor, with every step a pleasant rewarding step. Walking takes time but the physical and mental rewards out-way any rushing about in a tin box, I agree I make use of the car to cross great distances at my leisure, but they is nothing to compare with the satisfaction of reaching a goal under your own steam. I bid Maidenhead farewell, getting a bus back to the nearest station to head home, I feel very good.
My Walks takes me East for a few months until the return of Spring
Chapter 5
Although I have gone as far west as I am going, for 2010 that is, there is no reason while on sunny winter days I should not head east being more local to me. From Tower Bridge I either wander about Shadwell on the north, full of converted warehouse or new built river view homes, or on the south Bermondsey much the same, both pleasant with pubs leaning on the waters edge, if in need of a swift pint or two you can drink and absorb history.
I have walked around the Isle of Dogs seeming to get nowhere in a big loop, on the Thames side I can see the big tent across the river that held the most embarrassing New Year’s Eve party ever, at the Millennium Dome in 2000, once thought a white elephant, it is now one of the top venues for music concerts, known as The O2 Arena. I can recommend a night out there food and entertainment guaranteed, Poor Michael Jackson never made it there, his fifty nights concerts had to be cancelled, upon his very sad death in 2009.
Near Island Garden DLR tube you can walk [when it is open] under the Thames to Greenwich both banks are excellent walks, but Greenwich is an area to visit on a totally separate time, taking in the Royal Observatory, along with the Meridian Line, the National Maritime Museum, its parks and great markets, for now I am still on a mission, that of the Thames.
It is quite amazing that many other countries have adopted and put into their laws for humane rights for their citizens based on this document.
Before returning to the river path I pay a visit to the J.F.K memorial, Kennedy as you know was assassinated in America in 1963 he was their 35th president. He has a fitting memorial, although I have even greater respect for his brother Robert Kennedy who was also sadly assassinated in 1968, both men altering their country for the better, providing we forget the Vietnam war which J.F.K. helped escalated, but hey no ones perfect. This has been another glorious summer day; my knees are nut brown my face has a healthy colour I am still getting away with T-shirts yet I know Autumn will not be long around the corner. There are greater stretches of countryside in-between towns.
The river is dotted with the normal swans, geese, mallards, coot, gulls and moorhens being the most common. On the banks I see robins, black birds, starlings, thrush, jays and the horrid magpie, but suddenly I am seeing a flock of long tailed birds that are green and red in plumage. They are making a raucous noise, which I remember from Australia, for they are indeed parakeets that have escaped captivity and like their humane counterpart swarm, disturb and take over the place. No I love them all birds and humans both are fun to watch, they moan about our weather yet both manage to survive the winters.
In contrast to these glad to be free birds I came across a more disturbing site of British foul. As I walked under a shady part of the Thames the path went along the bottom a number of gardens, sadly at the end of one of these gardens was a large owl in an aviary true it was of a reasonable size cage but still a cage and nothing to compare to the size of what its natural freedom should be. It swivelled its head at me beady-eyeing me up in away of saying “Pass on bye you know you are not going to do anything” and to my shame I have not, of course I did not know where the house was or its address, and no doubt the poor thing had lost all hunting instincts, the real question is “why do humans do such things to creature especially wild ones?“
As the bridges spread even further apart, I have by now learnt to pay careful attention to pathway signs I am approaching Windsor I can see the turrets to the castle from way back so keep a steady course plodding one foot after the other. I round a curve in the river, the Towns come in view, did you know Windsor and Eaton are in such close proximity to each other? I didn’t, and it’s only the Thames that separates them. It is here that I resuscitate my self with a Costa-coffee [please send advertising fee] then head home for the day.
As I walk further and further west it now takes me anything from two to two and a half hours to get from home to where I last left off my walk, this dose not bother me, I either stick my nose in a book and the journey will soon past, or the observing of people and their antics is equally rewarding. Just watching the world go-by from the overland trains and buses windows holds it own amusement.
So it is in this way that I am back at Windsor via Heathrow. I start my walk on the Windsor south side promising myself one-day to return to look around the castle. Many swans regale the river with their pure white feathers, hissing black beaks and stately progress along the green waters. I soon have to cross over to the north side, as they will not allow a path across the Windsor Race Course, some people are fussy.
I am on route to Maidenhead; this will be my last this year as fewer and fewer grand days are in the offering as autumn pushes on. The colours are marvellous reds, yellows, burnt orange, green and brown many leaves are still in the trees waiting for that big wind.My foot tread is often on a carpet of drying leaves for, peace, just myself crunching along, with the occasional robin or black birds song to lift my spirits, the rivers flows clear, sparkling in the soft sun light. I see shoals of fish an inch to three inches long close to the riverbank edge the river bed is sandy or gravely, a world of flowing waters that have seeped out of the earth at some point way to the north west.
I pass under the M4 now, again this clicks in my head as a road I have often travelled on, paying no heed to this peaceful world below my wheels, from where as now I hear the thunder of rubber on tarmac above, though that fades into the distance as I make my way along side my associate, the Thames.
I have passed many weirs and locks on my travels, a great invention to allow the river to flow down hill in an orderly fashion, not to mention that the river is made friendly to the barges and other craft that sail or motor up and down the wonderful waterways of the U.K. There are some very expensive crafts from cabin cruisers, to homes on water, in the form of the converted barges, most owners and crew are more than happy to wave or have a chat. Once on the canals of Hackney Wick I spoke to a couple that had travelled down, all the way from Yorkshire, by canal or river connections. I was envious of them especially as I was in work at the time seven am to five pm day in day out, I shall find it hard to return to such a regime.
On the opposite bank are many homes, some small some grand, all enjoying the treasure at the bottom of their garden, lets just hope with rising sea waters, they do not have to entertain the river in their front rooms. I arrive at the Bath Road Bridge at Maidenhead this has been a good ten-mile stint from Windsor, with every step a pleasant rewarding step. Walking takes time but the physical and mental rewards out-way any rushing about in a tin box, I agree I make use of the car to cross great distances at my leisure, but they is nothing to compare with the satisfaction of reaching a goal under your own steam. I bid Maidenhead farewell, getting a bus back to the nearest station to head home, I feel very good.
My Walks takes me East for a few months until the return of Spring
Chapter 5
Although I have gone as far west as I am going, for 2010 that is, there is no reason while on sunny winter days I should not head east being more local to me. From Tower Bridge I either wander about Shadwell on the north, full of converted warehouse or new built river view homes, or on the south Bermondsey much the same, both pleasant with pubs leaning on the waters edge, if in need of a swift pint or two you can drink and absorb history.
I have walked around the Isle of Dogs seeming to get nowhere in a big loop, on the Thames side I can see the big tent across the river that held the most embarrassing New Year’s Eve party ever, at the Millennium Dome in 2000, once thought a white elephant, it is now one of the top venues for music concerts, known as The O2 Arena. I can recommend a night out there food and entertainment guaranteed, Poor Michael Jackson never made it there, his fifty nights concerts had to be cancelled, upon his very sad death in 2009.
Near Island Garden DLR tube you can walk [when it is open] under the Thames to Greenwich both banks are excellent walks, but Greenwich is an area to visit on a totally separate time, taking in the Royal Observatory, along with the Meridian Line, the National Maritime Museum, its parks and great markets, for now I am still on a mission, that of the Thames.
Ferry crafts dash up and down this part of the Thames servicing the Arena and Westminster and all stops in-between creating a wash that has ducks riding up and down and causing the kayaks to a wobbling go.
I am heading to the Thames Barrier, which laughingly they think, will save the London from being swamped if not greatly flooded. In the past it may have been so, but since rising sea water levels, it may well not cope. Don’t get me started on global warming as I am a convinced believer that man, if not to blame, is at least accelerating and exasperating the problem, “SORT IT OUT MANKIND” Before too late is here!
To get there I take the trains again but this time “Wow I am a train driver” or I feel that way as I ride the DLR, I manage to get the front-seat, as you all probably know these trains are driver-less, with a guard type advisor person only. Somehow it is all done centrally, it is like being on a toy set train ride, take the kids its as good as any theme park-ride [well I am a bit of a wuss] I get of at King George Wharf then walk to Thames Barrier It is here, at the Barrier, that most official Thames path walks are measured from, roughly about 180 miles length of walking to the source, but I decide I want to get nearer to the mouth or estuary as possible so keep walking. There is another Thames foot tunnel at Woolwich but in January 2010, when I tried, it was shut for repairs so I took the illustrious and free ferry, that takes lorries, cars, bikes and foot passengers.
Turn left off the ferry and you soon pick up Thames Path signs for walking and cycling. Passing Thames Mead I look back towards the grand steel and glass buildings on the horizon of Canary Wharf, reflecting a while, how there and so many similar places were once the targets for the I.R.A. back n the sixties and seventies during “The Troubles” as it was so quaintly put, for such bloody-times. I remember the one and only time Maggie Thatcher let slip on a news report that “We were at war” I never, in all the time of these awful happenings, by all three sectors, did I ever hear her say it again, least not in those terms.
By the way I was not included in the “We” part, to this day I have this awful feeling, that from the British standpoint it was a training ground for the army in how to deal with insurrection that may one day occur on the mainland Britain, call me a good old conspiracist believer and I will agree, call me leftie I will agree, call me naive, maybe I will agree a little at times, call me anti army I will agree, call me stupid I will not agree, call me a pacifist I will agree to a degree, call me someone who dose not love his country you are wrong. I love it along with the totality of the world, with out flag waving or allegiance to borders or only those grown up next to me. We are a much wider picture, just take of your blinkers, absorb difference do not be afraid of it, it can only enhance you, if what you had gets diluted them maybe it was due a change, if not it will make it stronger.
Around the curve of Thames Mead I see on the opposite north bank Barking and where the River Roding enters the Thames via the Barking Creek, Thames View comes into sight I remember as child we would walk to here in search of adventure and found mud, one of my friends one time loosing his shoe in the sucking mire as we tied to run down to the withdrawn tidal waters. Thankfully I was slowest so did not end up knee deep in silt, but it was my job to return to a dubious looking stream to wash his shoes and socks so we could get back home. On our way we would splat cowpats with bricks splitting the crust sending brown goo and the red insect, which feasted on the muck, in all directions, often ours!! Goodness knows who owned the cattle but they made for good rounding up [not] in our cowboy, impressed, minds. As did the old concrete “Pill Boxes” our first line of defence to hold back Jerry as he tried to invade us, we would enact it, all of us heroes blowing the enemy to kingdom-com as they tried to over-whelm us, what fools they were, did they not understand the indestructibility of an eight year old?
But these mud’s and waters held a more terrible and gruesome disaster than Charlie loosing his socks, just slightly west of here, at Galleons Reach, now know for a shopping centre, but back in 1878 at this curve between Tripcock Point and Galleons Reach a paddle ship full of holiday makers was sunk. It was heading back to London Bridge after a day cruising to Gravesend, when it was accidently rammed and cut in two by a coal carrier called The Bywell castle. It sank instantly taking with it nearly seven hundred souls mainly women and children. There were some who were rescued about sixty-nine. The rest succumbed to being or crushed or drowned in the most polluted part of the river possible, for on both side are sewage outfalls, of which both were open and discharging at the time of the accident, not filtered as today but raw London filth. It was never ascertained as to the total lost lives, as many bodies were never found or accounted for.
 |
| Thames barrier |
I am heading to the Thames Barrier, which laughingly they think, will save the London from being swamped if not greatly flooded. In the past it may have been so, but since rising sea water levels, it may well not cope. Don’t get me started on global warming as I am a convinced believer that man, if not to blame, is at least accelerating and exasperating the problem, “SORT IT OUT MANKIND” Before too late is here!
To get there I take the trains again but this time “Wow I am a train driver” or I feel that way as I ride the DLR, I manage to get the front-seat, as you all probably know these trains are driver-less, with a guard type advisor person only. Somehow it is all done centrally, it is like being on a toy set train ride, take the kids its as good as any theme park-ride [well I am a bit of a wuss] I get of at King George Wharf then walk to Thames Barrier It is here, at the Barrier, that most official Thames path walks are measured from, roughly about 180 miles length of walking to the source, but I decide I want to get nearer to the mouth or estuary as possible so keep walking. There is another Thames foot tunnel at Woolwich but in January 2010, when I tried, it was shut for repairs so I took the illustrious and free ferry, that takes lorries, cars, bikes and foot passengers.
Turn left off the ferry and you soon pick up Thames Path signs for walking and cycling. Passing Thames Mead I look back towards the grand steel and glass buildings on the horizon of Canary Wharf, reflecting a while, how there and so many similar places were once the targets for the I.R.A. back n the sixties and seventies during “The Troubles” as it was so quaintly put, for such bloody-times. I remember the one and only time Maggie Thatcher let slip on a news report that “We were at war” I never, in all the time of these awful happenings, by all three sectors, did I ever hear her say it again, least not in those terms.
By the way I was not included in the “We” part, to this day I have this awful feeling, that from the British standpoint it was a training ground for the army in how to deal with insurrection that may one day occur on the mainland Britain, call me a good old conspiracist believer and I will agree, call me leftie I will agree, call me naive, maybe I will agree a little at times, call me anti army I will agree, call me stupid I will not agree, call me a pacifist I will agree to a degree, call me someone who dose not love his country you are wrong. I love it along with the totality of the world, with out flag waving or allegiance to borders or only those grown up next to me. We are a much wider picture, just take of your blinkers, absorb difference do not be afraid of it, it can only enhance you, if what you had gets diluted them maybe it was due a change, if not it will make it stronger.
Around the curve of Thames Mead I see on the opposite north bank Barking and where the River Roding enters the Thames via the Barking Creek, Thames View comes into sight I remember as child we would walk to here in search of adventure and found mud, one of my friends one time loosing his shoe in the sucking mire as we tied to run down to the withdrawn tidal waters. Thankfully I was slowest so did not end up knee deep in silt, but it was my job to return to a dubious looking stream to wash his shoes and socks so we could get back home. On our way we would splat cowpats with bricks splitting the crust sending brown goo and the red insect, which feasted on the muck, in all directions, often ours!! Goodness knows who owned the cattle but they made for good rounding up [not] in our cowboy, impressed, minds. As did the old concrete “Pill Boxes” our first line of defence to hold back Jerry as he tried to invade us, we would enact it, all of us heroes blowing the enemy to kingdom-com as they tried to over-whelm us, what fools they were, did they not understand the indestructibility of an eight year old?
But these mud’s and waters held a more terrible and gruesome disaster than Charlie loosing his socks, just slightly west of here, at Galleons Reach, now know for a shopping centre, but back in 1878 at this curve between Tripcock Point and Galleons Reach a paddle ship full of holiday makers was sunk. It was heading back to London Bridge after a day cruising to Gravesend, when it was accidently rammed and cut in two by a coal carrier called The Bywell castle. It sank instantly taking with it nearly seven hundred souls mainly women and children. There were some who were rescued about sixty-nine. The rest succumbed to being or crushed or drowned in the most polluted part of the river possible, for on both side are sewage outfalls, of which both were open and discharging at the time of the accident, not filtered as today but raw London filth. It was never ascertained as to the total lost lives, as many bodies were never found or accounted for.
I am looking towards home as I pass the two Large wind turbines erected on what was Dagenham biggest factories, good old Dagenham Fords Motor Company opened in 1931, it had produced over ten million cars in its lifetime. Its last cars, a Ford Fiesta models were built in 2002, it now only makes engines, its scale of production reduced drastically with downturn of the car sales market.
Onwards towards Erith the landscape on both north and south are dotted with factories, metal and paper reclaim yards, car junkyards, concrete distributers, waste landfill or sewage-works.
To the eye it is sometime desolation at work, a hinterland not to be returned to. Then the tied goes out and wildfowl flock to the mud, feeding in great quantities. Reed beds survive, or more likely those who understand the life cycle of rivers and its life force have replanted them.
The sky is mud grey same as the Thames although a wind blows it is not cold, leastways not with woolly hat and scarf as I hunkered down within my warm coat walking, walking, walking, observing finding space both in my mind as well as my the outside world. I get as far as Greenhithe where I take a bus to Blue-water shopping centre to enjoy, yup you got it, a coffee then head home.
Please see my second page, to carry following me on my walking and observations of the Thames, as well as the meanderings of my mind, thank you M. J. London.
I have now also published on this blog the first of my short stories see it on page six i hope you enjoy it.
