Part 3 To the Thames Source and Back, you know the rules it is only one, "Enjoy Life"

                        The Thames source there and back
                                     By M. J. London
Chapter 7 

“Ah at last” back on the westward source bound direction I had awoken to a second day of blue sky, accompanied by a bright yellow sun, no clouds. I scurried around making sandwiches gathering up my camera along with my other trekking, paraphernalia, my book for the journey, my ipod for the real boring waits. I took the train from Paddington after visiting the Paddington Bear statue with his nametag and case of marmalade sandwiches.

My train journey deposited me at Maidenhead where I finished up last winter, although not a total fine weather walker it seems to me that it is much more sensible to do walking on pleasant days than awful days, so I had awaited for spring. Today it was as though it had arrived, there were a few scatterings of snowdrops around but crocuses, with daffodils close on their tails or should I say petals, had mainly replaced them. I am always amazed how these persistent and fragile blades of growth push their way up through frozen ground to produce such splendid array of white snowdrops, or blue and yellow crocus. Both of which bring delightful light and colour to the drab grey/browns we have grown used to over the winter. 

The bare trees are pushing tips of green at the ends of each stick and branch that waver around, as the weather warms these will suddenly burst forward gathering the world of nature in its green cloak of rebirth. I love all seasons but I think spring is the dearest to me, its about newness, another chance, refreshing colour the  mating of life anew. Young life leaning by its observation and mistakes how to interpret the world and its fellow occupants, shame humane kind dose not always learn anew what is the right way to deal with its world and fellow beings!

Alongside all this immanent change of nature, the River has been constant in its flow, heading to the greater seas. After the industrial landscape of the east in Essex and Kent it is refreshing to be amongst the twisting, tree huddled paths of Berkshire, yes it may be chocolate box countryside but I love it. I was wondering how many shires I will have passed through or alongside off, if I complete the length? It will have been nine they are Essex where I live and started, Kent, Surrey, Middlesex, Wiltshire, Berkshire, Buckinghamshire, Oxfordshire, and Gloucestershire, Cotswalds and not forgetting London with all its Boroughs. 

Swans with their white arses heaven pointing as they trawl and trail around in the muddy depths for food, a large flock of Canadian geese take of from a farmer’s field, where they have been warming themselves on. They climb filling the sky, all too fast for me to whip out my camera, they sail over my head in a squawking, noise ridden cluster, to plummet down onto the Thames finding their own space calling to each neighbour looking for their mate. I pass on cursing I had not had my camera ready I see a couple looking at their camera the young women is explaining something to the elder man I ask her did she manage to snap the sudden flight she says no as she had been telling the man about the camera but it was not ready and in shot mode. Ha ho such is life, right place right time only just not prepared, just like life at times. I really must be more like a boy scout to capture such moments.

Further down the path I look across to what I believe to be part of the Chiltern Hills on the north bank when I spy rising up on the thermals a large bird of prey. It looks to me like a red kite, which have in recent years been reintroduced into Scotland and England. After the landed-gentry and farmers had seen it decimated, it thankfully is now making a come back. It rose higher and higher then glided out of site into the high sun, I wished it well then carried on my walk. 

I got into conversation with a couple that asked about my walking the man suddenly said. “Are you the man we met some seven years ago he was from the east end of London and as walking the Thames path” I said. “No, and that after seven years would hope to be at the source by now”

Soon after this encounter, a lady and her dog fell in step with me I recognised her from going in the other direction about an hour ago. We drummed up a conversation as she was also walking the path end to end, but her and two other women had started from the source and was heading eventually to the barrier. We spoke of our days walking and our pleasure we got, both in the exercise and the the sites we saw in the process. Her name was Christine Murphy, I actually remembered to ask her name as many others I had spoken to I had neglected to ask them theirs.

Her dog had a coloured handkerchief around his neck like a gypsy dog. He carried his own extendable lead contraption in his mouth taking itself for a walk as such. Christine had to miss one of the days with her two friends, as her dog had been unwell, so had to walk part of the way on her own, well apart from her dog that is, to make up lost mileage. She lived local in a village we were about to enter called Cookham, so was about midway between the source and the estuary. It was delightful speaking with her, we exchanged our thoughts and impressions about the river and that which rubbed along its edges be it woods, houses or industry, as well as the commerce of London itself, agreeing it was a fascinating and ever changing river. 

1. we parted company, Christine to her home, me to pass through yet another beautiful english village. Which as ever includes the church and graveyard, then back onto the path towards Bourne-end. I enjoy speaking with kindred spirits but wonder if I would want to walk the whole length with another person I enjoy unpredicted happenings or decision-makings without beholding to anyone else, the freedom to think unhindered by another’s interpretation on a sight or happening is necessary to my way of thinking at times, but I equally miss sharing an experience or wonderment with a fellow human, but I cant have it both ways, so this how are shall continue for this endeavor at least.

I pass Bourn-end at first, making a heading towards Marlow after a mile or so I realise I have left it too late to reach Marlow today so return to the village of Bourn-end.

Now here is a lesson to be learnt! Not all buses routes run as they do in London. I should have checked out the bus timetable before settling down for a coffee, for after seeing a bus go bye thinking “right give it another half hour that should see another one” but oh no I had almost an hour and a-half to wait for the next one, Ha ho, as the saying goes “That’s life.” I return to Dagenham by eight pm that evening. Still it had been a good day of sun, steady walking, sandwiches, wildlife and the odd pleasant chat.

Tired, slightly aching leg muscles, I was ready for pancakes, but there was the crunch, both my beloved daughters, Sarah and Hannah cried of from making them, nor did Steve my son-in-law jump to my rescue, so it was allotted to me to do them. Proud to say I did well, tossed them in the air even not a one stuck to the ceiling, everyone enjoyed them, by the end we were fully stuffed beyond reason or ever hunger again, we burped away the rest of the evening, pancakes do a great sideline of indigestion.

Chapter 8

What a glorious April we have just had and I was unable to get out in it, as my sweet 86 year-old mum, Nell, took a tumble in her kitchen, braking her main leg bone that fits into her hip. All my brothers’ sisters’ aunts and uncles jumped into action. She had her operation the following day and with the expertise of the doctors at the Queens Hospital Romford and the follow up care at King Georges Chadwell Heath, she has made a fantastic recovery. The national health did her proud. She responded with guts, determination and a supportive family therefore is on the road to full recovery. Which is where my April went as I took on, the main roll of carer, fully backed up by the rest of my wonderful family and Bert her 86 year old partner. He still goes to work four days a week in the West-end at his sons tailor shop.
I gladly took on the roll, enjoying seeing her each day, gain strength physically, while her mind adjusted to seeking and stretching her limitations, the wonder in her achievements in that she could do anew, all the old task that before had been taken for granted.

Now I am able to leave her for longer periods each day as she reclaims her independence, Mum is now walking with sticks or on occasions stick. She is able to do her own washing and ablutions, makes cups of tea, prepares all the meals, gets herself up and down the stairs on her own this and much more, all in about five weeks of her fall, Mum we are all so proud of you.

My loverly Mum with Gel and Roz over from Oz

So Monday 9th May, Bert has Mondays off work, so knowing she would not need a visit from yours truly I headed West, to continue my walks.

As the trains, that were much delayed, took me nearer to my set down point, clouds began to gather. Most were good old English summer ones; white and fluffy, non-threatening spaced evenly to protect those of fair skins and ginger haired. But these were now precipitated by evil, dark, rain laden, and malefic excuses for clouds, that sprinkled rain down upon the land. Okay it was over in fifteen minuets while I took refuge in a phone box [I knew there was a good reason for not getting rid of boxes, apart from being used as toilets by some drunks] The ground and vegetation needed it, even if I do not!

So the wind, that stayed all day, drove the Beelzebub clouds away leaving white fluffy, cherub angel, type to dominate the blue sky and so the weather was perfect for walking again. I started out from Borne End heading for Marlow. Trees and shrubs were al full of new growth, birds sang hidden by the leaves, to hold their territory, ducklings were herded both in and out of the water by their parents. They were so cute and so delectable to other birds as a quick meal. Crow, magpie and heron in particular, eyed them as we would a buffet at a wedding, except no hissing goose protected the egg sandwiches and chicken legs at an wedding I have attended.


It was good to be out in shorts and sandals again [no socks I promise you] my feet, although not appreciating the walking I had planned for them still enjoyed the freedom of sunshine and air. I stepped into a rhythm of equal strides watching the river and the luxurious houses the lined the opposite bank, when I brushed into a patch of nettles, the stinging sensation began almost instantly. I looked desperately around for the faithful Doc leaf; on spying some I grabbed a handful and rubbed franticly the calf muscle that had been stung. With a leg half coloured with leaf green dye, I carried on my walk ignoring the slight tingle of itchiness that persisted through my natures cure.

Why do they sting? I wonder. What creature eats them that such a sting is required?

Well apparently they are so good that they would have been eaten into extinction by now, were it not for its sting. I know we drink nettle tea as an excellent astringent it also has anti-inflammatory properties amongst many other remmedies. Also our lovely lady-birds lay their eggs under the non sting side of the leafs where they grow, protected, into adults. Who then scoff thousands of aphids in their lifetime, thus protecting crops that we enjoy, so I guess walking around with one green leg is no big deal in the scheme of things. 

I arrive in the very pretty Town of Marlow; it is named in the Doomsday book of 1086 as Merlaue. Marlow has much history about it both royal in association as well as trade, the kings and Queen’s passed it around to their relatives, like a piece of valued furniture may be moved around a family.

It also has many noted names as residence; amongst them were Mary Shelley [I wondered where those body parts went] of Frankenstein fame. Sir Steve Redgrave noted for his rowing abilities as a five times gold medallist winner, along with a number of other rowers who attend Marlow’s premier rowing club, founded in 1871. A number of other authors to have lived there at one time or another amongst them are T. S. Eliot and Jerome. K. Jerome writer of Three Men In a Boat, I wonder where he got the idea for that story?

Marlow has had a bridge since the reign of King Edward the third, but non-finer than the current suspension bridge that was built in 1832 designed by William Tierney Clark, a prototype for a similar one that spans the Danube in Budapest. Marlow sits at the bottom of Buckinghamshire, hence I have wandered into another county only Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire to go which is a fair distance still, in fact I got to a set of lock gates called Temple where a sign reads London 58 miles Oxford 53 miles. Then the source is still miles from Oxford near Cirencester in Gloucestershire so I had better keep moving!

I make a point of saying hello to most people I pass, most of who it seems, are locals taking the air or walking the dog. If I am approaching a loan woman, or more often they are pushing a child in a pram, I start to feel apprehensive for them and wish to pass them as quick as possible with out causing stress or fear to them. Maybe I am being over sensitive, as they are probably feeling quite safe but I do feel in a lonely spot, even with my ready smile and a wish for a “good afternoon.” That as a male I am of some sort of threat, although nothing could be further from the truth.

This is what we have come to in this world where we can see threats and menace every where. On trains or planes on lonely foot paths or crowded buses, it is crazy. There was a time of trust! is that now gone forever? or am I letting my imagination, to free a hand in this aspect? I do so hope so! I would dread the thought that innocence was lost forever that the world could not regain that trust in its fellow humans. Then again maybe this is where my imagination is wrong, maybe there never was this innocence that I believe in! terrorism does this, that is what it is intended to do we must not let it.

Innocence is not ignorance or stupidity, trust is not luxury as a humane race we have trusted in many things, from the fact that a parent will be there to help us, just because! To a bridge will not collapse because the engineer got it right with his knowledge. Or that a government will do its best for all its people.
I know we do learn to be let down at times both by emotions as well as structure, but some thing in the humane psyche has always retuned us to trusting people, our world, the universe, and so may it always be.

The word psyche is derived from Greek “Psykhe” meaning “soul", "mind", "breath of life,” referring to the forces in an individual. That they influence thought, behaviour and personality.
We are stronger than distrust or hate.

Incidentally psyche, in mythology, also means “Butterfly” which is exactly where my mind is, flittering about all over the shop, so sorry for that if you are finding it hard to keep track of my meanderings but I blame it on the river so many bends twist and turns.

Maybe blaming the river is an honour for I remember reading one of my favourite novels “Siddhartha” many years ago [perhaps time for a reread] the rivers he passed were of great importance and I believe it was on the banks of a river that he found final enlightenment and peace.

Ha maybe that is what fishermen are up to?

 For now I do not sit to gain total bliss, but I sit to enjoy my sandwiches, soaking up the sun, protected out of the wind by a hedge thoughtfully placed next to a bench or was the bench placed next to the hedge? as the tree for the bench took longer to grow!! Who knows? the Yin and Yang of life.

forest art work, the hinges from an old gate 

I walk on again heading for Hurley Lock where I leave the river to investigate Hurley village with the hope of getting a bus back to Marlow, but it turns out they stopped running one a good many months back, according to the local shop assistant, even though they knew I would be coming, typical. I decide it is too far to go to Henley On Thames, about another six and half miles, so return the two miles back to Marlow, along the same path but with a different perspective and going down hill, so not all bad. Henley will be another day.

Sunday 22nd May.

Today I took a walk along this same footpath heading north along the Lee conservancy navigation. I came to a wooded area next to the Hackney marshes football pitches. It was planted up around 2004 onwards and has turned into a lovely wetland wildlife nature reserve. I had often cycled or walked these woods during my lunch brakes. So veered of the path into them on this walk, as ever at my age, the bladder demands more than its fair share of attention, I checked I would not be add up for indecent exposure, i.e. that the path was empty both ways being happy this was so I stepped into a thicket of trees in case a cyclist speed along the wood path, after finishing my ablutions. I was about to step out back onto the path when I spot mobile phone. This is the second I have found in this region, the first was two years ago, then it was an expensive blackberry, this is an ordinary pay as you go type. Both phones I managed to return to their rightful owners. But from the finding of them two story lines have emerged in my imagination one forming a full novel, now finished, for which I am still trying to find a publisher. The latest a short story I am still in the middle of writing. I may at some point release some of my short stories on is blog, I will think about that idea!! 

Also I know that the taxi are the normal elephant’s graveyard for mobiles, but I am beginning to wonder if the canals of Hackney Wick is the new one, also and why am I finding them? Please send answers to “Now that’s a hell of a coincidence dot com” come to think of it that could be a fabulous new web site, is there no end to this man’s ideas? 

Talking of books, in June I read Jerome. K. Jerome's book “Three Men In a Boat” it is a great read, made even better by me finding  some of the places they moored at or passed by, as they boated on the river in their trip. It is very funny and had me laughing out loud, at some of their scrapes and antics they got into. Let alone the very male idiosyncrasies they displayed, as are found when men are left to their own devises without feminine guidance. I recommend it as a good read, for even though first published in 1889 its humour has travelled down the years well.

Chapter 9

That other day arrived Monday 8th August, warm sun, cooling breeze. I had set out late, yet all my trains connected so well as to set me down at Marlow, for setting off walking at a reasonable time. I started at Marlow again, after walking through the town to the Thames path, passing over previously trod grass and mud to Hurley Lock. I recognised various points on the way, a lovely church, a pile of weather worn tree trunks, a bridge, a patch of over hanging trees, a concrete memorial to a deceased organiser of a local rowing club. I greatly enjoy finding, new to me, sights be they strange or normal, be they a delicate hedge-row flower or a herd of cows standing in and drinking from the Thames, to a delightful property sitting on the edge of the river rare in age and design, but it was some how reassuring seeing these recognised items, just mentioned, a sort of coming home. For when one is travelling it is made all the more enjoyable by knowing you a have a base to return to, a place called home.

All the young previously seen fledglings have now become juveniles some old enough for pairing with a mate, of course many will have joined the food chain of life. Talking of that I saw a number of birds of prey one kestrel, and numerous, high soaring large birds, which after googling, I believe them to have been the Red Kite. They were magnificent in their command of the air ways, hovering and gliding, with their curved wing span and upside down V shape of a tail. I took photos but could really do with a good telescopic lens for wildlife. Ha Ho such is life. The swallows appear to have left this part of the world but the wonderful darting House Martins are keeping river skimming alive on the Thames.

I pass Hurley and am now in virgin territory for me, once again seeing new tunnels of trees, new open fields with the Chiltern Hills in the background, not yet seen river banks of waving reeds and still the same Thames flows past, ever eastward seeking the sea. It is still some fifty-six miles to Oxford City and further to the source but I will not be daunted “one day I shall get there no hurry” I reflect as I saunter on. Must be sandwich time surly, I find a clear field, as the last four have been cow-pack littered. A tree by the bank offers a sturdy backstop to lean against, as I munch into my food supping my water. The hills stretch away, Kites hover above, latticed-winged insects try to visit my food I blow them away the wind harasses the leaves above my head, whispering secrets from other passed over the lands, all is at peace.

Or is it, I receive a call from my daughters telling me of rioting that has started in many major cities including London. Railway stations are being closed, one local to me Barking is no longer open due to stupid, cowardly, thieving groups. 

Using the death of a young man in Tottenham, who was in possession of a loaded gun, he was shot and killed by the police. Originally a peaceful protest took place about the killing of him, the police promised a full enquirer into the incident. However using this as a catalyst, with text and blackberry messaging, groups of mainly disaffected youths, got together, rampaging through shopping centres and residential area’s, smashing windows and setting fires to buildings and cars.

Individuals going about their own business were assaulted and robbed, wholesale pillaging took place at food stores and electrical retail shops. Everywhere went into lock down. The police were totally caught off guard and out numbered in numerous hot spots.

It kicked off in Tottenham, where people lost their homes to fire, trouble spread to Birmingham and Manchester and various locations in London. Three young men were brutally ran over and killed in Birmingham by a cowardly individual, who thankfully has been caught. Everyone is shocked at the sudden insurrection of destruction, violence and hate.

Bronze statue on railway station, can you name the station?

Now, normally quit, forgiving, old woman, are demanding water cannons and capital punishment to be brought to bear upon the perpetrators. None of it made sense apart from previous humid hot weather and stupidity stirred in with greed and cowardice. Parliament was recalled to discus outcomes, density of police combined with poring rain eventually abated the rioters from gathering any more. Hundreds of foolish people have been arrested and charged they are aged from eleven year old children to fifty year olds both men and women, but it was mainly male youths who did the most awful and shameful acts, much of it caught on camera. Even as I put this blog up onto the ether people are still being arrested as they are identified from the thousands of hours of so invasive cameras that view our cities, giving governments even more kudos for putting these cameras up!!

dappled sun on the river

I carried on walking not knowing all these facts until later that evening, but just warned by my daughters to be careful and that they would pick me up, if required, from wherever. They had both been sent home early from where they worked at Stratford, as the police were recommending shuttering up and going home.

cattle using the Thames as it has been used for centuries

I tried not to let the horrors crowd in on me as I had two or more miles still to walk and a three-hour bus and train journey ahead of me to return home, but at least I still had a home to return to.

The walk took me up away from the river, yet with it still in view down in the valley. I was now on the Chiltern Way footpath the fields were full of wild flowers blooming in their summer colours, bees worked tirelessly, birds sang, wind blew grass and trees grew life went on. I lost my way for a short while on a tarmac road, I will admit it as my feet not my eyes fault, as there were no signs telling me to take a wrong turn instead of just walking straight on. Retreading my steps I guessed my way back to the river down a road that said “dead-end” but was called Ferry road. I was soon next to my old friend, the river, and am passing “Hambleden Lock and weir” on to Henley where the original Oxford and Cambridge boat race first took place in 1829 with Henley in the distance my feet found extra go in them.

The river opened up wider again, with meadows on both banks. As I neared the town, houses popped into view with riverside access. The trappings of the regatta seemed to only be just disappearing, even though it took place from 29th June until 3rd July, as bedraggled bunting and half erected marquees dotted a couple of fields down to the rivers edge.

The five-arched bridge that spans the river came into sight this is one of many connecting points to Oxfordshire with Buckinghamshire and Berkshire. Henley is first recorded in 1179 when King Henry 2nd is said to have bought the land to build on, their bridge is first mentioned in 1234, although some one found mention of a bridge at Henley in some writings written by one of the Roman invaders.

When the black death swept England in the 14th century Henley lost 60% of its population as did many others cities and towns. It is now a buzzing town full with the humdrum of life and where I finish for today, grabbing a quick coffee then a bus I head back to Marlow from there to Paddington to see what is left of my fare city which thankfully is much. The louts and cowards have either been imprisoned or returned home with their ill gotten gain, where one hopes they are questioned by their parents, yet why do I feel this is doubtful!! Maybe because if they were parents who cared their children would not even be involved in the first place, I know it takes all kinds to make a society but one feels there are some influences we could well do without, bloody hell they are making even me sound like a Dialy Mail reader !!!!!

very old gnarled and beautiful tree

Tuesday 16th August I awoke to a very overcast thick of cloud day but as I had made my sandwiches the night before, decided it was a good walking day sun or no sun, in-fact it did show its face in the afternoon but the air was warm throughout the day. Well that’s enough about weather even though we all know how the Brits love to talk, nay moan about it.
Again trains ran well, even though at the start they had me running helter-skelter to platform 13 to catch a train about to depart that was right over the other side of Paddington station from the ticket office. Only a little puffed I caught the blighter and started the days journey for real, the tube never counts, as I just stick my head in a book and read for hour or so, until Paddington arrives in view, where all real railway journey adventures start, just ask the bear in that vast shed of a skeletal structure of a railway station.

I change at Twyford for the branch line to Henley. It is between nine and half to ten miles distance to Reading, covering the mostly delightful countryside. On leaving Henley I cross through a lovely park, that also houses the Rowing Museum, the pathway is thick with families and dog walkers within a mile these have thinned out to the occasional jogger, bike rider or dog walker. These also disappear eventually, I am alone to ponder and wonder. Rain threatens but does not fall. I cross the railway line at Shiplake, a station not long ago trundled through on the train to Henley, I carry on into the village as the pathway arrows dictate. Here you are drawn away from the river as the pathways weave through the village past some house to kill for, which is probably how they got them in the beginning, not wanting to spread aspersions on anyone, but “nods as good as a wink no what I mean nudge, nudge.” There is even a house and grounds that have it own miniature railway, probably owned by one of the great train robbers or were they all out in Essex with the rest of the East-end lot?

The footpath arrows lead me back to the waters edge, on my left the tree and shrub lined river, to my right meadows and fields of crops stretch to the Chilton hills in the distance. The fields are edged with a vast variety of wild flowers, daisy, teasel, toadflax, vetch; burdock, hogweed and cranesbills these and many more fill my vision with colour.

The Thames had taken a huge curve heading south from just above Henley or north if you are walking west to east with the river flow towards the estuary. One wonders, how the river finds its course, I mean obviouse boundaries such as hills and valleys will have their input, as here the Chiltern Hills prevail but sometimes from the ground it is not obviouse “ooh” I feel a Goole coming on. 

Well that’ll teach me to ask, apparently the Thames is about 140 million years old and its flow has a lot to do with the ice ages, the pushing up of the Alps and Himalayas 30 million years ago and the sinking of London into soft clay about a foot every hundred years. The Thames was also connected to the Rhine Estuary, before melting ice raised the North Sea level. In about 6,500 BC it flowed over what we know as Dogger Bank, severing us from the rest of Europe turning us into an Island race distinct with cultural mix of invaders as well as our own Celtic blood.

Celtic persons feet with some of Saxon mixed in, plus a bit of French Huguenot

All I know is I am thankful for such beauty to sooth my meandering mind as well as to cool my steaming feet. I find a gentle slope to the waters shallow edge, slip off my sandals and paddle in that so clear, delightful river. I have my camera in my hand taking photos of my feet and the rivers reflection, when a passing cyclist calls out,
“Have you seen a Kingfisher?” I yell back at his disappearing back “No just my fishing-feet” which was just as well as the fool would have scared any bird away!!
My feet amply refreshed I walk on, I haven’t thought much about my stories this walk so where has mind been, well I thought for a while about my nephew Joe who has had his second year at the Edinburgh festival, this time with his own written play, a farce about a kidnapping, which has been received very well with five star reviews and good, if not great audiences.

I delved into thinking about Anne my lovely lady, who is away in Scotland with her mum visiting her home of birth near Donorch on the east coat way up high on the last part of Scotland where it widens again. MY mind drifted to when I hitchhiked up to Scotland and out to the Islands, the Orkneys and the Western Isles, great times I went on my own before getting married and having delightful children. I made many friends on route some more intimate than others, but all good fun. I was away for about two and half months with a small tent which just about kept me dry. I also stayed in hostels, when in need of a good shower and had cloths to wash. That was over thirty, almost forty, years ago when hitchhiking was very much an accepted way of travel, especially for back packers. 

I thought about the photos I had been taking and hoped that I was doing the scenery justice, as well as the close up shots of flowers and teazels and such. Finding ancient gnarled trees rubbing there bark thinking how many moments of history have passed by as the incessantly grew to this point. Seeing wild plumb, blackberries, sweet chestnut, crab apple think I aught to pick some, but having no container to put them in left them for the birds or other passer-byes, while I just took their image both in photos and in my memory.

I pass a few barges anchored in the reeds laying peacefully secluded from the rest of the world, one has washing hanging out, while another has a bicycle chained to it covered in cobwebs obviously untouched for a while, another has five tubs of bright coloured flowers, that adorns its roof top, worthy of any carnival.

In this sleepy back-wood determined rowers are passed by motor-cruisers who throw out a backwash of rippling waters, the sun shows its face for all of ten minutes forcing my light jacket into my backpack, all is well. 

I approach Sonning Bridge a beautiful seven-arched bridge built of stone. Built there in about 1775, it replaced an earlier wooden made bridge, it joins Berkshire to Oxfordshire and is one car width only, so traffic lights organises the flow of cars in their directions. I have about another three miles to Reading, which begs first for another feet soak and a sandwich, while perched on a tree growing out over the river, still no sighting of a kingfisher. I had spotted another red tailed kite earlier though, as it was cruising the air over the hills, I seem to see a couple now nearly every walk. 

More and more homes line the waters edge as I approach the spread of Reading, the railway rattles near bye. I turn left onto the Kennet and Avon Canal, which flows into the Thames. This canal takes me into the centre of Reading a bustling city as urban as London. From here a direct train delivers me to Paddington, from a good day out, muscle tested, feet flapped tired, I head home.

curious insect hitching a ride on the Reading to Paddington train, on the outside of the carriage 

please see page 4 if you have been entertained by the last 3 pages regard M. J. London.[ when it is posted that is, it is now posted thank you]