8 A backward chasing of a bead – Little Venice to Wormwood Scrubs

8 A backward chasing of a bead – Little Venice to Wormwood Scrubs Sunday July 24, 2011:
It’s been a long time since the three of us have been able to walk together. The Compass Botherer fell victim to the winter snow and broke her wrist very badly. My dear friend and chosen sister Vijayatara was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in January and died in early March. As the snow melted and winter turned to spring, I abandoned the emeralds of the city and chose instead to walk one more time with her, to companion her on this last journey in her life. I sat by her bed, a silent witness to her pain, humbled and awed by the loving courage of her partner who remained calm and compassionate to the very end.
From early march to early May, the sun shone. In the garden, leaves unfurled, buds opened showing their soft pedalled beauty to the seemingly everlasting brightness. And before I knew it, summer had settled in and the last emerald of this particular necklace was still rolling around freely, waiting for me to scoop it up.
At last, I found the heart to walk again. After a certain amount of tussling with busy diaries, we settled on a date that all three of us could do.
It’s been raining on and off now for several weeks. People have already forgotten that wonderfully sunny spring and are surprised and relieved to find the sun is, however temporarily, back. And so it proves to be today. We climb down the shallow steps onto the tow path just before Little Venice. Where two canals join, someone has built an artificial island and populated it with trees. A goose sits sunning itself on the edge of the water. Crossing the canal, we begin to make our way westwards towards Kensal Rise. The posh restaurants are on the other side. We have the charming house boats. Many have captivating names, others are rather dull. Most attempt some kind of garden greenery on their roofs. Some positively push the boat out on the greenery front.
There’s something about a straight tow path that brings the cyclists out. It might be an over-generalisation to say that most of these are polite, but at the moment, they skirt round us, tingling their bells as they go. I don’t know whether they can detect the hackles rise on the Compass Botherer’s neck as they pass. Perhaps it’s for the best that they don’t. Even the Vicar’s Daughter says “Ah” when we come across a Teal duck and her six offspring, all sitting happily in the sun. We know they are teals because the Compass Botherer looks it up on her Ifone so it must be true. They sit happily in a patch of sun and are not in the least bit concerned that three older women are standing oohing and aahing over them as cyclists and noisy boats wiz or chug by.
Here the canal is lined with not unpleasant flats, some with very fetching balconies. The canal appears relatively clean if a little green at this point.
We pass under the West way and the canal grows cluttered with rubbish. Impervious to the hazards, various water fowl play amongst them. HERE the canal is edged with more flats of a slightly less superior but still none the less not unpleasant design. A family of coots with teenage offspring, frolic amongst the detritus.
The towpath is uneven and I soon find myself on my knees, F-ing and blinding (as only I can do) as I’ve just twisted my ankle on a bloody uneven gutter of some kind. But I’m not to be deflected from my purpose and so bravely rise to my feet and soldier on.
Actually, the discomfort is soon forgotten in the excitement of finding a bench “embowered” as I like to say with Morning Glory, otherwise known as Bindweed, according to the Vicar’s Daughter, who is having a “smash sentimentality” moment, which I endure nobly.
Somewhere along the next stretch, we encounter a swan with her six teenage signets, sitting peacefully on the edge of the towpath. They don’t seem to care that humans on foot and on wheels pass close by them. The signets are almost out of that grey ruffled untidy stage and will, in a few weeks, be elegant young swans.
A relatively neat park gradually evolves into a more natural wilder park. It offers logs and compost for sale. We walk on, dodging the cyclists and skirting a motley group of about thirty promenaders, dressed in unsuitable shoes for a walk, some of then clutching plastic shopping bags. We can’t work out if they are an organised group or are “just heavy traffic” on the towpath.
And then, joy of joy, we come across a notice which tells us it is the towpath Code of Conduct. It says; pedestrians have priority, considerate cycling permitted. The compass Botherer huffs in approval and we set off again.
We walk past the gasworks on our left. Beyond the canal, stretches Kensal Cemetery. Alas, there’s no way over. We walk on.
My two companions will both be sixty next year. We rest on a picnic table and discuss the complexity of celebrations with incompatibly challenging different groups of potential guests. The sun is warm, the towpath regularly populated with walkers and cyclists, but we can’t stay here all day planning our social diaries.
Now, the left hand tow path is edged with slightly wilder greenery. It doesn’t appear to be deliberate and is not part of any obvious park or constructed open space. It lends a peaceful pleasantness to the industrial austerity of the canal-side.
The compass Botherer, emboldened by the authority vested in any public spirited canal walker, takes it upon herself to remind all passing cyclists of the “Tow Path Code of Conduct”. She is indiscriminate in her zeal to inform. Some take it quite good-naturedly, others are slightly grumpy. My companions stop and admire something on the other side of the canal, possibly a giant tortoise, interesting building or hapless duck, I don’t recall. They are mid description when our attention is rudely jerked back to our tow path. A bloke on a bike swerves past us throwing a sarcastic remark over his shoulder about what he thinks of where we are standing. I’m not sure if it is because he has dared to pass judgement, the fact that it was delivered in an authoritatively fruity upper-class accent or the mere fact that he is on a bike, but The Compass Botherer sees red. She breaks away from our cluster and confronts the speedily disappearing toff in equally snooty and clear tones. He stops, rounding on her in outrage that anyone should dare to criticise his presence on the towpath and loud battle ensues.
The Vicar’s Daughter and I attempt to call the Compass Botherer off, rather in the manner of a slightly indolent dog-owner calling a naughty spaniel, but to no avail. We turn and saunter away, knowing that The Compass Botherer can look after herself. She is in fine flow and appears to be matching the toff, high-handed insult for high-handed insult. I hear him having the temerity to “now look here my lady” her and wonder how long he will remain on terra firmer as I fear the Compass Botherer might just push him in the water if he’s not careful.
The argument peters out and the Compass Botherer scampers back to us to rerun the argument again for our delectation. Satisfied that she has done her duty by the Tow path Code of Conduct, we fall to discussing something else and walk on.
I find another seat. I sit on it whilst the Compass Botherer and the Vicar’s Daughter, discuss with a helpful geezer, how to get to WORMWOOD Scrubs Nature Reserve. We learn that there is no cafe there and thus I suspect no other facilities either. I hope that the nature reserve will offer some discreet bushes I may avail myself of, as I’m now dying for a pee.
We climb the steps and walk along a narrow pavement edging the nature reserve. Alas, a high fence separates it from us and we have to walk quite a long way down the road before we find the entrance.
It is cool under the trees. WE settle down onto a bench to rest. In the distance, the Central Line whines, nearby in the bushes, an unidentifiable bird chirps. Far away in the distance I hear the distinct quack of a duck, probably frolicking somewhere near the canal.
There is a Narrow Avenue of sad chestnuts, all of them with blackened curling leaves and seeping wounds. The avenue gives way to less ordered trees and shrubs. We collect a few tangy blackberries and move on along the edge of what is slowly turning into Heathland.
And then, the peace is shattered by howling whines. Someone has a remote control airplane and they are looping the loop high up in the clear sky. So much for this quiet place, I think, wondering what kind of damage such a plane could do if it hit us. My attention is soon claimed however by the task of eating another juicy blackberry.
Wild flowers dance in the sun. Purple teasels nod in the breeze. A smiley dog with an impossibly disgusting ball importunes my companions, who being soppy about dogs, give it some attention. We sit on a bench by rowan trees laden with bright fruit and drink in the green fragrance of the place. It is verdant and rioting with all kinds of growing things.
But there’s no peace. The remote control planes howl and whine as they circle above us. We walk on and discover a group of people with about twenty of the dratted things. I mutter some more and trail after my companions across the sunny grass and out of the nature reserve. Walking through a pleasant 1930s housing estate with bright flowery gardens, past an Indian corner store, we turn into East Acton tube.
WORMWOOD Scrubs Nature Reserve is certainly an emerald that I am glad to have caught and to add to my necklace on this, the last in the current series of walks around London. The good thing about bead necklaces is that they can always be added to. There are many other lovely emerald beads waiting to be experienced, but that is for another day.
I am as ever thankful to my two somewhat long-suffering companions, without whom, these walks could not be done. They’ve patiently forborne my audacious sketching of their personalities and habits in these journals with a tolerance of remarkable placidity. I deeply appreciate their indulgence. The green spaces of London continue to call me. This London, my birthplace and home for all my life, with its crowded dusty streets and cluttered buildings, offers on almost every street corner, a humble paradise of green, whether it be a tall dusty plane tree or a sprouting tuft of grass pushing between the paving stones. It is a reminder that beneath the concrete, the earth lives and calls to us to notice her.
Every day, I walk in the cool green oasis of wild fruitfulness that is my garden. Every day, I witness the turning of the seasons and find solace in the knowledge that no matter how often death takes those I love, I will always find peace and comfort here.

7 Jewels of the west part 1

7 Jewels of the west part 1

Saturday October 16, 2010:

Its been hard to find time to continue walking over the summer. Weve all been busy. Ive jaunted about Europe and the UK, never staying in one place more than a few days. My excuse is that Im trying to find myself and decide what Im going to do when I grow up. All Ive succeeded in doing is procrastinating. So Ive given up deciding my future and determined instead that today is a good day for a walk.

Our arrangements are complicated by the fact that the Compass Botherer now goes to Spanish Conversation Lessons every Saturday morning and my yearning to learn to tap dance, occupies several Sundays. The Vicars Daughter, with her usual busy schedule, has decided to make a rare visit to the old lesbians instead of walking with us this day.

With happy and prearranged fortuitousness, the compass Botherer finds me at Holbourne on a Piccadilly Line train heading heathrowwards. We are going to Donkey Wood and then Houndslow heath, in the furthest part of West London that isnt practically in Wales. We sit side by side on the tube train eating home-made cheese sandwiches and chocolate rice cakes.

Itll be quicker going to Birmingham, I say, applying myself to my pelvic floor exercises as I realize that it is going to be a good hour before we find a toilet.

We alight the train at Hatton Cross and climb out into a roaring hopscotch of many-laned roads, over which we have to safely cross. The traffic howls and the skies rumble with low flying jet planes. I walk a bit gingerly, having twanged my back earlier in the week whilst over enthusiastically swinging two 8 kilo kettle bells at the same time. The noise is making me feel a bit dizzy.

In time we find the entrance to Donkey Wood. We walk under an ivy entwined arch of branches and immediately, the roaring traffic fades into an indistinct muffle. Sweet wild rose, mingles with crushed herbage, the sweet-sour smell of decaying wood and leaves in an evocative and familiar woodland perfume. I suck the fresh damp air into my lungs greedily, feasting on the aroma that so joyously sings of a damp autumn day.

Beside us, the hawthorns are brightly dotted with their red haws, dog-rose brier tangles with ferns at the foot of trees challenged by ivy and bindweed. The wood runs alongside the River Crane which babbles quietly.

As we move amongst the trees, the autumnal sunshine reaches in to warm the air. Every few minutes, the skies vibrate with the roar of another jet engine. We move from tree grove to clearing and back to tree grove again. We have the place completely to ourselves.

Theres a road, and then a passage under it, and beyond it, a precarious single-file walk beside the now closer and faster running Crane. The path is narrow and smeared with damp, for suddenly, the sun has retreated and it has begun to rain. We walk carefully, picking our way over the roots of willow trees edging the river. The rain falls pattering onto the waters surface, hissing as it falls from the shaking leaves into the water. This gentle sound is softly soothing but the miasma of mosquitoes loitering in the shady places is not.

We walk under a creaking willow tree. The Crane bubbles and piddles along over shallow stones. All the trees are still green with their summer foliage in honour of the recent wet season.

We slip and slide our way along a greasy boardwalk, elevating us from the muddy forest floor. We are still alone, not even a duck makes its entrance amongst the muddy river edge. .

The sun comes out and I think about taking my hat off. We cross a vigorously charging river, this is the Duke of Northumberlands River we last encountered hard by the Thames somewhere east (or is it north at that point)of Twickenham last Autumn when we were walking the Capital Ring. Emerging from the woods once more, we cross a road and head for the A1 café, in order to use the facilities.

The Compass Botherer pours over the book, (we are walking a part of the London Loop backwards so its a bit confusing). A fellow patron of the café offers us suggested routes which only serve to confuse, although we thank him politely for his kindness in trying to help. Were not really lost; its just time to figure out where we are going next! Gulping our rather strong builders tea down, we head back out towards the trees.

Confusingly, here Donkey Wood appears to be called Brazil Mill Wood. Gamely. We enter and begin to walk along the path. A gain that slightly bitter decayed, green crushed foliage smell, mixed with something softly sweet comes to me under the trees. The season is most definitely advanced, even if the trees have not yet turned. Beside us, the Crane flows quietly on.

I am assailed by waist high stinging nettles and moan a bit about that. Our path is muddy but soft. We edge our way carefully between branbles and nettles until we reach a bridge over the now faster flowing Crane, which takes us towards Houndslow heath.

I burble on about highwaymen, imagine staring down the barrel of a pair of cocked guns pointed by a masked and cruelly handsome figure. Stand and deliver! Your money or your life! I sing cheerfully, lost momentarily in an Adam Ant moment of long ago. But the peace of the day draws me back and, I dismiss the stories of Dick turpin raiding the handbags of the rich on the London road. Im not even sure it is here, but I quite like the thought though.

Were not out of the woods yet, as there is still quite a belt of trees between us and the heath proper. A golfer looms out from behind a bush, dragging his irons behind him. He nods and says hello girls as he passes.

Girls, I mutter crossly, harrumph!

Purple and yellow Michaelmas daisies dot the edge of the path as the trees give way to bracken, shrub and hawthorn bushes. The rain, chased off temporarily by warm bright autumnal sun, is back, crossly swirling on a brisk wind.

Very Blasted Heath, I mutter, pulling my hat on again.

The path is straight and clear. Not a soul is in sight. Above, the planes continue to swoop and roar, like great metal hunting birds. In the distance, I catch the sound of pounding rock music and wonder where it comes from. It is likely to be very far off. Heathland is notorious for flinging sound around in a confusing way.

The grass covered sandy soil is firm but soft underfoot. Our feet make no sound as we walk. I imagine though that the sound of pounding hooves might well be heard a long way off. I hop up and down to demonstrate how it might sound. Its not convincing so I desist, Anyway, Dick turpins stomping ground might have been Barnet Common not Houndslow Heath. Whatever!

The paths criss cross ahead of us, but our way is clear. The rain intensifies and I slip, encountering a little hole. We head for an oak tree under which to lean and rest, sheltering from the worst of the rain as we eat fruit bars.

One or two dog-walkers are now out. Their four footed companions bounce up to the Compass Botherer who is always nice to dogs. They ignore me, which suits me fine. We walk on.

Far in the distance on the right, two tall tower blocks loom over the heath. We are coming to the edge. The road is roaring in the distance. We skirt the rather unpleasant social housing and turn onto a road to find a bus to take us back to Houndslow and the train home.

6 More jewels of the south

6 More jewels of the South

Sunday August 1, 2010:

The Victoria Line train sits mutely at the station, doors open, trembling slightly. The Compass Botherer and I are very much in danger of missing our train from Vauxhall. The Vicars Daughter, who is not a mornings person, is wending her way with difficulty out of the East end which is as usual full of tube closures. At this rate, she is likely to get to New Mordent before us! I wouldnt blame her for feeling a bit grumpy about our tardiness should that happen.
Some nutter of a passenger has opened her suitcase right at the bottom of the stairs to the train platform and is rooting around frenziedly in it. We climb over her and puff up the stairs onto the platform where our train sits waiting for us to board.

After a traditional breakfast of pleasant scrambled eggs and execrable coffee (well draw a veil over the state of the toilet), we emerge into a light rainstorm. Grumpily, we hall assorted waterproofs from bags and March off down the road. We are following the Beverley Brook as it threads its way through several emeralds across South West London.

This is a nice suburban street. There are neat semis, some really quite big houses and a whole host of guerilla trees pushing up the pavement beneath us. Most houses are painted white or cream but there is one large monstrosity which is an offensively insipid pink. If one is going to paint ones house pink, one really ought to do it with purpose and make it really really PINK .

We are but a short step from the café when we have our first dispute with the instructions. The Compass Botherer is having an Are we nearly there moment and after a bit of persistence, she discovers that the instructions are in fact correct.

We turn onto a tree lined path running across an old fashioned golf course much approved of by the Vicars daughter who is at heart, a traditionalist about such matters. Mature trees dot the greens which spread out on either side rather pleasantly.

At the end of the tree-lined avenue, a pistachio coloured mock Tudor house confronts us. For the umpteenth time I rejoice in being saved from looking at such a spectacle, by virtue of being blind. Shuddering inwardly at the vision conjured up in my mind, I follow my companions along a subway under the A3.

A courteous bicyclist moves over to let us pass. The Compass Botherer reflects aloud on the rarity of such an encounter and how it restores ones faith in human nature, albeit possibly only fleetingly.

And now we find ourselves walking beside the Beverley Brook which runs parallel to the A3, hard by some nice houses. It is fringed with softly drooping buddleia under which we duck. I am glad it has not rained for 24 hours, for the shrubs stroke our heads affectionately and would most certainly have dribbled cool water onto warm unguarded flesh at the first opportunity, had it rained. Whether the brook babbles is not possible to tell as the roaring traffic is deafening.

The brook slinks between houses and we turn away from it to circumnavigate them. We encounter another paler pistachio coloured house, and a row of gardens roses rioting amongst the buddleia. Theres a fine display of proud llilleys, a bit of a fist fight going on between ground elder and invited shrubs in one disheveled garden and evidence of a neighborhood fashion for very tall sunflowers and hollyhocks. A discussion takes place upon the merits of old fashioned roses versus the newer ones. I sniff gamely and appreciatively all blooms offered to my nose by way of judgment liking the perfume of traditional roses but not their thorns!

Joining the brook again, we turn onto a narrow path running alongside the playing fields, edged with rather untidy hedges of hawthorn and brambles. At this point, the brook is scowling rather than babbling. Three footballs bob dolefully in its shallow waters. Drinks cans and chocolate wrappers (the detritus of teenagers, according to the Vicars Daughter) litter the path and float disconsolately in the water.

I stump behind the vicars Daughter muttering grumpily. There are appropriate coloured ripe-looking blackberries hanging on the bushes. The Compass Botherer plucks one and rapidly rejects it declaring shes been lured to pluck it under false pretences as it is sour!

We discuss the lying blackberries for a while and fall to debating the Compass Botherers seemly irrational hatred of the Mutton Brook of last years Capital Ring adventures and how this brook isnt so bad after all. At last, we emerge into the open and walk onto Wimbledon Common where we flop down on the balding grass to rest.

A golden coloured beetle comes to explore the vicars Daughter. I pick up a flexible length of thorn twig and fashion it into a chaplet, and place the crown of thorns upon my head. The Vicars Daughter (who knows about these things) asks me to let her know when I want to be nailed up to a cross and shell arrange it. Blasphemously, we cackle and struggle to our feet to walk on.

We have the place to ourselves practically. Its as empty as on a weekday, since Londoners with children seem to have all gone on their holidays. Hurrah!

I remind the Compass Botherer that we have walked through the woods we now edge on a previous occasion. Holly, Oak and Sycamore wrestle with brambles for supremacy. Someone has aided the struggle by clearing some of the trees.

It says on the path signs, no Cycling. The Compass Botherer glowers at everything on two wheels that deigns to pass.

The Brook beside us does indeed now seem to be babbling. We can still hear the A3, but it is merely a hum in the distance. Trees hang over the water and stretch out to meet each other. We walk under their cool greenness.

Judging by the numbers of muddy dogs that pass, the water is proving to be irresistible to all on four legs. Four variously wet and muddy specimens romp up to us, tails a-wagging and tongues a-lolling, eager that we share in their muddy exploits. At this point, the banks are steep and the only way they can get in is to slide down the dog-made mud shoots or fling themselves precipitously at the water in doggy abandon.

The compass Botherer has another are we nearly there moment when we come upon a brick bridge. After further exploration this turns out not to be the one we are looking for as there are no sports pavilions in site.

We stand on the bridge and peer at the water. Suddenly a large bouncy dog emerges from under the bridge and pounds his way down the middle of the brook. There is a huge amount of cheerful splashing as he kicks up his paws. Amongst the noise, I swear I hear him yodeling in a happy doggy way. I am reminded of another water-loving dog pounding along in the water and yodeling away as she frolicked in the icy mountain waters of a Welsh River. I spare a thought for patsy the dog and turn to walk on.

A sign appears forbidding horses to walk the path as well as bicycles. We do not however pass any horses and thus there is no opportunity for the Compass Botherer (who is in any case far fonder of horses than she is of bicyclists) to castigate them on their trespass.

At length, we spy the pavilion and the brick bridge. We detour to a public toilet which turns out to be the third worst toilets the Compass Botherer and I have encountered upon these walks. Briefly we debate whether Beckton country Park toilet was worse or whether the ones at the dulwich Park café should take the prize. We decide that it is the latter.

Standing on the second brick bridge, I listen to the water singing. The Compass Botherer spies a pair of unfamiliar extraordinary looking birds, black and white with yellow backs, angular an elegant, peering into the water. Its time to leave the brook for now as we have to get across the dratted A3 again.

But we dont have to climb the hideous rattling bridge over the roaring road. Since we were last here, a green island with two crossings has been built. My knees give thanks for not having to climb up all those steps . We cross easily and enter the peace of Richmond Park.

Richmond Park does something very odd to the Compass Botherers internal compass. Its traditional; she always gets lost. Today is no exception as shes seized yet again by Are we nearly there itiss!

But despite feeling that we are walking in completely the wrong direction, she leads us back to the banks of the Beverley Brook. Here it runs fast between deeply cut grass and the banks are hung over fondly by beautiful graceful willows and solid oaks.

An elegant dog marches purposefully into the shallow water and lies down. Its the only thing to do when one is hot and bothered, methinks wishing I could do the same.
We sink down on to a handy bench to rest. My companions describe the view. It is a veritable rural idyll. Two older women comfortably sit ensconced on a rug draped tuffet overlooking the water. Its a perfect place for a picnic, a sentiment endorsed by the clusters of folks sitting on the grass doing just that.

We skirt the edge of the cruelly named Kill Cat Corner, a piece of woodland running close by the brook. At a natural beach, small children toddle damply in the shallows with dogs. The path is dappled and cool. We walk on, following the path across the river to a café beyond a car park and a bike hire place, where we feast on delicious home-made vegetable soup.

Leaving by the Rowhampton gate, on the other side of the park wall, we follow the route of the Beverley Brook, past pleasant houses with verdant gardens. We cross the fast flowing waters and enter Pale well Common.

The brook speeds off to the right and we climb up onto the common proper. Tall trees edge a quiet meadow of grass which is deserted, save the occasional wood pigeon and argumentative robin. There are some houses in the distance, with enviable long gardens sweeping down to the water. Apart from that, the horizon is all green with trees. We sink upon a comfortable bench and drink in the peace.

Leaving the common, we walk past a play park and some tennis courts and turn down a narrow path to walk amongst the allotments. Bright red green bean flowers festoon one patch. A swathe of sweet peas spread themselves across another. Theres a healthy crop of caugettes in another, and a magnificent orange pumpkin sitting insplendour ina fourth. Blackberries hang over fences but disappointingly, none are ready to eat. We turn into a smart street of houses and then out onto the noisy Upper Richmond road.

The Beverley Brook takes a capricious turn and the walk loops round. We deviate by making a bee line down the main road, heading quickly for Barnes Common.

Suddenly, the road is gone and we are walking amongst trees. The path heads straight through holly, oak, hawthorn and sycamore. The path is pleasantly cool but the trees are hedged about with fierce impenetrable brambles. We turn onto a parallel path amongst the trees.

There is evidence of Lamas fires (or vandal fires, depending upon your outlook). In one scorched patch , a lonely half-consumed college prospectus sits, a sole survivor of a vengeful fire. We speculate about what disappointment drove the burner to toss the offending book to the flames.

I demand a trunk upon which to sit and lo, one appears. I sit down and sniff the air. Apropos of the bonfires and the fact that the Campus Botherer is reading a book with a lesbian Wiccan in it, The Vicars Daughter and I conduct a little teach-in on the broad tenants of various pagan paths.

The railway line runs along beside us beyond another bank of trees,. From time to time, trains rattle past, their dumpty-dump, and dumpty-dump echoing reassuringly amongst the trees.

But we cant go visiting to Barnes Common without making a trip to theBolan Tree as it is called. The Compass Botherer who doesnt appear to have heard of Marc Bolan, whips out her Blackberry and eagerly looks it up on Google.

The Vicars Daughter and I get up and trail after the Compass Botherer, who is now on a mission to find this shrine. I find myself singing snatches of Ride a white swan, and the Vicars Daughter discusses seriously the pagan influences of Tyrannosaurus Rex (the pop group not the dinosaur).

In and out of the station we go, up and down stairs, squeezing past tourists heading for the London Wetlands Centre, a bus ride away., we take our lives in our hands and cross another road without pavements. We edge around another wooded part of the common following the striding figure of the Compass Botherer, moving purposefully along, blackberry in paw, seeking a bashed up tree. At length, she stops and waves vigorously at us to come quickly. She has found it.

A black marble headstone stands at the foot of a group of high steps leading up to the tree and the road above. Tiles set into the steps give the dates of death of all the rest of the band and various significant others. The offending tree is festooned with plastic and silk flowers and a bad bronze bust of Bolan sits before it. The floor is scattered with silver stars. Candles and porcelain swans are dotted about the place. A dinosaur clutching a handbag is wedged into the tree.

I sit down on the steps. Im knackered. Im also a bit amazed that there is this memorial to a long dead pop star. But still there are people who beat a path to this place, who are still fans, like my upstairs neighbour who is obsessed with Marc Bolan and is always playing his music. Still, its a comfortable place to rest for a while, which we do until its time to beat a path to the station and to home.

5 the secrets of the south – 1 (Sydenham Hill and Dulwich

5 the secrets of the south 1 (Sydenham Hill and Dulwich

Sunday June 27, 2010:

Sipping a cup of Lady Gray tea, I walk around my aromatic garden under a cloudy sky. The question is, will the cloud burn off in what is going to be the hottest day of the year?

Later, I stand in my kitchen trying to remember what I came into it for! A finger of sunlight reaches in through the open door and gently touches my cheek and withdraws. Ah summer!, I think and go in search of a straw hat.

At Victoria station, the bog attendant summoned by our persistent ringing snarls rudely at us. Apparently My Radar key also opens the external gate leading to the accessible toilet. The Compass Botherer comments loudly upon her rudeness, but the bog attendant appears to be unrepentant. .

Victoria station is teaming with bicyclists unloading their machines from trains. The compass Botherer has a slight Daily Mail moment before being distracted by the sight of a group of teenagers fetchingly dressed in pink and black, scooting tidily past us with their bikes.

From the comfort of the train, my companion describes the view sliding slowly past us. The sun is shining on the glittering river, which apparently looks really quite blue. Battersea Power station is strong and rather striking under a clear azure sky. The embankments are green and dotted with wild flowers.

Sydenham Hill station nestles in a little wooded Del. The platforms are embraced by a riot of trees and shrubs, some with delicate little fragrant flowers. The Vicars Daughter (who has joined us at this point) looks splendid in a straw hat that would not shame a vigorous lady gardener of the Bloomsbury set or possibly be out of place at a modest garden fete.

Passing through a kissing gate, the Compass Botherer spies an empty baby buggy which is tethered with a bike lock to the gate. Briefly, I speculate on where its contents have gone before mustering my knee muscles to toil up the steep path that runs through Dulwich Wood.

Dulwich Wood is part of the old North Wood that in olden times ran across London and which the Compass Botherer and I have encountered in the Capital ring walks of last year see http://rockdovebiglondonhug.blogspot.com
The air is filled with the sweet sound of pigeons and the soft smell of summer blossoms. I breathe deeply as I pant up the hill.
A dog walker encounters another and they exchange pleasantries whilst their dogs (assorted Labradors and similar breeds) sniff each other interestedly. The sun shines through the trees. The Compass Botherer wonders if the chap with the dog is the bloke who bought her Brockley flat years ago. She muses on the possibility that its a small world but decides not to ask in case he isnt and thinks she is mad.

The vicars Daughter and I are inspired to Performa a fairly creditable version of Climb Every Mountain!, as we stride up the hill. Our voices wobble with the effort of breathing and walking, let alone singing. Still, we make it to the top and are justifiably proud of that achievement.

We turn into a crescent of detached Edwardian and similar Villars. They are individual and graceful. On one side, a curiosity of a modern design appearing to have no windows, gives way to two tall Georgian houses. Further on, we encounter the dulwich Estate, a poorly planned array of frankly quite uninspiring houses (according to my companions) which appear to have been set down any old way amongst the trees. However, effort has been made with the little front gardens, several of which display neatly planted herbs and vegetables.

We come to a locked gate! Outraged, the compass Botherer shakes the map she printed out from the internet and leads us determinedly up an extremely steep path behind the houses. We march purposefully and crossly across a green sweep of daisy decked lawn until a way is found which will let us into Sydenham Hill Wood.

The disused railway line is a nature reserve. Mature hornbeams and assorted other trees flank a flight of shallow steps leading to the shady walk. The temperature drops significantly as we come under cover of more tall trees.

Sydenham Hill Wood is indeed a hidden jewel. Amongst the cool and quiet trees, we encounter a true English pointer, apparently small and freckled, although its owner is careful to point out that technically this is called ticking. I think of itchy bites and mattresses but say nothing.

The owner of a German Pointer (clearly the dog of the day) extols its virtues. Heretically, he speculates aloud upon the virtues of the two dogs against those of the two nations football teams who are playing each other later today! The pointer owners appear to be acquainted so he is not torn limb from limb at this point.

My companions who are both doggy fans are introduced to a Sprocker which I decide sounds like an implement for removing stubborn washers. Mention is made of Labradoodles and other canine hybrids. I cant help thinking that we are sliding towards eugenics when the lady owner of the English pointer chortles cheerfully why are we against GM food but not against GM dogs? Mad dogs and English women she trills in an afterthought as she strikes off down the path after her purposeful dog

It would be nice if there was a seat, I say as we move on, and lo, there is one! We sit in the sun and listen to a persistent parakeet argue with the native birds up in the tree canopy.

There appears to be a blockage ahead of us. We leave the railway line and walk beside the beginnings of a golf course. There is a bridge which we cross upon which the Impressionist Painter Pissarro allegedly painted the view. Thatll be blurred then, I say rather drolly.

The compass Botherer is getting agitated about our precise whereabouts according to the map. She is convinced that the instructions and indeed the map are all wrong and we are not where we should be. Registering this as lost moment number two, I refrain from comment and follow her meekly into another part of the railway walk beyond said bridge.

Here, light woodland and a golf course skirt the railway. Rather present flats with nice wooden balconies run along the other side. All too soon however, thhishaven of a wooded path ends.

We emerge onto a disgracefully busy road. The Compass Botherer attempts to halt the traffic in the time honoured teachers way by holding up a commanding hand. The traffic takes no notice. We dice with death and dart between the snarling cars. Not for the first time I mutter under my breath, twas a short but merry life as we escape, our limbs intact to the safety of the opposite pavement. Finally, we turn into the relative peace and fragrance of dulwich Park.

The park is rather pedicured (a more substantial version of manicured). Tarmac roads and a horse track lead us past the American Garden (haphazardly planted rhododendrons!),across a wide sword of green dotted with various children and their parents at play. The Vicars Daughter and I speculate on our comparative compatibility upon a see-saw both being substantially built). We are heading for the café and a late breakfast? Early lunch. The sun is hot on my neck. I ram the straw hat down on more firmly.

I imagine a shady table, a yummy veggie breakfast in a peaceful park café and get my wish. It does require blocking out the ear-piercing screams of various brats though. We eat and rest.

Thats the most disgusting toilet I think Ive come across in a long time, declares the compass Botherer of the café facilities. We beat a hurried retreat to a more fragrant and pleasant environment and walk clockwise (as instructed by our map) around the ornamental lake.

Someone has worked hard to make this a beautiful space. Clean boardwalk leads us past neatly set bulrushes and pleasant islands of plants. Ducks and geese frollick in the water, keeping a beady eye out for any bread toting humans. Ornamental trees set in neat lawns dot the landscape. We walk through an unseen spiders web stretching across the path. Its sticky silky threads temporarily veil our hats.

The compass Botherer loses confidence again in the map and asks the way. We pass couples on double tricycles which I am rather envious of, and a lot of small children scooting around on what appear to be oversized tea trays with wheels. Leaving the park, we make for West Dulwich Station, via the art gallery where the vicars Daughter peels off in search of a bit of culture. The Compass Botherer and I make our way home, for she has to watch the football and I have an appointment with a beer and a book, in my shady garden.

4 The jewels of the East 2 Wells Road Common, Victoria park, Mile End, Greenwich and Blackheath

4 The jewels of the East 2 Wells Road Common, Victoria park, Mile End, Greenwich and Blackheath

Saturday May 22, 2010:

I love the sun. So Im happy that on the hottest day of the year so far, we are going walking. The vicars daughter (a habitué of the East End) has planned our latest tour to admire its shiny emeralds. We set off hopefully aboard a 277 bus from Highbury and Islington. Our starting point for this walk is Wells road Common in des res smart Hackney.

Just past the first Daily Mail moment for the compass Botherer (it was about buggies on buses), hard by the rather pretty but closed little green St Thomass Square we are turned off the bus. Apparently, theres a blockage further ahead and the bus is going to turn round. We stump dutifully down the dusty streets, admiring the little green closed square, the big candle factory and the ballet shoes factory. The Compass Botherer has a second Daily Mail moment with an obstructing cyclist. Annoyingly a number of 277 buses speed past us amongst the free flowing traffic. Clearly the blockage is now unblocked but nobody told us!

We cross a busy road and turn down a street of rather nice substantial Georgian houses. Here is Wells Road Common, a hidden tree-girdled patch of green. The small and pleasant terrace houses each have a gate leading from their secret back gardens directly onto the common. Mature trees stretch their leafy limbs towards each other. In parts, the grass is long and dappled with daisies; in other parts it is neatly mown.

We walk pass a mysterious half sized door and wonder what it leads too. Skirting the common, we turn into a residential road and then into an alleyway between two gooiness trust blocks and enter the North eastern part of Victoria Park.

The grass is rough; between tall trees it is coolly shady. The hum of city traffic recedes as we walk into an oasis of calm. Small ponds are cheerfully populated with a range of wild fowl. Flag irises dance cheerfully in the sun. A small copse offers shade; the sweetness of crushed vegetation mingles with the rosy smell of something else. The day smells as clean as a neatly ironed cotton shirt. I breathe in deeply and am soothed by the smell of soft greenness all around.

Some fit young people are contorting themselves elastically, in preparation of doing something unspeakably energetic. In another daily Mail moment, the Compass Botherer rails against the imposition of white legs emerging from shorts. I know what she means but privately think that unless said white legs get exposed to the sun, theyll never get a healthy color on them and always look offensive. But still, who am I to comment, I dont have to look at them!

Its time for breakfast. We cross a busy road into the noisy part of Victoria Park. A large lake dominates the space. Water fowl waddle cheerfully about, not at all bothered by the curious little fashionable dogs who gamble about amongst them. A nest of vulnerable looking little redheaded baby coots, sit placidly beside the lake close to the café. I munch my way through gloriously buttery toast mounded with soft chivy scrambled eggs and feel that my day has now started.

The Compass Botherer finds a swans nest close to the path. She oohs and ahs as she successfully captures the soft fluffy grey signets and complacent dame in a photo. Little designer dogs rush about and are ignored by the swans who dont appear to give a toss. Demanding brats with nice vowels pester their parents for ice creams. Child free adults strut the paths clad in smooth sleek leggings rather than the bobbly baggy jogging bottoms of the normal weekender

Leaving the hubbub of Victoria Park behind, we turn onto the Regents Canal at the point where it meets the Hertfordshire canal. The towpath is coolly shaded, flanked by a range of pleasant and not so pleasant looking blocks of flats.

The air is punctuated with the occasional ting of bicycle bells as cyclists weave amongst the dawdling pedestrians. The Compass Botherer mutters darkly about manners and the etiquette of shared space in a return to the Daily Mail moment number two. Silently, I wish that they would topple into the canal and then recall the thought and wish only that they would find courtesy as they speed with impunity along any car free space they can find.

There is another swans nest, this time on the other side of the water, the signets and parent sitting happily in the sun. On the nearside of the canal, a rather odd raft containing stone turtles bobs peacefully.

And here is Mile End Park, a long thin strip of land running beside the canal for some distance. A more recently created piece of green space, the park offers a range of terrains, vistas and environments. We slip into the ecology bead, dotted with diverse grasses and lovely wild flowers. I am reminded of a dead comrade as we walk amongst the flowers. Just a couple of weeks ago, I came here to celebrate his life in the eco dome. I think about him singing along badly to a meandering song of his own composing and smile to myself. This moments for you Dave, I say to myself.

We wander back onto the canal side. The water ripples quietly along. A noisy barge puffs by. We veer back into the park to examine another bead, a wooded copse with a winding path between the trees, leading to a patch of meadow going nowhere. Retracing our steps to the waterside, we walk on.

The green bridge is not as grassy and green as I imagine. The Mile End Road roars below. I sit down to rest on dusty metal steps whilst we debate and decide not to detour to Mile end cemetery. That bead can be admired on another occasion.

Back on the canal, we find grassy banks festooned with purple vetch. Wild geraniums jostle with what looks like but is not cow parsley. I crouch down and stroke them, tender petals cool and delicate in my hands.

The air is rosy and soft, the sun is very warm now. It licks my right ear and neck. I think about putting my hat on but am distracted by some other olfactory or tactile delight and forget.

We encounter more rude cyclists. The compass Botherer assails their retreating backs with outraged utterances. We pass several locks, the water flows soothingly from level to level. Quiet houseboats sit under the heat of the noonday sun. Overhead the air ambulance helicopter hovers noisily as it delivers injured people to the Royal London Hospital nearby.

We have arrived at Lime House Basin. The marina is full of very smart boats of all shapes and sizes. I can never think with kindness upon Lime house without remembering the annoying Social Democratic Party and its birth in this very place! Dismissing unspeakable coalitions from my mind, I settle happily upon a wall to rest and toast for a while in the sun.

Rested, we walk down to the river. My companions tell me it shines under the bright sun and I imagine it, a silver rippling serpent curving between the restricting banks, its reflection lighting up the dullness of the grey concrete riverside. The river sweeps grandly round in what the Vicars daughter refers to as the sweaty armpit of the Isle of Dogs. Below lies the little muddy beach upon which she and I have been wont to besport ourselves at dawn on winter solstice morns gone by. . But the beach is not for us today, as we bend our steps to Zizzis and luncheon.

Im not sure whether the beer is a good idea. I drink it anyway. It goes down well. The Mediterranean vegetables and salads are a good thing though. Replete and genteelly belching (that pesky beer) I lick the juice of the tomatoes from my lips as we get up to move on.

Via West India Dock and the DLR, we walk through teaming Greenwich, heaving with merry-makers. The park is full of picnicking groups. We pick our way amongst them, marching steadily up the hill to the café at the top as it is time for cake.

Wood Pigeons bubble and coo all around. They loiter expectantly, eyeing up our cakes, hoping for crumbs. Their soft cooing, soothing and restful. I wonder aloud how anyone can dislike a bird that makes such a sweet noise. My companions have things to say about this, but in deference to my pigeon fancying tendencies they button their lips. We walk on through the park and out towards Black heath.

The last bead in the string of jewels this day is Blackheath. It is very flat and efficiently mown. It is however quite windy and thus a great place to fly a kite. The cool wind is very refreshing after our stiff walk up the hill. I get horizontal, lying prone on the soft grass with the firm earth beneath me.

My companions tell me that we can only see a bit of the Canary Warf tower from here. Groups of people sit talking cheerfully, children yell and in the distance, the traffic hums. Blackheath is very much like a rather large lawn, fastidiously cut by a neat gardener. Still, its lovely to have the space and I am happy to lie on it some more.

But its time to go. I grumble as I roll over and climb to my feet. They are sore and itchy. We walk through the village, its narrow roads chocked with impatient cars.

I climb carefully down the familiar stairs onto the quiet railway platform. Nothing has changed since I lived here nearly 30 years ago. Two blackbirds compete loudly for territory. I stand in a pool of sunshine and bask in their lovely song. I raise my faced to their singing and smile foolishly up at them.

Ah birdies I say infantilely and climb aboard the whining, huffing train.

3 the jewels of the east (Epping Forest and Wan stead Park)

3 the jewels of the east (Epping Forest and Wan stead Park)

Sunday May 9, 2010

The country languor’s in decisively with no government. Deals negotiated by unspeakable alliances are being brokered behind closed doors in smoke-free rooms. The people rise and demand a fairer voting system. The only thing to do is to go walking!

A bad tempered northerly wind reminiscent of March rather than May, provokes me to reach for my fleece. Some hawthorns are fluffy with blossom; the one in my garden is still beaded and closed. I’m certainly not casting a clout till that May is out.

Our intention is to begin at Tottenham Hale and walk across Lockwood Reservoir. Then we plan to take a bus and possibly walk through Lloyds Park or go straight on to Epping Forest entering at the Waterworks Roundabout. We hope to head through Snaresbrook and onto Hollow Ponds. From there, we plan to take a bus to Wanstead Park.

Emerging onto the northern side of Ferry lane, the Compass Botherer bothers her compass for the first of many times this day. The streets are smeary, gritty and grey. A light drizzle is losing the will to live.

We walk past hale Village, a new build of the ugly variety, daubed with splashes of primary colour in an attempt to lift it from the dullness of grey; the blocks appear to have been dumped randomly at the edge of the road. At their feet, a dark sludge sulkily stinks. A hoarding placed in front of the monstrosities declares “A place for reflection”. Another reads “Living in harmony with nature” and a third boasts “building a riverside community.”

“Who are they kidding” scoffs the Compass Botherer who is a planner and knows about these things.

We walk across a lock connecting two pieces of waterway, one of which is Pym’s Brook. The river bank is covered in a great clump of cow parsley and borridge. The smell of the water rises up to meet us in a not unpleasant pondy waft. We cross an ornate red brick and curly ironwork Edwardian Bridge and walk across the car park of the Ferry Inn. A not quite empty pint glass sits sadly upon a table.

We saunter round the outside of the pub and are confronted with a locked gate. LockwoodResevoir Park is closed to all who don’t have permits. Thames Water, the gatekeepers have to be applied TO FOR permission TO ROAM.

We lean disconsolately upon the gate whilst my companions gaze upon and describe the riot of waterfowl and other creatures gambling about in peace and quiet. A swan sticks its head under its wing and goes back to sleep

Moving to plan B, we climb aboard the 123 bus and head for Epping Forest. Sailing past our stop on the intimidating Waterworks roundabout, we alight aside the bellowing A406 to wander confusedly beside the slip roads and multiple lanes. Desperately, we engage strangers in conversation about our rough where-abouts. In time, we decide that breakfast might bring clarity and repair to a gastro pub in South Woodford.

I wolf down deliciously moist and tasty scrambled eggs on toast. My companions drink coffee and eat veggie breakfast and toast. Thus fortified, we march back to the roaring North circular in search of a bus that will take us back to the Waterworks and the bit of Epping Forest we seek there.

Hard by the snarling road, a tarmac path leads us between clumps of cow parsley and waist high angelica into the still coolness of the forest. Tall trees thickly canopied, soak up the roar of the traffic. The birds glitter in song. We step carefully across the ruts and are soon in a haven of sylvan peace.

We are sheltered from the bitter wind. The sun comes out, reaching warm fingers through the trees to touch us gently as we walk.

“The oak leaves are so new, they’re lime green”, says the Compass Botherer. I imagine beech leaves acidly green, brilliant beside the dark holly. The hawthorn is still beaded in buds not yet open. Beneath our feet, the forest floor is mossy and soft.

We walk on and cross the Snaresbrook road, entering another part of the forest. Here, the woods are carpeted with English Bluebells. I bend down and touch their gentle softness

We look for a place to sit and eat some lunch. In a wide clearing, the gorse glows brightly. We find a carved bench and rest and feast.

Sated, we walk through the gorse and emerge into Hollow ponds. Two big pieces of water, edged by trees, lay silvery green I imagine, and are thronged with people and their dogs.

“Ah” says the Compass Botherer and darts off to examine a goose trailing an obedient line of goslings. The goslings and their dame turn tail and flee back to the safety of the water.

We walk on down to Whips Cross Hospital in search of a loo. Suitably relieved, we jump aboard the W19 bus, heading for Wanstead Park.

My companions ooh and ah about the abundance of floral displays in the rather pleasant houses along the road. Deep dark purple lilac is out. A froth of other flowers softens the sureness of substantial houses, perfuming the air with a warm sweetness which almost disguises the smell of the road. We turn into the woods and are lost to the busy city behind us.

Reservoir Woods is part of Epping Forest it turns out. Here, oak is predominant, although beach, holly and hawthorn are also present. I encounter a columned oak, its branches (according to my companions) arching like candelabra. Bluebells are again in evidence, alongside other charming woodland flowers.

The forest opens up to a series of ponds. Wildfowl rampage energetically about. The Compass Botherer finds a nest of baby mallards and she and the Vicar’s Daughter coo delightedly over them. A coot chases off the ducks and three bouncy Alsatians charge into the water amidst a lot of splashing. Emerging after their baths, they hurtle about but fortunately resist the temptation to shake themselves vigoursly in our vicinity.

We sit on a bench and snack. The Vicar’s Daughter, who is quite a dog fan, joins the compass Botherer in exclamations of delight as each panting canine passes. Everyone is happy, not the least me, as I eat my way through a piece of moist chocolate cake.

“Is that a pig?”, asks the Vicar’s Daughter as we walk along a path. The Compass Botherer and she confer together for a moment or two and decide, despite its portliness and its waddle that it is in fact a fat lap dog! A smart black dog with thick pink harness passes. I wonder whimsically if it is a gay dog. My companions ignore me and continue to greet the veritable parade of canines now walking the park.

There is a “temple” in the Park. Built by the landowner in the nineteenth century, the substantial brick structure was originally a summerhouse. It now houses roman remains from the Park and is the occasional venue for varied theatrical events. We shuffle around it and I sniff the distinct aroma of animal pooh and wonder which of our boots it currently decorates. It turns out to be mine.

I drink a cup of disgusting tea. That done, we march through the bluebell woods again. Quintessentially English, the woods are cool and fragrant. They open out and we follow a long thin lake fringed by candle trees, horse chestnuts in bloom). The path here is wide and we promenade along happily, enjoying the peace of trees, bluebells and water.

The River Roding rushes by on one side. We have walked too far this way to leave the park, which is now our intension. Turning, after consulting other walkers, we edge the golf course and climb a path up to a street.

A substantial house, ugly in new brick sits beside homes in slightly better taste. These give way to inoffensive terraces. Most gardens are paved, many with a car parked in the space. Deep purple lilac softens the harshness of their designs. We walk on to Wanstead tube station and our journey’s end this day.

“What a jewel” says the Compass Botherer, of Wanstead Park. The Vicar’s daughter and I agree, glad to have found the forest and the park. Idly, I wonder if we yet have a government. The Compass Botherer wonders if Chelsea has one the league. The vicar’s Daughter quietly wanders.

2 Finsbury Park to Alexandra Palace (via Highgate)

2 Finsbury Park to Alexandra Palace (via Highgate)

Friday April 2, 2010:

For the last few days, the weather has growled at us in a very grumpy way. Gone is the balmy softness of spring, with its gently perfumed air. Back comes the disagreeable frostiness of winter, with a cold wet sharp rain riding on the breath of a bitter northerly wind.

Scotland is again shrouded in snow. A coach full of school children veers from the road and pitches up in a frozen burn. A teenager dies. Still the blackbird roams his territory and sings even more loudly in the hard cold rain. I marvel at his optimism as I fetch my thick warm duffle coat out of a cupboard where I had hopefully confined it until the autumn winds should come a-calling again next October.

Our plan is to walk from fins bury Park to tottenham Hale along the following route:

Join the Parkland Walk behind my house and walk to Archway. Walk through Queens Wood to Highgate Woods to breakfast at the Highgate Wood Pavilion Café and visit a dead friends memorial bench. Take the Parkland Walk (northern leg) to Alexandra Palace
Walk through Alexandra Palace Park leaving at Alexandra Palace train station
Walk to Wood Green and along White Hart Lane
Through Tottenham Cemetery and past Bruce Castle Park
Along Roseberry Avenue to Lockwood Reservoir
Down the Lee Valley to Tottenham Hale
Back to mine to celebrate the Compass-Botherers birthday with pink bubbly and chocolate cake

The weather forecast predicts drizzle at ten and a rainstorm at 1. But the sky, feels high enough to promise dryness for a while yet. Optimistically, the Three of us set off along the parkland Walk behind my house, our waterproofs firmly packed in our rucksacks. Today, the geography graduate (Compass-Botherer) and I are accompanied by our magpie noticing companion of the previous walk, the Vicars Daughter!

The joggers are out. Variously dressed, they pant past us. Dogs and their owners do similar. The path is strewn with muddy puddles. We splash smugly through them, for at least two of us have Gortex walking boots!

The trees are beginning to bud. We stop by a blackthorn, its bare leaves frothed with blossom. Like goats, we cluster beneath its arching branches. We munch its flowers thoughtfully, as their bitter sweet almond taste burst forth into our warm mouths.

The birds are giving it some welly. They fly from branch to branch, warbling away to each other above the heads of the promenading humans and their canine companions. Cheerful robins hop about, above, crows circle and caw and the wood pigeons coo softly from the distance. My companions chatter as we walk. I drink in the song of the birds, only half attending to my companions discussion.

I stop, pulling them both to a halt. Above us, two robins call to each other, their trilling warbles thrillingly loud in the damp morning air. Like an arch of sound, the birdsong rises over our heads. I imagine a great arc of silver dancing notes and we three passing beneath it, as though entering another world.

Leaving the Parkland Walk at Archway, we pass a hawthorn upon which, tiny leaves are beginning to unfurl. I think about the rowan tree in my garden. Its buds are growing longer and more horned. Soon, their soft fleshy tips will burst forth into delicately fingered leaves. Each day, I stand by the tree and touch them, noticing their growing, appreciating how the spring creeps forwards, despite the cold weather.

Soon I am distracted by a more urgent need and we head down the Archway road in search of a loo. The Highgate Café, a humble seeming greasy spoon with rather an excellent menu, provides relief. We settle down to eat rather excellent scrambled eggs on toast.

AS we emerge from the café, the sun comes out. Jacksons lane Community Centre is flanked by a riot of dancing daffodils tastefully arranged in tubs around the ugly building. I imagine the old church festooned in a floral Easter bonnet of flamboyant design. Suddenly, Im thinking of Battersea Park, the Easter Parade, a sea of legs and my father, standing silently smoking in the sunshine.

We turn away from the noise of the Archway Road through a concrete alley into a pleasant house-lined street. . What look like white harebells according to the Vicars Daughter, wave cheerfully from the front gardens. We turn down another alleyway between the houses and enter the wood. On our left inside the garden of a fine Victorian house, my companions spy red Camellias, their glossy thick petals curling lusciously. In another garden, pink camellias curl erotically against darker leaves. I remember descriptions of Georgia OKeefe pictures and make a mental note to plant camellias in my garden. At this point, Compass-Botherer reveals that she has been invited to see someones camellias, about which, we joke Ludely until our minds are diverted elsewhere.

Wood smoke drifts across on the breeze. The woods ferny, damp and slightly mushroomy aroma comes to us in its wake. The vicars daughter marvels at the sight of a tree covered in thick red fungus, hard by the path. On the left, a homeless man is cooking breakfast on his camping stove. We stop to exchange pleasantries and he tells us of his unfair treatment at the hands of haringey Council. Sympathizing, we walk on.

Daffodils scattered between the trees sway in the wind. The Compass-Botherer, plucks an unknown delicate and vulnerable small white flower, tucking it away for later botanical identification. Catkins shiver on the young alder tree at the edge of the wood. I select a spray and fix it behind my left ear where it sits comfortably nodding at the world.

We walk beneath a latticework of oak branches. Our voices echo in the spaces left between the trees. The path rises steeply. At the summit, the Vicars-Daughter (despite suffering the sore knees of the inveterate Circle-Dancer) demonstrates a nifty little dance. Obligingly, I caper along with her whilst the Compass-Botherer looks on bemused.

Our dance finished, we carefully tread along the steeply descending uneven path. In the heart of the wood, despite the bare trees, the traffic cannot be heard. Suddenly, the staccato boinging rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker bounces between the trees. My companions strain to see him, high up in the woods canopy. He continues his hammering and we walk on.

Leaving Queens Wood, we cross Muswell Hill road and enter the neater more sedate environs of Highgate Wood. The wide tarmac paths lead us through the trees to rest on a bench dedicated to the memory of a dead friend who loved trees, women, poetry, singing and these woods.

My companions ooh and ah over various passing dogs. Here, canines of a more superior breed, lead their owners along the path. A chocolate covered big-pawed pup bounces towards the Compass-Botherer, who is immediately smitten by its charms. Learning that it is a Springerdor, cross between a Labrador and a Springer Spaniel, , she bounces up and down to demonstrate the trademark gait of the Springer. Imagining the site, I nod in admiration to her flexible knees and wish I could bounce like that.

We get up and move on. A dog owner counsels an elderly dog not to feel inferior because he cant bound and bounce like his younger companion. I know just how he feels, I think placing my attention on my knees and finding them surprisingly pain free for once.

Exiting the woods, we turn onto the path running behind a school leading onto the northern part of the Parkland Walk. As we move, the Compass-Botherer and I debate where the railway line might have run in order to meet the Archway to finsbury Park branch. She reminds me that there is also another disused railway walk leading down to Muswell Hill and we determine to walk that way one day.

Through a tunnel under the road and then between the backs of gardens, we walk on. Now the wind is coolly damp, the sky has lowered. Undaunted, the garden birds sing away. I listen to their song, trying to disentangle one bird from another. Hard flecks of wet drops flick my warm cheek. Rain is imminent. I bow my head into the damp wind and pull my beret down over one ear.

The edge of the walk is dotted with little blue scilla and an unknown white flower. Cherry blossom waves from inside someones garden. We stop at the top of a high ridge offering a view of London. My companions debate the identity of the various landmarks, half shrouded in the low cloud. Not sure of their Barings, they contemplate thin towers that might be cranes or possibly the Chrystal palace Arial.

We enter Alexandra palace proper. In the distance, a hut housing a rather decent Italian-run café beckons us. The spitting rain ups the ante on the wet and cold front and we hurry forward towards shelter.

The happy host sings along enthusiastically to popular Italian operetta tunes playing on the loudspeaker. He has a pleasant strong tenor voice and knows it! I drink coffee whilst we discuss the weather and the options for the rest of our walk.

The wind batters the thick plastic sheets sheltering the café tables and chairs. We decide to call it a day. We walk through the deserted park. The crowded bus is full of damp steaming people. It sways comfortingly as it hisses along wet roads.

Back home, I prize open the pink champagne and we sing happy birthday to the Compass-Botherer, who forgetting that she is the birthday girl, joins in! The vicars Daughter reverts to stereotype and magics up piles of thickly cut yummy sandwiches which we wash down with lashings of Champers! Via hot-cross buns, we feast on the Compass-Botherers rather wonderful chocolate cake, sitting by the hissing gas fire.

Next time, well do Tottenham, the reservoirs and on to Epping Forest we decide. And as we discuss future journeys, the sun comes out and the blackbird sitting in the elder tree outside my window, lifts up his head and begins to sing.

1 Golders Hill Park and Hamstead heath

1 Golders Hill Park and Hamstead heath

Sunday March 14, 2010:

I stand in my garden in a pool of soft sunlight and listen to the birds. It is just past 7:30 am and its a beautiful day. I sigh and sip my Lady Gray tea, as I listen to a magpie arguing with a robin.

A little after 8:30 am, my companion and I walk down the sun splashed street. In front of us, an enthusiastic jogger in shorts is doing her stretches on the pavement outside her house, preparatory for a Sunday morning run.

On the bus, I sit in a pool of sunlight as my companion describes the green heath outside the window. Were chatting so hard, we miss our stop and have to stump up the hill from Golders Green. Still, its a lovely day and I dont mind the hill if I can walk, face raised to the sun in appreciation.

You know, I think winter might be over, I say as we turn into the gates at Golders Hill Park. On our right, a veritable sea of crocuses raise their cheerful faces to the sun. Purple, white and yellow heads jiggle about in the sharp wind. My companion snaps the scene, confessing to me afterwards that she managed to get a picture of the flowers without any of the yellow ones as she doesnt like those ones. I wonder idly why, and then am distracted by the mouth-wateringly tempting smell of baking bread and buttery croissants. Its 9:30 and surely that means that the café is open, I muse to myself as we turn and walk towards it.

Of course it is. Hardened souls, who we later realize are all dog-owners, sit outside drinking their morning coffee. We slip inside and order up the by now traditional for our walks, scrambled eggs on toast. Today we are three. We chat cheerfully as we move through a gate into a wooded part of the park. Small paths meander invitingly into in amongst the trees, but we are bent on finding the Pergola so we walk on through another gate into a more manicured part of the park and onwards.

The Pergola is a large wood and brick structure on several levels. Clematis, Wisteria and other climbers spiral their way around the uprights. In summer, it is a riot of flowers, my companion assures me as we walk along towards the sound of a fountain playing in a square pool in the gardens of the private house beyond.

We lean against the balustrade and my companions describe the gardens below. I sniff the air; it is cool and faintly perfumed.

Descending from the pergola, we wind our way through a small wood, with sunlight shafting across the path. Oak and holly grow neatly. Our voices bounce slightly in the space, the path is root strewn and uneven.

The park becomes manicured and altogether suddenly much more populated by humans. Children shriek as we walk down a well maintained path and past an aviary in which two Eurasian Eagle-Owls sit majestically. Im not sure what I think of their captivity, although Im glad to be near them for a moment. Beyond them, deer lie peacefully on the grass in their own enclosure.

We leave the park and head towards the Hamstead heath Extension. Bought by Henrietta Barnet as a gift to Londoners, the heath extension is lightly wooded with meadows and some water. We step carefully down a bank between neatly made living wood fences onto a bridal path.

My second companion spies a magpie and begins to clutch her collar. She explains that in Warwickshire, where she spent her childhood, if one saw a magpie, one had to hang onto ones collar until another bird, a four legged animal and gate had been spied.

Her mother, she tells us, would always say I salute you General! when she saw a magpie but would not fit the words with the gesture as she was often driving at the time. I venture that I always say good day Mr. Magpie when I hear the characteristic rattle and bow in his direction as I say it. I confess that this tradition was revealed to me by a character in the Archers radio programme! My other companion admits to bemusement at all this for she is a humble Brumby girl and they dont do anything so ridiculous there!

A gate is spied, a dog greeted and two more magpies noticed. My companion releases her collar. We walk on to a playing field where five white poodles and a black one are playing football! Shortly after, a fluff ball of a little dog sits down on my boots and I can go no further. It is scooped up and presented to me for admiration. I prod it gently and think but dont say what a nice fluffy glove it would make!

We find a seat and sink down gratefully upon it to rest. I had requested one in the sun but the sun has temporarily gone in. Were sitting in a wind tunnel. I eat a Clementine and some nuts and raisins and think about putting my hat on.

Behind us, ivy clad substantially sized properties sit. Upon the balcony of one, a larger than life statue of Batman, cape a dancing stands and surveys the green below. My companions fall to wondering why the neighbors dont object to it. I speculate on whether someone famous lives there and everyone tolerates it as one of his eccentricities.

We walk on round the pond and back up a muddier bridle path back to the road. Crossing another road, we enter the Sandy Heath. Beyond a fence, a number of large and interesting houses sit. We walk up an uneven path ascending through a bosky wood, dark green and tangled. It is quiet. I wonder what it would be like to explore its dells and hummocks. I remember rare childhood explorations amongst tangled woods during camping holidays and briefly yearn to go exploring.

We reach Spaniards Road and cross it, dodging between fences and down another rutted path between trees we ascend through wood of holly, oak and beech. To one side on a bank, a magnificent columned specimen of a beech stands. I cant resist, I must explore. Carefully I climb round it, hands reaching in and stroking inside cavities softly layered with dried leaf powder. I run my hands up and down her folding skirts, straighten, bow and turn and walk on.

The path slopes steeply down. A lost dog sniffs at nearby trees and wanders off. The holly snatches at my fleece as I walk. We stop to ask directions, for my companion is certain we are not where we ought to be. The trouble is that we are lead away from our purpose by all the additional desire lines or paths made by wandering walkers and which are not on the map.

The light woodland stands on either side of the path. I express a desire to sit and we strike into the woods in search of a handy trunk. A fallen tree, large, forked, smooth and comfortable offers its substantial bulk to our bottoms. We sit and eat chocolate rice cakes and fruit bars.

We are bent on finding the hollow tree. According to instructions it is near a viaduct.

My companion shakes the compass crossly and accuses it of not working. Shes having a lost moment. We wait while she asks directions. No one seems to know what she is talking about but she persists and they are helpful, pointing out where they think we should go.

What the heck. Its a nice day. We walk on, the path undulates leading us down into soft valleys and up onto the crest of modest hills. Aha, says she with the compass, setting off ahead of us. She has spied the viaduct. She turns and walks back, leading us up a steep path into a clearing in the wood. A cry of delight, shes seen the tree and bounds forward cheerfully.

Oh I say, climbing upon a root and reaching my hands in. its quite a large cavity and I contemplate, but only for a moment, heaving myself into it. Fearing I wont get out, I dont but content myself with stroking the inside of the tree from the other side.

A much more bendable Young man climbs in and sits admiring out loud the beauty of the tree. I feel suddenly envious and want to try to climb in, but I know this will be foolish.

We walk carefully down the stiff rutted path back to the viaduct. It is a bridge over a lake. Four or five graceful arches are reflected in the still waters below. Beyond them, ducks and coots play amongst the dark reeds.

Beyond a fence below a bank, the gorse is yellow with new flowers. I climb down and pluck some, breathing deeply the coconutty-rosy sweetness of its delicate perfume. Ah yes spring must be coming if the gorse is out. Beautiful.

The heath is busy with dogs, children and adults bent on a post perandial promenade. The path rises steeply and then dips down again. I step carefully for I am now tired. On either side, the trees stand, the sun slanting between them. A robin sings loudly in a tree and I wave cheerfully at him, remembering for the first time in a year or so a young man, now dead who loved robins. We find a bench and sit to rest.

Its almost time for tea says the compass companion. I hear the round pleasure of the happy cake eater in her voice and begin to think about chocolate cake and Earl Gray tea. We get up and move on.

Leaving the heath we pass the bottom of Willow Walk. The pavements are busy and the road is loud. We cross and turn into Keats Grove and stand at the entrance to the poets garden whilst my companions describe the gentle profusion of spring flowers in a woodland style section of the garden. We walk on under the golden arching song of the first blackbird I have heard outside my garden this day. Walking past the magistrates court we turn into Roslyn Hill.

Here the pavements are narrow and cluttered. Sweet cake smells waltz with those of pasta and pizza. I breathe them in, feeling suddenly hungry again. We turn down a side street and then into heath Street. Not far now till the chocolate cake.

And now we sit in Louiss. We drink tea and eat chocolate cake and almond pretzel. They are mouthwateringly delicious, sweet and moist.

And as I sip my Earl Grey tea, I think about the beauty of the day, a tenderly sunny spring day that we have so deserved after the long and bitter winter. I marvel at the variety of spaces in Golders Hill Park, the undulating heath with its many different environments. The trees are budding and the birds are singing. The year is young. Spring is almost upon us. Theres ages and ages before another winter.

Mmm, this is the life, I say stickily sucking my chocolaty fingers, determined to savor every last crumb.

1 route for Golders Hill Park and hamstead heath

1 Route for Golders Hill Park and hamstead heath

Sunday March 14, 2010:

Route

. Breakfast at the Golders Hill Park cafe
. Explore Golders Hill Park and the Hill Garden and the Pergola . Leave the park and cross the road into the Hampstead Heath Extension and walk there
. Enter the main Heath at Spaniards Inn
. Walk to the Viaduct
. Visit the Hollow Tree
. Walk across the Vale of Health
. Exit the Heath at Hampstead Village
. Visit Louis for tea and cakes (32 Heath Street)

I had meant to post up the route in advance in the hopes that others might join us. I had fantasized about suggesting that those who come across my companion and me on our travels should do something secret and code like to signify that they too are readers of “Hopping with rock Dove” and therefore members of the club. Perhaps they might coo or hop, bob or bow like a pigeon, or any combination. Anyway, life got in the way and it didn’t happen before, so I’m doing it now.

So if you come across me on one of these walks, do feel free to exhibit the more pleasant habits of the humble London pigeon. It’ll be a laugh! And in order that you might do that, I’ll do my best to post up the route in advance.

Of course, you won’t get me doing anything so organized as to say what time I’ll be where. There’s no guarantee I’ll be where I say I might be at any time. It’s not just that I don’t do walking fast, it is more that somehow, we often take an accidental detour (psst, code for “getting lost”). Still, it’s not a route march, it’s not a competition, it’s a walk and so what if it doesn’t turn out how we planned it?

The City wears emeralds

Last year I gave the beautiful city of London a great big hug. Rock Dove walked the Capital Ring. This year, I will walk her green spaces. I will thread her parks and commons like emeralds upon the string that is the route taken by rock dove as she hops across the city. Join me if you will in flesh or here as I celebrate the beauty of the city of my birth.

“droo-droo-droo, droo-droo!”