Gertsamtkunstwerk

Bamburgh and Alnwick

Our first full day of the holiday. The weather forecast was not encouraging, either for that day, or for later, when they predicted the tail-end of a hurricane would hit Britain, bringing wind and rain in its wake. Decision: find somewhere local and have a quick look round before the rain comes. Result: a very pleasant if unplanned two mile stroll without ever getting wet.

We parked across the road from Bamburgh Castle - delighted at free parking! There is a sign-posted walk that takes one around the outskirts of the castle, and we thought we would follow that - until we realised that we could head down to the beach.

What a splendid beach! Long and wide, and mainly sandy, but with rocks and rock pools for added interest. Several parties out, walking or encamped in a well-rehearsed routine. What I was to find over and over again was how uncommercialised the beaches are in all the area we visited. I made jokes about the abusive parents who were denying their children the right to sit in a shopping precinct drinking sugary drinks. One family included a child who was obviously a 'problem' - she laid down in front of me, which I found bemusing (rather than obnoxious) and I noticed later a couple of aspects of her behaviour that seemed more toddler-like than the age her appearance suggested. She and her older brother were obviously enjoying themselves exploring the rockpools and playing on the beach.

We had our own fun exploring the rockpools.

I decided I would devote this holiday to photographing nature.

 

We walked as far as the lighthouse, which had a face. I'm always slightly disappointed when lighthouses aren't made out of tall towers, even though I know it makes more sense to build a low-level squat building on a high cliff.

We walked along a minor road with views of an unremarkable village, and flowers.

 

 We reached the spot on the dunes where we had earlier diverted to hit the beach, and continued our walk round the castle. I took a lot of photos of Bamburgh Castle, and then remembered how last year I got totally fed up of photos of St Michael's Mount.

More wildlife 

   

 This couple intrigued me, walking the dunes. 

We had a great view of Inner Farne (I found out the next day that a Twitter 'friend' from South London was visiting the Farnes as we did this walk, and was staying in Seahouses, too!)

And more flowers

As we approached the car, it seemed like it would rain, After a discussion, we decided to head for Alnwick, the nearest town of any size. It was quite a drive, about fifteen miles mainly on B roads with their fair share of bends, often sharp. On a Sunday, there wasn't much open, and what there was was due to close within little more than an hour. A quick dash round Morrison's for a few things we hadn't been able to get at Seahouses co-op, and then a sit down and a cup of coffee. At quite possibly the worst café ever.

Imagine if you will, a country town serving a wide rural and coastal area, residents and tourists, just off the main London-Edinburgh trunk road. A town with several cafes and similar places. all competing for the passing (and returning) trade. You make an offer to the customer; the customer pays their money, and expects a certain standard.

I ordered a scone with butter and jam. She upsold me one with cream. I am capable of resisting upselling, but she was pleasant, I was in a mood to relax, and I like a bit of cream with a scone. We agreed to sit outside on the cobbles of the market square and she'd bring our order out.

The scone with cream arrived. Cream? Squirty cream! Who puts squirty cream on scones? Is this even a thing? I was rendered speechless. I bit into the scone. The key to a good scone is to serve it the day it's baked; at worst, the day after. This was so stale I concluded it must have been Friday's batch. Perhaps baked on Friday afternoon 'to do the weekend'. I suppose I should have complained and demanded my money back. But we don't, do we. Better to bear the loss than endure the stress of the confrontation.You walk away; you won't come back. But as a visitor, even if it was the best scone ever, you're unlikely to return, you have other destinations planned. Stale scone with squirty cream. As if!

In the evening we ate at The Spice House in Seahouses. Mixed. The young men who greeted us and took our order were warm and welcoming. We were able to buy bottled Northumberland-brewed ale (surprising for a curry restaurant). And my starter of mushroom and paneer was delicious.

 On the other hand, my main course didn't really taste of curry and didn't consist of much other than prawns and sauce. The middle-aged man who took over serving us was super-grumpy. I decided to put it down to Ramadan fasting. 

Obviously, people are free to choose their religious practices etc etc etc, but it got me thinking. Whoever invented Ramadan fasting in the Dark Ages didn't know that Sunrise to Sunset could last 17 hours (18 in Inverness on 21 June), had no concept of Bangladesh or England, nor would be able to imagine people from one place serving food in the other place to people who had no intention of carrying out a dawn to dusk fast, ever. And, frankly, the Dark Agers knew little about physiology, hydration, energy levels or anything. I do understand why a Bangladeshi immigrant observes the Ramadan fast. But I'm not entirely convinced it's an unfettered free choice.  

A rant about Blot on the Landscape

This blogpost is aimed squarely at Surrey. But not every individual person in Surrey. And not exclusively at Surrey people.

Onshore wind turbines began to appear - at least in my consciousness - at about the turn of the century. Flying out of Glasgow Airport on a glorious sunny day, the array of wind turbines on the hills below appeared like elegant dancers or a Calisthenics display. Soon after I began to read about people who opposed wind turbines because they are a 'blot on the landscape' or 'generate more traffic'. I was puzzled. I agree - in comparison to pristine virgin countryside untouched by human hands, they are indeed an imposition. but I don't know of any pristine virgin countryside untouched by human hands, at least not in England.

One day, in Surrey, from the vantage of the North Downs, I took several panoramic photos of Surrey but knew something was missing. Not a wind turbine to be seen, nor any solar panels. How peculiar, how utterly un-English I thought.

A month or so later I travelled by train, up the East Coast Mainline. Somewhere near Selby, I counted the Power stations, which I presumed to be coal-fired. I couldn't be sure if there were four or five arrays of cooling towers. On the way back, the train ground to a halt. I took this photo with my phone camera. This is not one but several such constructions visible at once, from the train, and I discovered in July, from the A1 (M).

These are not alien constructions to me. Similar buildings a well-remembered feature of childhood outings, of trips through and around Nottinghamshire as a student and after, and indeed many journeys throughout England for work and pleasure.

I looked up a list of power stations past and present. Look at Greater Manchester, or Cheshire, not known for its coalfields. Look, of course, at County Durham, Nottinghamshire and Kent, traditional coalfields. Or Oxfordshire, home to recently-demolished Didcot Power station, and not a well-known mining area. And then, look at Surrey. Not a fossil-fuelled power station, ever. Two small, recent hydro-electric stations. On the regional news just this week, Surrey residents objecting to an application for a solar farm.

Surrey is known as the place where the decision makers live. Not the elected politicians representing areas such as Selby, Didcot and Fiddlers Ferry. The Senior Civil Servants, the Captains of Industry, the Architects, and Judges. They live in Surrey. 

In Surrey, electricity is something that comes out of a socket in the wall. They think that wind turbines are a blot on the landscape. They must never have seen Ratcliffe-on-Soar or Ferrybridge. They think wind turbines generate traffic - and, perhaps, coal is transported to coal-fueled power stations by magic carpet.

Everywhere else, electricity comes from power stations. Yes, these provide employment and economic activity. But they dominate the landscape in the Vale of York, an area no less beautiful than the north downs of Surrey. The choice isn't between wind turbines and nothing; electricity comes from Behemoths that belch out pollutants in places where people live. Just not in Surrey.

North Downs in Bluebell Season

The day started badly. A small delay creating a domino affect, so it seemed that we boarded the Guildford train at Clapham Junction some two hours after leaving our home two and a half miles away. And when the cold wind blew and the dark skies loomed heavy at CJ, I questioned the sanity of even embarking on a country walk.

A pleasant riverside stroll from Guildford station to the town centre (although I didn't turn my tracker on until we were almost at the castle.

The instructions I followed suggesting by-passing Guildford Castle. I went in. The gardens were very nice, full of colour. I'm not usually a fan of what I call  'Municipal Borders' but this was a good example of how they can be done well.

I could have taken even more photos but we were accompanied by the parents from hell. This doesn't entirely do their behaviour justice (and it's not the child's fault). Everyone else in the park was adult; some were reading, others were exchanging glances of exasperation, not at the child but at the very loud parents. Running around is essential for every child; that's why councils provide parks, with children's playgrounds and open spaces. But they couldn't be bothered to go there. The rest of the world has to revolve around their princess, but she's just an inconvenience to them.

Guildford is known for its centuries-old furniture shop

 

We were soon clear of the Town Centre and climbing the steepest road ever, in the history of steep roads (or so it seemed at the time). The instructions said, 'Pause halfway up, turn around and admire the view'. I did.

I crossed the road. "Oh, that view!" I exclaimed

  At the end of the road was open country. Pewley Down  was donated by the Friary Brewery for use as a public area in memory of those who perished in The Great War. On it stands a memorial. A clearly neglected memorial (it's not as though anyone has any interest in remembering the Great War currently). A thoughtful gesture from the brewery; the site affords panoramic views of the surrounding countryside

 

 

 

We turned down a footpath on the right and followed it past commercial stables and into a wood.

     

The instructions said - in late March and April you'll want to take a diversion to see Southern England's best bluebell wood. Of course we did. It was mid-April, and we had seen some good bluebells in our garden and on Rush Common, Brixton Hill. Turn right, it said, so we did. What bluebells, we exclaimed. Me nearly in tears of disappointment.

Oh well, let's just carry on along the path. Gosh, there's several people taking that path to our right...er, okay, let's see.

 

We spotted a very strange couple. A young woman jumping on and off logs, and behaving a bit like a slightly 'special' child who's never been out before as her boyfriend took photos with his Applephone. I'm not sure whether the photos were of her or the bluebells. But they (she) obviosuly needed our attention. I'm not sure why.

Bluebells

  

Oh, I see. Bluebells. Not bad. As bluebells go.

We'd barely passed a soul since leaving Guildford Castle gardens. Suddenly, we were in the company of several tens of people. Oh, gosh, there's a car park not 100 metres away "We always go for a walk on Saturday afternoons, not like those chavs that just sit around on the sofa".

You can always spot those with money and no taste (they erect a house to demonstrate it).

The walk took us up a steep hill. There were a fair few people attempting it, or coming down, although fewer than near the car park, and the numbers thinned out near the top (tried, turned back). It was quite challenging, but we were following a woman who must have been nearly 80, if not more so (off to tend to a grave up the hill). And later we saw cyclists. One of those days I was glad to be on foot, not on two wheels.

The climb was worth it for spectacular views. Something was missing, though. And that is quite a separate blogpost.

 

The church is called St Martha's on the Hill

We descended to a clearing approximately 100 metres from a car park. several children played on tree trunks in a bored 'wish we could move on' way. Four adults, probably two couples, stood talking. One each male/female wore walking boots and outdoors clothes. One man wore trainers, one woman wore fashion boots with a heel, and shifted her weight from foot to foot. I imagined that they were relatives or old Uni friends "Come and stay for the weekend, we'll go for a walk!" said the Outdoors couple.

"Ooh yes," said the others. "We always go for a walk on Saturday afternoons...WHAT, how can we possibly go more than 100 metres from the car park? What will happen to our protecting carapace? Up a HILL? You are joking! But it's muddy! Ugh, how soon can we go to the pub? The kids love to let off steam in pubs."

This was a nice tree

 

 

We turned off and again descended, not seeing another soul until we were 100 metres from our final destination. 

More bluebells

And horses

 

Down to Tilling Bourne and into the grounds of an abandoned gunpowder mill (1626 - 1920). A good readable history on the Wey Valley website. An eerie and mysterious place, now given over to nature.

   

A picnic area lies just 100 metres from the short pathway into the village. Suddenly, it felt like Piccadilly Circus. We had a decent pint at The Percy Arms, conveniently situated just opposite the railway station. It looked a nice place to eat, too, but the trains to Guildford are infrequent, and we were muddy and tired,

A really beautiful walk, very few encounters with other people, except at a couple of pinch points. Only 4 miles actually walked, according to My Tracks app, but that was four miles included two steep climbs (and matching descents); an expert walker wrote

it’s fair to say that five miles is quite a long walk for most people, unless you have a stop along the way

 Worth reading that article, if you want help progressing more than 100 metres from the car park.

I followed the instructions from a TimeOut walk, Guildford to Gomshall 10 miles. The Chilworth abbreviation enabled a link up with public transport.

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Vegetable Paella, the Ottolenghi Way

Some recipes just lend themselves to be photoblogged. Some months ago, I set about cooking Ottolenghi's multi-vegetable paella. The recipe is available from the Guardian; I got it from his book Plenty, a vegetarian cookbook heartily endorsed by my meat-eating partner. I'm probably going to get Plenty More, due out in September.

Such a recipe is really quite simple, but requires quite some prep before you properly start. I find chopping vegetables to be very therapeutic. The more you do it, the better you get. A sharp knife is essential - I sharpen before each session.

Fry the vegetables

Assemble (and add)  the additional flavours

Simmer most of the ingredients

Prepare most of the remaining ones (I have no idea what that wine glass is doing there)

Scatter tomatoes, artichokes and beans over the dish

 

He says cover with foil and leave to rest, but that left the tomatoes/beans/artichokes still cold, which I didn't want

So I heated it through.

Finish off by sprinkling it with olives and lemons, and serve (no photos of 'serve'; eating takes priority!). A great early Saturday evening repaste. Definitely one to do again

Old Pictures and Short Stories

Over the years I've dallied with concepts such as 'Daily photograph' and 'On this day', but they've all petered out. Largely because my life is quite complex. Not amazingly so, but there are so many things to do, or I'm not in the mood. 

Even so, I thought it would be nice from time to time to revisit the past.

Such as, a long weekend in Jersey in 2001. Just weeks after I had acquired my first digital camera. 

It was the first time Jimmy and I had been away together (after eight months together) except for weddings. Odd things, weddings. Less said the better, in all honesty. 

We stayed in the Merton Hotel in Jersey, within reasonable walking distance of St Helier. Amazing swimming pools. Indoors included a water slide. Outside was heated, so on the last day, which was quite cold, overhung and with drizzle, it was great to lie in the jacuzzi. Especially because almost everybody (Jimmy included) had decided it was not the weather for outdoor pools.

I really liked Jersey. We ate some good food in good restaurants. We were less experienced with fine dining then, but I think we'd still approve of what we ate. The Jersey Museum was interesting, especially in respect of the Nazi occupation, and the town was a pleasure to walk around.

And I saw this rather amazing toilet seat in a restaurant.

 Actually, this isn't a short story. But it sets the scene for future short stories.

Northumberland Holiday

In short, I have edited 350 photographs and still have 200 left to edit!

We started our holiday the first weekend of July and stayed in Seahouses for two weeks. A splendid time was had. My brother, who visited Alnmouth last year, described Seahoouses as 'like Blackpool', which got me rather excited. But although incorrect, I could see his point. More commercialised than the rest of the North Northumberland coast, which has its advantages and disadvantages. We chose Seahouses as having amenities, and we chose a cottage in North Sunderland as being slightly away from the main drag. The 'slightly away' became the main - only - downside of the cottage; the walk back from eating places seeming longer and longer each time.

The journey up seemed epic, even though we split it over two days. On the first day we travelled as far as Darlington, largely because there wasn't a hotel to be had for many miles south of there. We crawled through Yorkshire, but were grateful that we were passing through before the Tour de France the next day. You don't want to arrive very late at your holiday cottage; as it was, we arrived at 5pm at Darlington, which was fine for a Premier Inn. Premier Inn fulfills its offer splendidly - ideal for one night, especially when in transit.

Saturday's journey was much easier. A good breakfast and no sense of rushing. Getting past Newcastle was surprisingly easy, and not much later we followed a sign pointing to the Northumberland Coastal Route. We were disappointed that we couldn't actually see the sea, but, slowly, it dawned on me that it's a spinal access to the Northumberland coast. It avoids the A1 and there are numerous turns off to coastal settlements. 

We tried High and Low Newton, but the pubs in both villages were hosting wedding receptions, unsurprising for a Saturday in August. I'm sure they would have been welcoming but you can't reasonably expect attention in such circumstances. And it had started to rain. As we approached Beadnell I realised I was dying for a wee. The weather wasn't great, but I was sure we could find a loo. As we did, free, in a free car park! And the weather bucked up. We followed signs to the beach and, to our delight, found an enormous expansive sandy beach. There were a good few people on it but it was far from crowded.

We walked for a while, especially near the harbour. This features some historic lime kilns (1747), later used for curing herring; oddly I didn't photograph them

 

It started to drizzle just as we returned to the car and we drove away, to Seahouses. The drizzle soon stopped. As expected, our cottage was not ready; we were early. But we took the opportunity to wander round town. Tea and quiche at Trotter's Bakers; we returned frequently for bread and other baked goods. A look around the harbour and a quick drink in the Olde Ship. Good pub, decent ale.

It was time to take possession of ou rental cottage. Slight trpeidation on walking through the door, followed rapidly by great relief. Spotlessly clean, recently re-decorated, tastefully decorated and fully equipped. The owners had obviously put some thought into it, with a comprehensive residents' guide and everything you need for a self-catering holiday.

Such a contrast to the place we had in Cornwall! They even left us a pint of milk and a packet of chocolate digestives, as well as unopened soap in the bathroom, washing-up liquid and enough dishwasher tablets to see us into the week. I joked with the next door neighbour that I had finally found the thing that was missing - a tea strainer, but we were using teabags anyway. And the neighbour offered to lend me her spare strainer. There was a decent selection of board games, books (and not just the usual holiday let Da Vinci code) and DVDs. I'm sure last year's man would have whipped away anything like that.

 

In the evening we went to one of Seahouses three fish-and-chip restaurants, Pinnacles, a favourite of the Hairy Bikers and Robson Green. It was fine, although, to be honest, it didn't strike me as anything special, and we later agreed it wasn't the best fish and chip restaurant in Seahouses. When we ordered, I was a bit taken aback when she asked us whether we wanted a slice of bread; I later learnt that, round there, it's not fish and chips without a slice of tasteless processed white sliced.

When we retired to bed, we found the bedroom to be very good. Lovely comfortable king size bed, and, again, tastefully decorated, although I forgot to take a photo. The only downside was that, being an attic bedroom, there were low beams and sloping gables. Even I bumped my head several times. You get used to it, but I'm not sure I'd want that permanently.

Lythe Hill Spa Weekend

We booked our main holiday last year for September. At some point it seemed a long way off so we thought, hey, why don't we have a weekend away! In summer hotels are often booked up on Saturday nights, and generally don't have 'offers' - presumably because of weddings and other get-togethers. But we booked Thursday and Friday night and enjoyed a lovely little break at Lythe Hill. We've been before and I nearly opted to go a third time for my birthday this year (before opting for Bournemouth). I'm sure I'll return sooner rather than later.

Situated just outside Haslemere, Lythe Hill is accessible by bus should you choose. 2 acres and 44 rooms, so plenty of opportunity to 'get away from it'. We had a superior room on the first floor. Previously we had stayed in a room named after a novelist - Jane Austen, if I recall correctly. This time we were on Politicians' Corridor. I had mixed feelings to be staying in 'Nancy Astor'. Obviously great to be in a room named after a female politician, but, being among Baldwin, Churchill, Disraeli and Eden, I considered it a pretty appalling attempt to avoid naming a room after Britian's greatest ever Prime Minister. A very nice room, though!

A highlight of Lythe Hill is the spa. Obviously, not a good place to take photos, but worth taking a look on their website and I've copied their swimming pool photo - fair use for 'review and criticism'. The 16m pool is bigger than any indoor hotel pool I've been in, and is complemented by the jacuzzi, sauna and steam room, and the tempura shower (tried once, never again, although I accept that have a cold bucket of water dumped on your head is therapeutic). In between swims we reclined on the sun terrace, clad only in swimming gear and complementary bath robe, sipping tea and eating sandwiches delivered from the bar. The pool has a specific hour each day when children are welcome; outside of those times it's very quiet and relaxing. 

I did have a good laugh (in my head) at one pair of young women. They were barely out of their teens and had come for a 'spa day'. I noticed that they bore copies of 'Wedding flowers' magazine. I was quite aghast at that - imagine having a whole magazone devoted just to the flowers. I couldn't help fast forwarding to the bored housewives I'd seen at Devil's Punchbowl, and recalled a conversation with a friend a few weeks earlier. I think it was her cousin or somesuch she was talking about. She's of Sikh background. Her cousin was due to marry and she asked him what he and his fiancée had in common, what did they talk about. "The wedding" he 
replied. So she asked what they'd talk about when they were married. "The wedding" he replied. My friend was quite flummoxed by this, and we agreed that too many people plan the perfect wedding but not so much a great marriage.

These young women entered. They didn't spend long in the sauna, and made tentatively for the pool, one complaining how cold it was (warmer than a council pool, let alone a Lido or the sea). The jacuzzi was also too cold, so they went in the steam room for over a minute, before retrieving their bathrobes - which they had unceremoniously dumped on top of my belongings 'oh, that must be the place where people put things'. They were impeccably manicured and hair-done, bodies dictated by advertising, and their lives revolved around spending hundreds (if not thousands) on wedding flowers. Although an atheist, I raised a silent prayer of thanks for my life!

We spent several hours on both Friday and Saturday between the spa and the sun terrace: it's nice that even though you check out by 11am (industry standard) you're able to use the spa throughout the rest of the day. On the Saturday afternoon we had afternoon tea, which I blogged some months ago. On both evenings we ate in the hotel restaurant.

I started with a dish based around mackerel. As you can see,it incorporated several elements and I noted in my diary that it was 'extremely good'

My main course was a wild mushroom open lasagne. The individual elements were good, including proper wild mushrooms. I just wasn't entirely convinced it worked  as a cohesive whole.

I finished with what can only be described as a show-stopper, one of three great great puddings of 2013 - the others being Sweet Curry Plate from Ben's Cornish Kitchen and Vanilla poached pear, ginger ice cream, rice pudding, Nick's raspberry jam and peanut brittle from Wild Thyme

 

The Lythe hill pudding delight was a deconstructed strawberry cheesecake. Anyone who watches Masterchef will know how some critics - rightly - consider the deconstruction an abomination. One is tempted to say 'put it back together and stop messing sround, dear boy' and wonders whether showing off cleverness is a poor substitute for taste. Fortunately, this cheesecake was all about the flavour!

Ricotta doughnut sticks, vanilla shortbread (crumbled), very creamy vanilla ice cream and macerated strawberries. Delicious!

On the second night I had asparagus velouté. Full of flavour but surprisingly difficult to eat.

 

Main was a fillet of halibut with a halibut brandade (mash) and roasted baby vegetables. Nice without being exceptional

I finished with deconstructed carrot cake. Very tasty but not a patch on the previous evening's strawberry cheesecake. And an example where I was unsure how deconstruction added anything to a classic dish.

Overall, an excellent and relaxing mini-break at a good hotel. I really only have one criticism - the lake. Both of our visits have been in August and the lake really does stink. It's not a problem if you're in your room or on the terrace bar, but it's off-putting if you want a lakeside stroll. Several recent reviews on TripAdvisor have mentioned this. Also, I note the very recent comments on how stuffy the rooms are in a heatwave, not a problem for us on this visit but reminded me of when we visited in 2011. And, finally, weekday breakfast is brilliant, but Saturday is more slapdash with less choice.

To conclude, I would highly recommend Lythe Hill and intend to return, but a few issues require attention and do make the difference between it being a good hotel and an exceptional one.

These photos have been added to my Surrey album

Surrey Life review

A Unique Experience in Simplicity

Tooting Bec Common in Spring

Tooting Bec Common is my nearest sizeable open space. I've lived within walking distance of it since 1991 yet only actually discovered its glory in 2008. Paired with the much smaller Tooting Graveney Common in the far south and you have the technically correct "Tooting Commons".

There are people who go on the Commons daily or near daily, to walk their dogs or as part of their journey to work or school, or as their regular constitutional. It must be great to do that, to see the minute changes through the season. On the other hand, I like to see many different places, and in south London we have no shortage of great wild nature places to visit. Although densely populated, London is mainly green space or open water, with fairly little of that being private land. We might not have rolling hills visible from our windows but we have no shortage of diverse parkland in which to roam.

Anyway, even in winter I like to go down to the Common from time to time, sometimes as a scenic walk finishing with cake in Streatham. Because it's so familiar I rarely take photos, especially if I'm on the bike. But perhaps there is something about Spring that pushes the urge to photograph. These are all from mid-April.

 

It's nice down by the lake, but unfortunately a large colony of rats seem to have taken over. Mildly fascinating the first time

 

 

On a subsequent visit I had to move from the lake: too unsettling to have rats scurrying about and pigeons seeming to fly directly at me. Perhaps even more disconcerting was the parents encouraging their toddlers to throw bread into the lake. "Feeding the ducks" they think they're doing. It's bad for the water fowl and it just encourages the rats, and might also encourage e. coli. If I were a mother of a small child I would be repelled by the rats, nature's way of telling a mother to protect her young. Still, I saw a robin.

The Commons cover 92 hectares (221 acres) of wildlife areas, woods, sports pitches, playgrounds, a lido, an Athletics track. According to Wikipedia (subsequently removed) "Ribblesdale Rovers FC have been playing here since their founding in 2013 and have attracted crowds of up to 20 people on a weekly basis".

Oddly, I never think to photograph the woods. I guess because they're just trees. Down the southern end are more trees, and open space

 
Back up at our end, I tend to think of the Common as just a strip of land next to the road, where the flat-dwellers of East Balham go to read, sunbathe and picnic. But even that is quite wooded

Lurking behind the trees is the viaduct that carries the branchline of the London-Brighton railway to Streatham Hill and beyond.