Gertsamtkunstwerk

A stroll around the North East of Clapham Common

It was one of those days. I was taking the day off Sick. I was told in no uncertain terms that I would never not be sick if I don't get out and do some moderate exercise. The plan was, to walk across Tooting Commons and catch the bus back. But the sky looked ominous. I didn't want to be out, let alone walking, and I certainly didn't want to be caught in a downpour in the vast open space of Tooting with no shelter. Change of plan and bus to Clapham.

Stroke of genius, rather than get off the bus at the Underground station, as one usually does, stay on for an extra stop, traversing the Common by bus along the A3 and alighting north of North Side.

The fun is in observing the detail. Cedars Road is flanked by two glorious 19th century buildings now converted into modern 'luxury apartments' ie Yuppie Flats. I tried to take photos but the view was blocked by a constant parade of coaches and bin lorries. Instead we strolled along to Trinity Hospice. Trinity Hospice is a well-loved local institution providing skilled compassionate end-of-life care. The blue plaque is for Eminent Architect Charles Barry, who lived at the house long before it was a hospice. 

There are some very attractive houses along North Side. I pass occasionally on the bus, and very occasionally indeed on foot. I have often thought about stopping & photographing. Today was my opportunity.

 

 

 

The row is full of history.  Two new blue plaques were installed in 2011. One, by The Music Hall Guild of Great Britain and America for Marie Kendall and one by English Heritage for Graham Greene, whose The End of the Affair was partially set locally. The internet tells me there is also a blue plaque for Edvard Grieg, but I overlooked it.

Indeed, another blue plaque was actually being installed on The Chase by a man in red trousers as we walked past, so I went to have a look. And nearly fell over laughing. There was already one up to commemorate a street party held for Edward VII's Coronation. This second plaque was to commemorate a street party held for the wedding of Kate Middleton. I later saw that that particular road got BBC Dumbed-Down London News to film their Diamond Jubilee Street Party. I have to say, if the zenith of your life's achievements is organising a barbecue, I'd keep quiet about it and reflect upon the empty pointlessness of your life!

  Clapham is synonymous with the Clapham Sect, known for their tremendous work in abolishing Slavery, lead by William Wilberforce. They were Evangelical Christians within the Church of England, but their reforms were opposed by the always conservative/reactionary Church of England no doubt eager to protect its entrenched privilege of maintaining slaves on its Caribbean Plantations.

They attended Holy Trinity church. This is actually - and, at least in my experience, unusually - on the Common. The 'Trinity' in its name is lent to other local institutions not least Trinity Hospice and the ought-to-be-Michelin-starred Trinity Restaurant.

 

 

 

The Church seemed to be closed - entirely understandably - and, to be honest, it doesn't seem particularly appealing as a building, at least from the outside. Rather stupidly, I wondered what could possibly have caused damage to this plaque, stubbornly denying it was bomb damage. It was almost as if I hadn't walked past the Graham Greene plaque and mentioned 'that film we watched' which was set on Clapham Common!

From the Church we strolled along to Old Town, most famous for being a bus terminus and hard standing. Also, site of closed down toilets. I think I have forgotten more about toilets on Clapham Common than most people ever needed or wanted to know, but they are good solid brick public conveniences and could probably make a nice chic on-trend café.

Instead, we went to Nardulli's. A decent enough coffee. Remarkable neither as excellent nor poor, I would return. My ice cream boy tried a couple of scoops of their ice cream. He has returned several times. It has become a destination for him out on his bike, when I'm working, or not well enough to go out. He says it's the best he's had in this country. He says it's better even than Lab-G in Brixton. I'm happy he has ice cream places to go to in both Brixton and Clapham.

When you've lived near somewhere for a long time, you tend to take it for granted and often just see it as a transition, so it's actually nice to stroll around and look at soem of the details in just a small area.

I was intrigued by this building. Granted, I haven't searched the net exhaustively or asked a direct question of Claphamites, but I don't really know what it was.

  
Then there's the statue to Temperance. Jimmy pretended to be quite angry later that I had 'dragged him' along to look at such blasphemy.

 
While we were standing there, something very odd occurred. I think there was a drop in air-pressure but that may be the product of my post hoc imagination. But, suddenly, all the birds swarmed. There was n eerie silence. They hadn't been disturbed by a dog, a siren or a bang. But they all swarmed and sat at the top of just a couple of trees. Vaguely Hitchcockian

We walked to the bus stop as it started to drizzle. Just after we got home, it started to rain properly. And I went for a lie-down.

Nunhead Cemetery

"Perhaps the least known, but most attractive, of the great Victorian Cemeteries of London. Consecrated in 1840, it is one of the seven great Victorian cemeteries established in a ring around the outskirts of London. It contains examples of the magnificent monuments erected in memory of the most eminent citizens of the day, which contrast sharply with the small, simple headstones marking common, or public, burials. Its formal avenue of towering limes and the Gothic gloom of the original Victorian planting gives way to paths which recall the country lanes of a bygone era."

That from the Friends of Nunhead Cemetery website. Wikipedia says

Nunhead Cemetery is one of the Magnificent Seven cemeteries in London, England. It is perhaps the least famous and celebrated of them

It features in Section 11 of the Green Chain

We went in, randomly and unplanned, having spotted it as we were passing. Really very different from how I imagine cemeteries to be. What a nice place to visit, and what a lovely place to walk around. The Gothic menace from outside belies the tranquility and splendour of an overgrown nature reserve, replete with graves and mausoleums in disrepair. It was opened in 1840, but by the middle of the last century the cemetery was nearly full.  A lack of care and cash surrendered the graves to the ravages of nature and vandalism, and it was not until the early 1980s that a group emerged to champion the graveyard.

Entering from the parking layby on Linden Grove, you walk up a short drive lined with aging gravestones and monuments, including one in Braille from 1876

 

 At the end of the drive is an Anglican chapel, once obviously grandiose, now a haunting shell - it fell victim to arson in the 1970s, and was partially restored with funding from the Lottery and Southwark Council.

 

 So many interesting graves, from different eras. Interesting to think of the stories behind them. There's a Moslem section. This commemorates a Mathematician and Mother.

The story of the 2nd Walworth Scouts, drowned almost a hundred years ago is a sad tale.

 At 4am they set off and were in sight of the camp when, 2 miles off the coast, a sudden gale caught them and the boat capsized. The local lifeboat was launched and found a shocking scene. 

Due to several acts of selfless heroism ,especially by their Scoutmaster Sydney Marsh, many lives were saved. But 8 scouts and Frank Masters from the training ship Arethusa had drowned. 

1 million people watched as the coffins, draped in Union Jacks and Scouts staves entwined with flowers, passed by on their way to Nunhead Cemetery

 Copied from the Daily Express

"This was the generation that, just a couple of years after the boys' funeral, would become numbed by the deaths of millions of boys not much older, than these lads in the trenches of the First World War.

The best explanation is that these boys represented something special, the real effort that was being made at that time to make life better for boys like these, to give them the opportunities and unlock the potential that was often buried by the poverty of their families.

To have a tragedy like this happen at the very moment when they and their Scoutmaster were doing their best to make something of themselves touched the national consciousness very deeply."...

...Another family lost their 12-year-old boy, William, who was a talented scholar. His family were devastated, but their two other boys came home. They were John and Edward Beckham. If Edward had not been saved his great-grandson - England football captain David - would never have been born:

I was touched by the sight of the commonwealth War Graves. Young men - boys - who had travelled from South Africa, Australia and New Zealand to fight someone else's war.

 

I was particularly struck by Private Hovell (and the internet suggests I am not alone)

It was a pointless enough war for my English working- and middle-class ancestors and relatives. More so for the Empire descendants of Brits. But for Private Hovell - why did an 18 year old Maori boy get slaughtered in the petty squabbles of the European ruling class, who woud not normally have given him the time of day?

With thanks to @DavidUnderdown9, we can know a little more about Private Hovell.

The New Zealand (Māori) Pioneer Battalionwas first raised in 1915 and served at Gallipoli and the Western Front and largely served as pioneers. "Of these by the end of the war, 2227 Maori and 458 Pacific Islanders had served in what became known as the Maori Pioneer Battalion. Of these, 336 died on active service and 734 were wounded. Other Maori enlisted (and died) in other battalions as well."

He served at Gallipoli and disembarked in Malta on 30 September 'slightly sick' and died of thigh wounds on 20 October. He appears to have died in King George's hospital on Stamford Street. There is a conflicting report that he died en route from Gallipoli, but David says, if so, he would have been buried at sea.

NZ casualties highest as % of population of any British Empire force. With memories of Maori wars fresh, many in authority did not  want to arm and train Maori, in WWI they served as pioneers. Maori Units of the NZEF

Scarletfinders website run by very useful for understanding medical side of war

See Auckland Museum for background on Pte Hovell, and link to digitised service record. He was one of the original Native Contgt

his individual CWGC record

Kiwis and Aussies easiest to research, all their records survive and largely digitised. UK records 60-70% destroyed by Luftwaffe

looks like he lied about his age. Record states born 28/1/1895, which would have made him 20. Grave says 18 (details from family)

looks like 16/548 Charles Harry Pirika Hovell was his brother - survived with rank of Sgt, and Mentioned in Despatches. Record not dig

I don't know what he died for. I wonder if he knew what he was fighting for.

Another grave that drew my attention was Siegfried Reihl. He died in 1918 aged 21. To me, the name seems German, although perhaps no more so than the great English war poet Siegfried Sassoon, who was named for his mother's love of Wagner.

 

 

 

 

All visitors to Nunhead seem to love the grave of Calvin G Simpson, a rare actor. He seems to have appeared in an episode of The Bill.

We walked past more graves, old and new:

 

and came to an avenue of mausoeums. All of them showed signs of damage. I wondered whether it was the result of subsidence, but Jummy said they had all been broken into. Perhaps when the cemetery lay derelict, or maybe decades ago.

 

 

 

 

At the end of the circuit, close to the entrance, is the monument to the Scottish Martyrs

This is a memorial to five men, three of them English, who were imprisoned for campaigning for parliamentary reform in the late 18th century under the influence of the ideals of the French Revolution. The five were accused of sedition in a series of trials and transported to Australia in 1794 and 1795. The Wikipedia article describes the monument on Calton Hill in Edinburgh but states "In February 1852, a second Monument, initiated by Hume, to the Scottish Political Martyrs was unveiled at Nunhead Cemetery, London. This monument stands at 33 feet high."

A little more on Transpontine blog

More blogposts:

Nothing to see here

Londoneer

The delightfully dead Nunhead Cemetery is buried alive

James's posterous

the pen, the brush and the needle

London is cool

Flickr Group

Nonsuch

We had limited occasional access to a car and therefore I was under instructions to plan a trip out. The brief was only implied, but I understood it to be, somewhere we haven't been before, and not an epic long day. Somewhat randomly, I selected Nonsuch. Green, just outside London, and Historic. Also, I liked the name. Possibly because of the irony:

Nonsuch Palace in Surrey was perhaps the grandest of Henry VIII's building projects. Work started on 22 April 1538...Within two months the name 'Nonsuch' appears in the building accounts, so called because it was claimed there was no such palace elsewhere equal to its magnificence...

...It returned to royal hands in the 1590s, and remained royal property until 1670, when Charles II gave it to his mistress, Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine. She had it pulled down around 1682–3 and sold off the building materials to pay gambling debts.

So, there is no such Palace as Nonsuch, although there is a sizable park and an 18th century mansion, which is Grade II listed.

At the time we visited, I was mulling over my blogpost about preserving historic buildings. I was thinking along the lines of - if there had been 'listing' in the 17th century, this Nonsuch Palace would have been preserved, for the nation. I had a vision that the disappeared palace with a silly name had some mythical ethereal status, and that a visit would be akin almost to a pilgrimage. 

In the event, it was nothing of the sort. It's a local authority park that currently appears to be well maintained. But it's really rather dull. The drive out was tedious. Stuck in traffic from Tooting Bec to Colliers Wood, we eventually hit one of those strange 1930s arterial roads, each one indistinguishable from the others, with their identikit clusters of shops that have seen better days. Every drive along one seems like a ghostly reminder of an otherwise forgotten drive along a different one in times past.

As we approached the park, the locality took on a distinctly twee mock-Tudor veneer. Roads with names like 'Tudor Drive' and 'Offwiththeirhead Avenue'. An ultra-modern retirement home complex styled to look like generic Tudorbethan.

The highlight was a brief stop in a pub called The Harrow. Although part of a big pubco chain, nevertheless it was a pleasant place to stop, and although the food was, presumably, nuked straight from the freezer, I've had worse - a lot worse, and often.

We spent a short time in the formal garden at Nonsuch, but it was not memorable. Just a local authority tended garden, next to a mansion of no real significance that's let out for weddings and functions. It became clear early on that the formal gardens double as a children's play area, so we didn't linger long, and went for a stroll up the hill through open fields of little interest. I have read that there is a wide variety of bird life there, of considerable interest to many people, but only fleeting interest to me. We soon discovered that the open fields were where teenagers went to do primal scream therapy. It was a far from relaxing, restorative day out to some other local authority's municipal park and a bit of a waste of time.

 

 

I wonder whether Nonsuch Palace was worth saving for the nation? Henry VIII only visited it three times. Should the village and monastery destroyed to make way for it have been preserved, too? Perhaps the fascination with the Palace that disappeared are more important lessons to history, about the arrogance and omnipotence of a brutal King. Some historic buildings are interesting in themselves. Conversely, if we insist on saving everything that is 'historic' ie old, we continue to live in the past, arguably repeat the mistakes of the past, and become too scared to innovate in case we destroy something of little value.

Crap park cafés

I like to walk in a park, find a nice café and sit down, have a cup of coffee, maybe a cake, maybe even a hot meal. If you have a café in a park, you're sitting on a goldmine. Effectively, there's no competition. Customers generally don't have anywhere else to go. Even if there's another café somewhere else in the park, or on a neighbouring street, the customer has to walk there. Easier to go to the park café.

In prosperous areas of South West London, and, I daresay, elsewhere, good or adequate park cafés are great social places for 'types' to congregate. Lonely 'yummy mummies', dogwalkers, pensioners can meet up with similar people to talk about what they have in common. Other people can break off their walks and enjoy the fare on offer. Couples can go for an escape from the rat-race.

On Saturday we went to the café by the Windmill in Wimbledon. We should have seen warning signs. A huge place, but no one was sitting down indoors. Most outside tables were unoccupied. The dog walkers sat alone with their dog, not in groups of regulars. It did not seem familiar territory to the small children demanding ice-creams.

An appalling place, that really should be ashamed of itself. We'd walked quite a way, and this was the first eating place we had passed in an hour and a half. We went in. I decided I would have a cup of tea, and, ooh, why not, a scone! 

The manager - straight out of Jennifer Saunders or Victoria Wood - asked if I wanted a fruit scone. Ooh yes, I said. We then had to move along and instruct one of 'the girls' what we had ordered, whilst the sit-com woman instructed 'no more than one girl on each thing' (filter coffee machine, teapot, microwave) - she was having to micro-manage schoolchildren. The cup of tea was pushed at me, with a mere mention of milk. No oppotunity for topping it up with further milk. And the scone, butter and jam were presented on a paper plate.

Note the lack of fruit in the fruit scone. Note also the plastic pack of strawberry 'jam' - jelly with seeds, never seen a bloody strawberry.

What this photo can't show you is stale saltiness of the cheap scone, mass produced in a factory. Or that the tea was stewed. It's not really too much to ask, is it, to have a cup of tea made properly, to be able to add my own milk without being under suspicion of wanting to steal it. And a scone that was made this month? Last time I had tea and scone, the tea came in a pot. The crockery was crockery: cup and saucer, plate, milk jug. The scone was big, bobbly, rustic and fresh. The jam had pieces of fruit in it, and along with the clotted cream, was served in a little ramekin. Apparently we can't expect such luxuries in Wimbledon.

It is entirely possible that tourists might come to Wimbledon. A town that is famous around the world for its tennis and its Wombles, an Olympic town. Disgusting.

On Clapham Common is a café called Oasis. Someone sat down one day and thoughtfully designed a chilled place. Inside, cushions on benches round a central table. Outside, picnic tables on decking. We should have been alerted on arrival by how empty the decking was - this photo was taken as we left, this woman's man had just gone inside. Don't know if they stayed.

An attractive-looking menu, with mint tea and green tea, with paninis filled with crayfish or mozzarella and tomato. 

The amiable but dim server tried to charge immediately after we (two people) had ordered just one drink. Neither Jimmy's espresso or my latte actually tasted of coffee. Several Clapham types came, took one look, and walked away. They seemed to be doing a roaring trade in selling chips and fizzy drinks to the kids in the new, nearby skate park. Which, by the way, is great. The kids looked happy, and occupied, and I'd hate to see a café that turned kids away for being, well, kids. 

The cushions smelled.

What a waste of a great location and a good concept. We didn't dare eat, didn't have confidence that the current management knew the first thing aboout food hygiene - no certificates on display. Would you buy a crayfish panini in a café that smells as if someone's been sleeping there?

It's increasingly an irritation to me. How do these people get away with it? How have they got the franchise or lease to run these places? There are so many people with a passion, the drive to make a success out of business, understanding of customers, who could make these places a destination, but are denied that opportunity by these complacent dullards who are happy to serve up crap from te 70s, or  who mess up a good idea and drive people away?

Reviews by others:

Windmill Tea Rooms by Wimbledon People

This place provides the sort of customer experience which I thought had disappeared along with Communism!...A cup of coffee and a rather overcooked flap-jack came to over £4...Overall, a disappointing experience which I won't be paying to repeat.

Windmill Café & Tea Room - Virtual Tourist

She had pre-warned me that she hadn't had very good experiences there in the past, so I wasn't expecting much.

Dinner at the Lido

Last month was the first time we'd ventured to the Brockwell Lido café for dinner. It was interesting to see how they transformed the place from a spot for coffee, snack or casual lunch to somewhere to eat an intimate dinner.

Most obvious change was to décor: bare wooden tables transformed by table linen. Candles and dimmed overhead lighting. The play area removed. And a different menu.

We went on the third Saturday of April. It already felt like it had rained for ever, and yet it seems so long ago. Because of the forecast rain, we did the two bus trick, change at Windrush Square. We didn't want to risk a drenching walking across the park - who would - but, actually it didn't rain. Part of me was a bit sad about that, because I had already planned to blog or tweet "Dinner looking out as the rain pours into the pool. Just like being on holiday".

The dinner menu is fancier than at lunch time. They change it every month to reflect the seasons, although some items appear to be perennial, and not every single item seems to change every month.

I very nearly ordered Smoked salmon with pickled beetroot and rye bread as a starter but, in the nick of time, realised this wasn't the wisest starter for my preferred main. I always choose my main first. The starter must fit round that. Instead, I had smoked haddock fishcake, creamed spinach, sorrel and a poached egg. Perfect dish in itself. I could happily live on poached eggs, except that making them myself is so hit and miss. always great to order one when out, and this did not disappoint. I'm also a big fishcake fan, having loved them when I was a kid. They seem to have gone out of fashion for a long time, so it's great to see them back on menus.

For my main I had Sea Trout with crushed Jersey Royal potatoes, White Wine herb sauce and Spinach. Which of course means that I had spinach for both courses. A fate I could have avoided by having both salmon and trout. I see in May's menu, one could have either a pea starter or an asparagus starter, and then an asparagus and pea risotto. Not so much a criticism as an observation. It doesn't bother me in practice as it does in theory!

I couldn't fault the taste or presentation of either dish. I think they have a a splendid combination of elegantly presented fresh food that nevertheless veers to the accessible, rustic or homely - in a good way. It's not pretentious or poncey, and the prices are modest. The prices for alcohol are less so, but I have absolutely no problem with places that hike up the booze prices to keep the food reasonable.

I finished with Almond and pistachio tart with orange and cardamon. This was perfectly fine, with no cause for complaint. But, having declared in February: 

I feel my future lies in roaming round Brixton eating almond cake

this almond cake felt like a poor relation to the ones I had tasted in Brazas or Boqueria. But it didn't detract from the evening, and was at most a minor quibble. I no longer recall the eminently quaffable wine I enjoyed with the first two dishes, but I do recall I started with a Manzanilla, and enjoyed a Pedro Ximénez, as recommended. Service was fine, and ambience was pleasant and relaxed, and far more intimate than one would ever imagine from what is essentially a cafeteria attached to a 1930s municipal swimming pool.

It is entirely possible we ill return to sample May's menu. If not, flaming June!

A meander round Greater Battersea

It seems so long ago now, and difficult to believe, but the weather in March was glorious, the third warmest and sunniest March on record. Difficult to remember, considering that April was the wettest April since records began

Fortunately, we took advantage of a glorious sunny Sunday at the very end of March, actually the first of April, and set off for a leisurely bike ride to The River. Rather than treating it as a sporting test of stamina and speed, we decided to treat it like a walk, but easier.

We hadn't gone far when we took a stroll round our local park, Agnes Riley Gardens.

Frederick George Riley gifted 'Oakfield House', and surrounding lands, to London County Council on the proviso that it made the site into a public open space, and name it Agnes Riley Memorial Gardens. Work began to develop two acres in 1937. But World War II intervened the two acres used for allotments and occupied by the military. In 1952, and against F.G. Riley’s wishes, the LCC decided to drop the word ‘memorial’. In 1954 the whole site was laid out as a small park.

I've never actually been in before. It's a nice little park. Not one you'd travel to see, but epitomising everything a small-ish local park should be. A highlight is the ornamental pond:

 

 

It's an interesting design, and very new, so I was concerned that the planters seemed neglected, uncared for when someone should have been watering them.

Similarly, the Community Garden looked a bit dried. Still, I think it's a  great use of the space. Handy for people living in the nearby flats, and good for people like us, just walking through. Hopefully it connects children a little to plants and the origins of their food.

 

 

 

I was a bit perturbed to see the following sign. It has a  very simple message to convey. A message which is important to people who have English as a second language (if that) or have poor literacy skills. I am steeped in the language of bureaucracy but read it twice before I got it. The most important thing should be at the top. Nobody really cares about 'the interest of all user groups and the sustainability of Lambeth sporting facilities'.

If you run a sporting group you must book this pitch in advance. Call this number to make regular and one-off bookings. You cannot book this pitch on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays after 12 noon. For more information about Agnes Riley Gardens call ...between 9am - 5pm (and don't just list the number of the Council switchboard)

We continued our bike ride to Wandsworth Common. But Wandsworth Common holds no appeal. It is a nice park, well, it has a nice pond. But it's just a staging post en route to the rest of the world.

It's nice to cycle along the Common, avoiding the heavy traffic on Bolingbroke Grove. This is supposedly a cycle route, but Wandsworth Council need to learn that 'cycle route' requires more than painting a bike on the road. We thought we'd have to take to the road in heavy Sunday morning smug traffic, but instead, we discovered St Mary's Cemetery. I don't recommend cycling through this or any cemetery, even though we were the only people there, and its burial lands were exhausted in the 1960s. It's actually quite sad to see a cemetery entirely deserted on a Sunday, even though I personally never visit people's graves.

It was also sad to see graves that had seemingly been vandalised. I only hope that whoever did this will one day have a loved one buried and realise with horror what a mindless act they committed for the lolz.

Nice weather vane on the chapel, incidentally

 

It's curious walking round a graveyard. I seem to be fascinated by them and I can't really say why. In some ways, it's a way of remembering people, but in other ways it just serves as a reminder of how forgettable most lives are, unless we leave a great work for posterity.

You do get snippets or vignettes of lives. Enid lived almost fifty years as a widow after the death of her husband, and yet is for ever defined by him, her body lying with that of her sister-in-law. Perhaps John Rayner Sidney King is her brother, otherwise he seems a cuckoo in the Hellings grave.

I have stated above that I don't go to visit graves, but I know a lot of people do. That they do is none of my business. My opinion should be of no consequence to them.

However, I am entitled to express my opinion and I do find something mawkish about frequent family visits to a grave, almost as if the relatives can't let go. 

Merdy died when she was 40. I imagine it was a cancer, perhaps it would have been curable now. Her family visited her grave on Mother's Day, two weeks before our visit. They left her a Mother's Day card, and flowers in a vase marked 'Nan'. I doubt her grandchildren were alive when she died, but the ritual of visiting her grave continues. Death is part of life; it seems cruel to say 'get over it'. But she's been gone almost as long as I've been alive. She died the same year as my grandmother.

George and Blanche get visited, too.

It wasn't a pleasant cycle from there. Traffic was at a standstill on St John's Hill, and we had to play 'Dodge the rail replacement buses' as well as the arsehole drivers who think they own the road. But we reached the river via the Candle Factory, where Jimmy' mother worked when she first arrived in London, and before he came along.

I love the sight of abandoned rotting jetties and groynes. This seems especially picturesque juxtaposed with the gleaming modern 'apartment' blocks that overlook the river.

 

 

 

 

 

Especially the unbridled wealth that is Chelsea Harbour

A bit weird, because it was fairly busy on our side of the river. Cyclists, ramblers, dog-walkers, toddlers on scooters. And on the Chelsea side. No one. I got excited at the thought that someone was actually alive in Chelsea Harbour. then I realised she was someone like me, just walking through and photographing. Mind you, the Yuppie flats on the Battersea side were pretty deserted, too. I hope they'd all gone out for lunch.I hope these complexes aren't just second homes for people with mansions in the provinces. Taking up valuable land that could have been used for affordable and social housing.

The Thames Path has to divert away from the river so that people don't walk or cycle through the heliport. It's slightly strange, because out on York Road are discreet hints of being near an airport, most noticeable being the green 'RVP' signs one more often sees in deep countryside. I was quite impressed by this helicopter, thinking it was from some exotic location such as Macedonia or Mexico. I was a bit disappointed to find it is from the more prosaic (and closer) Isle of Man.

I'm not sure what to think of that block of flats. I like the design and the brash colours. I like the ceiling to floor picture windows. But there are no balconies. Understandable next to the heliport. Perhaps a condition - they couldn't have people standing on the balconies hurling things at helicopters as they take off. But who'd pay a fortune to live in a block of flats and not even have a balcony!

I seem to have got into a habit of photographing the Thames's abandoned power stations. Often Battersea, about which so much has been written so often, but also Lots Road.

The Lots Road Power Station was built at Chelsea Creek between 1902 and 1904, to power the District Line and then most of London Underground. LBC and Capital Radio were transmitted from the towers from 1973 to 1975. It closed as recently as 2002, and London Underground is powered from the National Grid. There was a massive failure of the National Grid in 2003 affecting much of Central and Inner London. Coincidence? I wonder...!

Its longterm future is undecided although the building has been stripped out and cleaned up. Some folks actually broke in and photographed it between 2006 and 2009, I would guess. Impressive, but don't try this for yourself. And some more break-in photos here, from November 2011. Okay, I'm officially envious of these extreme phloggers! Brief history.

We cycled towards St Mary's church, which has a rather nice beach in front of it. It was a noticeably low tide when we visited. 

St Mary's Church dates from the 18th century, although they claim to have had a church on the site since Saxon times. Back in 693, it was known as Badrices Ege and in the Domesday Book, Patricesy. I feel that the parish history is somewhat clutching at straws. For the sake of argument, I will accept that there was a church on the site since 800, but the current church only dates from 1775. It's Grade I listed, the only such church in Wandsworth. But I'm afraid I have to give it a great big 'so what'?. It tells us nothing of the people that lived in Badrice's Ege/Patricesy/Battersea, how they lived, loved, worked and died. Just that a great deal of money was spent to build a church, seemingly paid for by 'rich city merchants'. It tells us nothing about the rise of non-Anglican Christian worship, including the development of Methodism and the revival of Catholicism. So, historically unhelpful and verging on the pointless. Also, it seemed pretty deserted for a Sunday! Certainly in comparison to St Phillips Battersea which we saw last week teeming with members of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church that now uses the building.

As far as I can tell, the cemetery we visited earlier was purchased by this church in the 1860s when its own churchyard ran out of burial space.

Still, it's a nice beach

In front of the church are moored some houseboats. I've always had a secret liking for houseboats. I'm slightly jealous of a journalist I was at school with who occasionally writes about her houseboat. It's often struck me as being a bit Bohemian. I overheard a woman saying to her boyfriend 'Ooh, I wouldn't like to live on a houseboat', and it stuck me. It's not that people choose between luxury yuppie flat or houseboat. Although it can be expensive in Cheyne Walk, elsewhere it's a lot cheaper way to be an owner-occupier in Central London. All mod cons, too, including satellite TV.

We passed Chelsea Wharf, presumably where they landed the coal for the Power Station

and also the mouth of the River Westbourne, which I recently blogged about

We then cycled to and through Battersea Park, which has been visited and photographed before, and on to Battersea Park Station. I've been through this hundreds, if not thousands of times on a train but have never previously used it as a station.

According to Wikipedia, 

The station remains effectively unmodernised since its construction in the Victorian era. It has an attractive polychrome brick Venetian Gothic facade. Access to the 5 platforms is via steep wooden staircases, and (as of October 2003) it is unusable by infirm or physically disabled travellers. Platform 1 is made completely from wood and Platform 5 is rarely in use, with through Southern and Gatwick Express services passing towards Clapham Junction.

However, because of weekend engineering works, they were running only a half-hourly service to Streatham Hill - from Platform 5, which has signs warning of the steep stairs 'Take care'. With two minutes til the train we practically ran, carrying our bikes (and me, the rucksack with water bottles, camera, pump, tool-kit etc) up the daunting stairs. Ironically, it was the first time I broke sweat all day!

And nice to get home, shower and eat a deliciously tasty late lunch.

Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 3

For earlier stages see Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 1 and Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 2.

The final stage is from Brockwell Park to Ruskin Park.

To be honest, it doesn't really a merit a stroll in itself. But, when he tackled the earlier part of the walk, we had finished with late lunch in the Lido Café and had preferred to walk home across the park rather than continue to the end of the walk. The Lambeth guide includes a partial tour of the park, including the Walled Garden, the Mansion House and the Miniature Railway, but we're familiar enough with the Park. 

Instead, after a mooch round Brixton Market, we caught the bus to Herne Hill Station, and re-started our stroll. This was "built in 1862 in the Gothic Venetian style and is typical of the period. The square tower contains a water tank that held water for the steam engines."

It's a complicated junction, with 6 roads meeting and on the corner stands the Half Moon pub. For years, I assumed it was a Wetherspoons, given their liking for 'moon' in the names of their pubs, eg Lord Moon of the Mall, and, more ubiquitously, the Moon Under Water, after George Orwell. Jimmy remembers it as a boxing venue: his boys, now in their late 30s, attended a gym there. It's also renowned as a venue for live music and comedy, but I'm not sure its claims to be a 'gastropub' are really supported by a menu consisting only of pizza and burgers, albeit homemade, and Sunday Roast. We didn't go in.

We started the slow ascent up Herne Hill, pausing to note the former Fire Station

Built in 1906, it dates from a time when fire engines were pulled by horses. The fire station closed in 1920.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Next door is the former postal sorting office. I couldn't resist photographing the sign, noting in particular its missing apostrophe.

And, of course, its statement of employment practice! It only closed in 2007 or 2008, as far as I can make out from the internet - it's now a dancing school.

I have no objection to historic buildings retaining signs that point to a bygone era when women were not really considered to be workers - or, often, people in their own right. And I photograph them as a reminder that women have had to fight for what resembles equality today. None of what we have achieved was by baking cup cakes!

Incidentally, the Herne Hill Society doesn't seem to know the origin of Herne Hill as a name.

Not mentioned in the Lambeth Walk, but worth a deviation from their suggested route to have a look at St Paul's Church.

The original church built in 1843-4 by G Alexander was damaged by fire and rebuilt by Street in 1858.  The west tower, spire and long outer walls of the Commissioners' church were kept and the chancel was enlarged and embellished. It is Grade II* Listed for its special architectural or historic interest. (The pub and railway station are also listed). It seems that it is a joint parish with St Saviour's at Ruskin Park, perhaps more evidence that South London is over-provided with 19th century Anglican churches.

 

 

 

Some interesting views from Herne Hill - this of Battersea Power station

 

 

 

 

 

The Lambeth Guide suggested we walked along Fawnbrake Road.

Enjoy the late-Victorian houses and variety of doorways, some set back and at an angle. A few upper windows have original stained glass. Look out for pretty tiles beside the doors on the left.

At the time, the Bill to privatise the NHS was about to go through Parliament, so this sight was no surprise.

 

 

I enjoyed how the terraced houses were joined together behind the main line

I suppose it appeals to the snobby, who can almost pretend they live in a semi, but I suppose it also means that the main habitable rooms only share a party wall on one side.

 

 

A nice little touch, with flowers planted where you normally only see soil or litter.

 

 

I photographed the front of this house, not realising that the owner was there, tending to his plants. He, Mr Brooks, invited us in to view and photograph the rest of his garden, out the back, and show us some traditional hospitality. It is certainly impressive what he has achieved, and it is very different from anything I have ever seen in a suburban house. He has at least 120 hanging baskets, and can spend up to three hours watering the plants. He is a retired builder, and has constructed the double decker, and the system for capturing rain water.

I thought there were some lovely aspects about the garden, and it is evidence of hard work and dedication. I suppose, ultimately, though, it isn't really to my preference. I think I would feel hemmed in, and I'd miss chance to sit or lie in the garden, to dine al fresco.

  

 

       
At the end of the road lies the magnificent Carnegie Library. Closed on Sundays, of course.Grade II listed, it was opened in 1906 after Lambeth received a grant from Andrew Carnegie. I'm not sure if he had any connection with the area; he was born in Dunfermline and emigrated to Pennsylvania at the age of 12. He made a fortune from steel, and spent his later years as a philanthropists, donating to public libraries. Perhaps motivated by a childhood in extreme poverty.

Also an interesting view from the road opposite

Unfortunately, that ugly St George Wharf Tower, like The Shard is set to dominate too many cityscape photos in South London. Talking of which...

We wandered into Ruskin Park, which for me was hitherto mythical. Not only have I never been there, I don't think I've even been past it. And, I have to say, it probably isn't the most exciting park in Lambeth's portfolio. But pleasant enough. Or would have been if the weather hadn't deteriorated sharply. I was sensibly clothed in layers, but Jimmy had been over-confident about the temperature, and was beginning to feel cold. Still, it was good to see another park that's had money spent recently to do it up.

View over London

 

Another church, St Saviour's lies just outside the park. There's a lot of St Saviour's around these parts, and further afield, but is not listed by the Catholic Church. According to Wikipedia, Saint Saviour may refer to: 

Sanctus Salvator, a Latin dedication of churches or places to Jesus, translated in English as "Saint Saviour" or, more accurately, "Holy Saviour"

so, it seems to be somewhat of a historical 'head desk'! I assume this is actually the church hall (listed).

 

 

 

As we walked parallel with Finsen Road, I had one of those lucky moments. Despite the looming dark clouds the light was surprisingly bright, combining to set off the fresh colours of the housing terrace

 

 

 

 

 

 

We strolled around Ruskin Park, which was largely empty, except for the children's playground. I don't photo children's playgrounds unless unoccupied, for obvious reasons.

 
 

 

 

 

We retired to the Cambria for a drink. I can see that they're trying to make it a very nice place, but I'm not sure I'd return, even if I happened to be in the area, which, hospital visits aside, is unlikely.

On the way to the bus stop I saw a couple of random sights worth snapping. Or so I think, anyway!

 

I think they've rather ruined the stucco by painting it. But each to their own, I suppose.

Unfortunately, we made a right mess of getting home. There's a bus that would have taken us almost to our door (45), but the bus countdown app said it wasn't sue for half an hour. So we thought we'd beat the system and get a bus via Brixton (35) to intersect with a bus coming from Clapham (137 or 417). We waited more than 15 minutes for the 35, and then had another 12 minutes waiting for the second bus. And the weather was getting colder and colder.

Still, I'm glad we finished off the walk.

Lambeth's guide is found as a PDF here and more about Walking in Lambeth here. 

Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 2

For the first part of this route, please see Brixton to Ruskin Park Walk, Part 1

After we had strolled around Windrush Square and its immediate surroundings, we turned into Coldharbour Lane 'once a winding country lane connecting Brixton to Camberwell' and followed the directions through the area dominated by the market. If I was a serious photographer, or fancied myself as one, I would take lots of photos of the market, the vibrant product and the 'interesting' characters, stallholders and shoppers. That's where I have a problem. If you are very self-absorbed I suppose it's easy to see people merely as objects to be photographed. I also feel uncomfortable being white and middle class and, somehow treating people who aren't as a curiosity. Either in far flung places or in my own town.

The first interesting sight to be photographed was the Six Sided Clock on the Railway Hotel. Several times subsequently, I have approached this corner from a different direction, and there is a much better view. But either I don't have a camera, or the weather is wet, or it's dry and I have a camera, but I'm also encumbered by shopping.

After I had started drafting this post, the Urban75 blogger posted some much better photos Brixton landmarks: the Brady’s clock tower, Atlantic Road. Brixton, London SW9 and links to further posts providing a bit of history.

...there's railways all around, with three separate lines passing within metres of the pub and this was reflected in the design of the clocktower: its six-sided design ensuring that it could be read from trains passing in all directions

Still, I accidentally managed to capture a couple of people on this photo, which seem, at least with this obscured view, to represent two of the many types of Brixtonians!

The route is supposed to go through Brixton Village, but we decided to by-pass it rather than spend/waste time, and I've recently blogged about an aspect of it.

The walk took us along Railton Road. I think this was taken along Kellett road, a distant view of St Matthew's shimmering in the haze.

This roadsign, and the housing development it describes, I suppose was a well-intended attempt by the council to remind shivering newly-arrived immigrants of sunshine, sand and palm trees. Unless it was meant to be homage to a British Leyland car

For some reason, we were then directed along Barnwell Road, which isn't exactly the most interesting road in Brixton, despite the council's attempt to convince us of the architectural interest of an incongruous bit of infill and the different styles of arches over the front doors of the cottages.

 

The most interesting garden was sadly obscured by a car parked outside

And so we came to Brixton Water Lane, which follows the line of the now buried River Effra.

A delightful Georgian villa, although I'm not entirely sure about the colour, which is better suited, in my opinion, to artisan cottages

Talking of which...

These were built around 1820 to house the staff of Brockwell Hall. 

This is called 'Surrey Lodge'. The internet throws up a historical reference to a Surrey Lodge, Brixton Hill, but I doubt this is it. I suspect it's a modern-day pretension, not necessarily by the current occupiers.

The walk then took us into Brockwell Park, a place we know reasonably well, having visited it numerous times. Nevertheless, it was a rare thing to enter from this particular entrance and take a walk along the Eastern side. 

This is the view of the rather ugly looking flats on Dulwich Road. I imagine though, that they're not necessarily a bad place to live, given that the higher floors will have a particularly pleasant view.

This is St Jude's church,

A very large church (originally 1000 seats). Last used for worship in 1975, it was declared redundant in 1979 and sold freehold in 1980 for £38,000 as a furniture warehouse (Budget Furniture plc) which was still in business as of 2005. An alternative sale to a wine merchant was rejected as an unsuitable use. By 2008 it was the home of Mark Allen Group (publishers). There were no burials in the churchyard, nor memorials of note in the church. The Willis organ was allegedly sold to a school.

The parish is united with St Matthew's in Brixton. It does seem to be further evidence of over-provision of unwanted churches in 19th century England. Unwanted now, probably not wanted then, but preserved in aspic for all eternity. I feel a future blogpost coming on, questioning the wisdom/public utility of the heritage-of-unimportant-churches industry!

The leaflet describing the walk suggests walking past Brockwell Lido, but we thought we would pop in for a coffee, as one does!

 

A coffee that 'magically' became the best mushroom burger I have tasted, lashings of umami.

While we were there, the actual pool was being pained in readiness of its re-opening (on 20 April). I worried that these chaps would end up surrounding themselves with wet paint and become trapped. The didn't.

As you can tell from the photos, it was a gloriously sunny and warm March day, but as school home-time approached, the warmth of the day was gone, and we decided to walk home across the park, leaving the final leg to Ruskin Park for another day, and another blogpost.

 

 The Shard, and other ghostly towers of London

Newly re-landscaped duckpond

The new children's playground

I laughed - cruelly - at the thought of a small child sliding down the slide, and down the hill, into the flower bed. Oops!

The Lido Cafe & Brockwell Park

One mild if cloudy Autumn day we decided to take a walk across Brockwell Park.

I sometimes describe Brockwell Park as my local park, but it really isn't. Both Tooting Common and Agnes Riley Gardens are nearer, as is Rush Common, which I have to cross to get to Brockwell Park. Streatham Common and Clapham Common can be reached directly by bus. Brockwell Park requires two buses, or, of course, can be reached on foot via some rather boring and steeply undulating residential roads. So, over the years I've tended to ignore its existence too much.

Considering it is a formally laid out and maintained park, Brockwell is full of surprises. Wide open spaces, some of the best views in London. Managed wilderness and areas devoted to specific activities. 

It is currently undergoing a programme of refurbishment, a process that is bitter-sweet to watch, knowing that the money being spent is probably among the last vestiges of the previous Labour government. I wonder how long it will take for our public parks to regress to the derelict, threatening no-go danger areas I remember from my teens and young adulthood.

The ponds are being dredged, re-lined and re-planted. I believe work is being done on drainage. A refurbished adventure playground is due to open in Spring 2012. And, over winter, the secret walled garden has been closed. The model railway isn't running, certainly not on weekdays. The tennis courts are empty, the BMX track barely used. Presumably there is relatively little to do in the Community Greenhouses

A new play area, using water and sand, has been developed, although the water is off during the winter months. We realised after we had walked round that, strictly speaking, as adults unaccompanied by children, we shouldn't have even been in there. Hopefully, as there was only one mother and child there, and we kept our distance, our mistake can be overlooked.

Each time we visit Brockwell Park, we try to take a different route. I often lose my bearings, never quite grasping its vastness and the different communities that abut it. And being high up, and vast, one can see for miles.

Previously, we always used to go into the café in Brockwell Hall, but were becoming increasingly dissatisfied. Basically, we found their coffee undrinkable, which makes one reluctant to try anything else.

It was purely by chance we heard about the Lido Café. We had both been to previous incarnations, but once you absorb the message that it's closed, you just forget it ever existed. But we decided to try it. "I'll have a coffee and some carrot cake," I decided, looking at the tempting display of cakes on the counter. One of the staff suggested we sit down, she'd bring us our coffee, and why don't we look at the menu. One French onion soup later, I was able to exclaim 'No wonder people rate this place so highly!'. I didn't take my proper camera out of my bag but was very pleased at how this phone picture turned out

Fast forward to February. Jimmy was due to have a minor hospital procedure on a Monday, and I decided to take the Tuesday off work just in case he needed looking after. It turned out he didn't even have a general anaesthetic, so he was more or less fine the next day. The next day was Valentine's Day, and neither of us wanted to go out for a Valentine's dinner. Nothing says 'Unromantic' quite like being spontaneous to order from the multinational conglomerates, or even spending an evening among the slight desperation of couples who think a Valentine's Special dinner is the only way to show they care. Yes, I know most decent restaurants do a Valentine's special, unfortunate for the numerous friends and acquaintances who celebrate a birthday that day or work away from home. It's business...

So, instead we booked ourselves a lunch at the Lido Café. We chose to walk there, along the uninteresting and hilly residential streets,

We took a different route around the park, and saw different sights.

The upper most duck pond being refurbished

Pond still frozen

The remnants of the previous week's snowmen: although it wasn't warm on our walk, the snow and the bitter cold of early February seemed distant memories

 

A random snapshot of the trees on the pathway next to Brockwell Park Gardens (a residential road)

Odd traffic signals at Norwood Road

 Mocking the stone-cladding

 I like this view but was too impatient to wait until a train passed. Stupid of me, because the grace and elegance of a train skimming across the sklyline is a sight to behold

 And finally into the Lido Café to fulfill our lunchtime reservation

 Mackerel bap with tartare sauce, crushed peas, and triple cooked chips; & Luscombe organic (medium dry) Devon cider. A simple cheerful meal, tasty and cooked to perfection, with some nice little presentational tricks. Incidentally, the novelty tomato, so often a disguise for cheap and nasty ketchup thankfully contained good quality stuff, Heinz or equivalent.

 And pudding was ginger chocolate pot with orange sorbet. Again, a simple dish most of us could probably make at home, if we could bothered, and presented in an attractive way that complements the tastes.

 Arguably, it's a misnomer to describe the Lido as a café. It's in a different league, and a different priceband, than the other café in Brockwell Park, and in some other neighbouring parks. But you can go for a coffee or soft drink, as well as a three course meal with choice wines and beers. I've never been when the pool's been open, and I've not been in the evening to this incarnation. I guess I'll just have to go back (and have been since I started writing this blogpost!)

These and other photos are in my Brockwell Park album

A stroll up the river in December sunshine

It was one of those dead days between Christmas and New Year. Neither of us was at work and we vowed we would not waste away the days stuck indoors watching TV that was spectacularly bad even by the standards we've become used to at Christmas. A weather forecast was checked and the rural ways of Surrey were researched. At which point we hit a snag. All the places that appealed as walks were served by pubs that didn't open for food until 6pm. Many of the pubs looked very inviting, but when it's dark by four, or in effect earlier, the last thing you want is to be hanging around until six, or later, for food.

Instead we headed for Kingston. We were going to go by train, catching a bus to Streatham Hill, our nearest station. What bus arrived at the bus stop but a 57, going all the way to Kingston. Genius Gert decided, let's get the bus to Kingston.

That was a long journey, even though we were doing it in almost optimum conditions. It was one of those 'dead' days between Christmas and New Year, so there was little commercial and no school-related traffic. We discovered as we sat in roadworks between Streatham and Tooting, that there was another 57 just in front of us. As a consequence our bus was remarkably empty all the way. We caught it at the second stop on the route and rode it to the terminus. A bit more pre-planning and we could have done the whole route! Part of me is wanting to do a blogpost of the entire route, but, to be frank, riding it once is enough for any lifetime, and I've done it three times. And, in the end, what can I say. Oh, Tooting has a Primark. Blimey, in Raynes Park, the Co-op and Waitrose are opposite each other. Two different aspects of co-operatives.

  We arrived in Kingston and took of indifferent coffee in a chain, due to our inability to find any independents. I'm sure they must exist, even out here in suburbia, but they weren't obvious.We did the obligatory Streathamite hiss at Kingston's John Lewis, for which Streatham sacrificed the legendary, almost mythical Pratt's, and we headed for the river. 

A moment was spent in amusement as a couple rowed away from the banks, their shopping safely stowed aboard their rowing boat, and a bunch of teenagers yelled 'Faster faster faster', and we headed over Kingston Bridge. Another moment was spent in despair at the sheer weight of traffic, despite it being one of those 'dead' days between Christmas and New Year, but we soon forgot about that as we set off along the almost deserted riverside path.

I say 'almost deserted' but we never really felt totally alone. A healthy number of walkers, and not just the obligatory doggie people. The walk was 'inspired' by page 7 of Walks Around the Royal borough of Kingston-upon-Thames, although I'm not sure one really needs 'inspiration' for a Riverside Walk. Also, 1 hour 10 minutes was hopelessly optimistic, making me think 2.9 miles was an under-statement. Much of it was around the edge of Home Park (of Hampton Court), blissfully cut off from traffic noise, mainly.

We were fortunate with the weather. It had drizzled once or twice when we were on the bus, and had looked ominously gloomy as we set off from civilisation, or, rather, Kingston, but by the time we were approaching Thames Ditton and Hampton Court, the afternoon had turned into a rather glorious pre-sunset, with a spectacular Golden Hour arriving more than an hour before sunset.

A river walk is almost always charming. I enjoy looking at the boats moored - above is a presumably replica paddle steamer, presumably not run on steam.

I also enjoy looking at the riverside properties, envying them their views. I've always dreamed of a lawn that slopes down to the river, being able to launch a small dinghy from your back garden. I'm not materialistic or driven by a need for great wealth, but, sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder whether my life could have taken a different path. And then I remember: if I could afford a house in such a location,I'd either be working silly hours and never able to switch off, or trapped in an unhappy marriage to a man doing the same. Hence my indifference to wealth!

Hampton Court Palace is an impressive building, and one we visited ten years ago. For that reason, it holds a very special place in my affections, because I had only really just started blogging - the original blog was on blogspot - and my reading of other people's blogs, and their trips out, which they photographed and blogged, was a major motivation to me to get out and see parts of London I had never really bothered about. A few photos here.

So, in a sense, this was almost a 'tribute' visit. Although we didn't go in. I imagine it wasn't far from closing, and it looked quite busy, partly because there was a temporary ice rink in the grounds by the main entrance. 

Instead, we went to a decent pub, The Albion, outside of which we sat, so pleasant was the late afternoon. someone later tweeted me it was East Molesey's best pub, which I can believe. 

I discovered that Jimmy has a slight obsession about chimneys. Several future days out were to feature him instructing me to photograph chimneys!

A few photos of this and more London treats at London photo album, and also Hampton Court photo album

A riverside walk

I often go out for the day, on the bike or walking. And I usually take photos. In general, I take many more photos in the summer, and I don't always get round to editing the full set until the Autumn or Winter. I am now learning at least to write about the walk, and save it as draft, until the photos are ready. But I didn't think about that back in July.

I could try and write now about a walk that happened more than six months ago, but it would just be a series of 'And then I we went there, and then we went there. And then, and then'.

We walked from Teddington to Twickenham. And, on another day, from Twickenham to Richmond.

So, instead, I give you:

Boats moored at Teddington

Lavender

Lock

Boatyard

Nymphs

 Duck on tyre

 Star and Garter

I didn't even tweet much that first day because I realised just as we were going out that my phone battery was nearly flat and I wanted to conserve it for more utilitarian purposes. On the second part of the outing, coming the weekend after the riots I only seemed to get excited by being escorted across the road by a very visible police presence!

More photos of this day out and others in the photo album London, with more detailed commentary! Also Boats and ships, Water fowl, Naked statues

Separately, I added 3 more photos to Wandle Way, one of the (many) secret treasures of wonderful South London. We cycled along it, so not really ideal for photography or tweeting! 

Wandle Way tweets:

• Cycling the Wandle Way. Coffee break at Merton Abbey Mills #lovelondon
• I suspect by the end of the day I shall be even more brown of face &arms. #easytan
• "Jimmy, my bike's broke. I need a man". Oops #gertfail
• Bike fixed now. As if by magic
• Hackbridge Station, the arse-end of the back of beyond. Only the two of us on platform but they play 'report suspicious behaviour', anyway.
• Home. The cycle ride equivalent of a ramble, a limber-up. Except for huffing and puffing up Nightingale Lane #outofcondition #wandleway

Some of my photo albums are in strict chronological order (some forward and some backward) and others reflect the order in which I uploaded the photos when I first opened this my third blog - and subsequently added to, or not. Confused? Yes, I am!

Rush Common

I like this. If you didn't know, you couldn't guess that Rush Common is just a thin strip of land that runs alongside Brixton Hill! It looks much better full screen on the PC, but I'm not that daft: I only publish massively compressed photos.

Clapham Common

We went there for a picnic yesterday. I don't work Fridays, and Jimmy is free between 3 and 8 so we try and do something together most weeks. We were determined to enjoy the sunshine and hit on the splendid idea of a picnic. Clapham Common was chosen because Jimmy would spend less time getting there (and back) from work, because it's handy for shops from which to buy picnic food, and because there are plenty of bars and coffee shops handy for when the temperature drops.

It has its disadvantages, too. Chiefly that being flat and surrounded by a network of busy roads, without boundary trees, it's impossible to feel you've escaped from the urban jungle. But we knew that, and adjusted our expectations accordingly.

We sat down on a bench on the edge of large open field and began to eat our 'starter'. People passed by and there was a constant hum of traffic from the roads; we were barely aware of them. We looked out across a field and laughed hilariously as a dog chased after a child's football and pushed the child (aged about 8) to the ground. Our laughter turned to "What!" when we realised that the dog was no relation to the child, but happened to be passing him as he played with a teenager, perhaps an older brother, and just randomly forced him to the ground.

As it happens, the child didn't seem very bothered; nor for that matter did the dog's owner. Didn't seem to check whether the child was all right, and didn't put the dog on a lead. They continued on their walk, approaching in our direction, but I assumed the angle they were taking would take them well out of our way. Until the dog bounded over to where we were sitting, threw itself at Jimmy and then stuck its nose into the empty prawn tray he had carefully placed on the ground to separate rubbish out from from good stuff*. The owner followed and laughing said

"Oh, she eats anything she sees..."

I think this was our cue to say "Oh gagaga itchywitchy cudgie coo what a darling dog, can I please please pretty please lick her cutey wutey stomach". We didn't.

The owner tried again mouthing some platitude which didn't include the word 'sorry'. Sharply, Jimmy told her to take it away whilst I sat motionless glaring at her (I was rewarded with the sight of her shrinking and slinking away, cowed by my fearsome glare).

When we finished our starter we walked to another field on the Common, this much closer to Northside. We chose our spot carefully. Sufficiently far away from the two men focused on their ball skills as they quietly and unostentatiously kicked a football between them; and  sufficiently far away from two other parties lying down or picnicking in the glorious afternoon sun. We weren't encroaching on anyone and no one was encroaching on us. Ideal. Well, apart from the police helicopter that hovered and circled for about 15 minutes; again, in theory an irritation, in practice something you accept as an inevitability of urban life.

Until PoodleWoman came along. I wasn't best chuffed when said Poodle took a dump barely ten feet from where we were sitting. I was even less chuffed when it immediately ran over to us and stuck its nose in our food bag. Followed by Poodle Woman herself in no great rush to extricate her dog. Indeed she stood there waiting for us to say "Oodle doodle be my baby gagagagaga ickle cuteywootey." We didn't.

Jimmy told her to take it away. She started saying something resentfully, so I told her to keep her dog under control. Scornfully, she said "I'm supposed to control where the dog goes to the toilet?" I'm sorry I didn't ask her why she wasn't scooping it up - there are bins for that purpose on the Common. Today, someone was probably playing a ball game or letting their child run around in that dog poo (by the way, dogs don't 'go to the toilet'). 

What I did say was that it had stuck its nose in our food bag. She retorted that she had every right. I told her to keep her dog on the lead. As she walked away I said "That's probably what counts for hygiene in her household, letting the dog shit anywhere even when she's preparing food. That's really disgusting. Dirty woman." I did have the satisfaction of watching her shoulders slump as she slinked away; hopefully she felt shame.

Dog poo is disgusting. Indeed any poo from any meat-eating mammal is disgusting. I don't mind horse manure and accept sheep droppings as an inevitable part of the countryside. But dog poo. Eugh. Of course dog owners have the right to exercise their dogs on the Common, I don't dispute that. But rights only exist to the extent they don't interfere with other people's rights - or, to put it bluntly, my right to stick out my arm stops just before my fist hits your face. It is disgraceful when a dog attacks a child; it's disgraceful but inevitable when a dog shits in the open grass - and it's disgusting if the owner fails to pick it up. And it's utterly intolerable that, apparently, we have to put up with other people's dirty animals going through our food. 

I do stop and think - is it something I said, is it something I am doing wrong? Am I sitting in the wrong place, breaking some local unwritten custom-and-practice?

I know we all want our own way all of the time and I have been known to sulk or throw a tantrum when I don't (less so now I'm an adult). But surely, if you use your brain you must realise that it simply isn't possible and it's extremely inconsiderate. Perhaps my problem is that I am a follower of the creed of Deferred Gratification: in other words, by acting in a way that appears to be selfless, I later reap rewards. Obviously, this works best in a fairly closed group: eg if I help someone with a problem say at work, they are likely to help me when I need them maybe two years later, or, at the very least, they speak positively of me to others; that doesn't work so well in wider society. I do firmly believe that if everybody behaved in a fairly considerate way almost all of the time, we would all benefit from society being more harmonious. But that is a big IF because I am having to compete with people who want instant gratification or pursue rational selfishness.

Ironically - and  cross-refer to my post on Streatham Common  - this touches on the theory of The Tragedy of the Commons.

* when we had finished our picnic all the rubbish went in the bin

Streatham Common

But despite the kids from hell - or rather the childminders from hell - we managed to get something out of our visit to Streatham Common.

I am still getting used to my new camera; also I knew straightaway that the light was never going to do me favours (both are just excuses!)

I love it when in the middle of somewhere built up you get a brief glimpse of something that could theoretically be somewhere completely different - this brief stretch of Streatham Common North could easily be in the country

This is me in the Rookery



This is a cherry tree (or so it said on the label!)

This is a bit of a view of the terraced garden, cunningly taken to disguise the skyscrapers of Croydon otherwise visible on the horizon through the blue haze

And this is the bottom end of a fallen tree which has been left to rot away

On Streatham Common

The plan today had been to picnic on Streatham Common. The weather was not in our favour, so instead we had a rather indifferent pub lunch. We decided to walk on the Common, anyway, even if just to avoid the horrendous traffic queues on the High Road and catch a bus home.

For those of you that don't know, Streatham Common is a fairly large piece of green space. It's not massive, but it's certainly not a pocket park. It's certainly plenty big enough for kids to run around, especially on a weekday more-or-less in school term

View Larger Map

We stopped at the café halfway up and went to drink our coffees at the outside tables. I suppose there's about a dozen tables in a fenced-in space, just enough space in between them and no space for any more.

It was fairly busy, a party of five over there, a Mum and baby there, man and dog there, Mum with two quiet sitting children, woman with a book, us, and That Lot. Specifically two women of my age and eight girls age about 7 or 8, running around, screeching, yelling at each other. Perfectly legitimate play, and of course, it's healthy for children to run around. But in totally the wrong place. I had to keep interrupting what I was saying as another brat ran past screaming down my ear-hole.

Jimmy went to the loo, as I turned round yet again to glare at the screaming kids, I realised Woman-With-A-Book was looking exasperated. She turned to me and said "Can't they shut them up, they're completely ignoring them." Emboldened I went up to the women supposedly in charge of them, and said "There's a whole great big Common, do they have run around screaming in here, when people are trying to sit down quietly?"

One of them laughed. Not quite in my face, but clearly she thought it an absolute hoot that these children she was supposedly looking after (but was in fact ignoring) were being pains. So I mimicked her laugh back in her face, and she didn't like that. However, they  decided they were going. "Than God for that!" I exclaimed in a stage whisper. "We get the message," said the other arsehole bitch. But I didn't think they had, because there was no attempt to say to the kids "This isn't the best place to be running around screaming"

In time we finished our coffees and left the café and headed for the Rookery. I love The Rookery, a delightful secret. I don't go often because it's not so close to home; sadly I didn't go often either when it was much closer.

On Been There it says:

A beautiful Victorian garden in the middle of Streatham Common. Queen Victoria visited for the now gone spa waters  Tranquil even at the height of summer, an oasis in the middle of south London.

Indeed, outside is a sign saying in big letters "This is a quiet garden" and lists the activities that aren't permitted. It doesn't actually say 'No Noisy Brats' or even 'All children should be kept on leads' but *everyone* knows that people go there to read or contemplate.

But not this lot, oh no. The ghastly women sat on a bench on the terrace and the kids ran amok screaming their heads off as they chased round, their noise echoing round the natural bowl or amphitheatre. We tried to get away from them, not entirely possible because they were so loud, and when we returned to the main drag, we saw several independent adults looking at them, in annoyance or bewilderment; something was said, and suddenly, they cleared off again. 

This makes me really angry. As I say, I do think kids should get out and run around. There's a large well-equipped children's playground, there is a large open green space, so why they hell are they doing their running around specifically in areas not designed for it.

I am sick and tired of going out to places and having what should be a relaxing walk or sit-down ruined by out-of-control, atrociously parented children. I know I am not alone in this. I only had to look at the faces of the other café customers and the body-language of the other people in the Rookery that I am very much not alone in this.

It was abundantly clear to me that the ridiculous bints supposedly in charge of these children did not have the slightest clue what the matter was. These were women who knew each other via NCT classes and were dressed very presentably in clothes from shops such as Next, M&S: almost certainly educated and seemingly fairly prosperous.

Exactly the sort of people who complain loudly at how child-unfriendly Britain is. These ghastly women have probably ended up at home moaning to their husbands (who probably don't get home until after the children have gone to bed!) at how hostile everybody is to us 'just because we've got children'.

These two women were supposed to be looking after other people's children. I am not sure whether they were doing it for pay, or as part of a reciprocal arrangement, or as a favour (perhaps the school has failed to open, unexpectedly). But they were failing in their duty. These children encouraged to behave as if the world revolves around them grow up into teenagers and then adults who retain a sense of entitlement and are utterly bewildered as the rest of the world turns against them in hostility and disgust.

I think it's extremely unfair that these people behave like this. Not surprisingly, there were several elderly people in the Rookery; don't they have as much right to their relaxation as these kids?

It's very unfair to the children whose parents do know how to parent - the two sat quietly in the  café, or the little boy walking round the gardens with his nanny. It's unfair to anybody who has gone to the Rookery specifically for its advertised 'quiet' and its reputation for tranquillity.

And, actually, it's very unfair to the children themselves. They are not being taught about boundaries, about how we co-exist in a crowded city on a small island, or about consideration for others. It's all very well being right-on and going to NCT classes, but parenting doesn't stop there. I suspect that the children get a very clear message of being marginal to the lives of the adults who couldn't care less about them, who refuse to communicate or engage with them.

 

Some photos of Wimbledon

Last October, when we set out for Wimbledon Common but only got as far as Wimbledon Park

Always handy when kids are around with bread, because the birds just flock!

Nice to know there's a lake for sailing so close to home, for the next time I fancy sailing

We kept seeing signs for miniature golf, and I got all excited: it turned out to be the world's most boring Miniature golf course!
 

Cattle troughs on the Common - 365/10

Jimmy thinks this is the best photo I took on Saturday

whereas I prefer this one

Mind you, I haven't yet edited the ones I took round the City!

These were taken on small exclave of Clapham Common, where the old-fashioned entrance to the Tube and the old public conveniences are situated.

More about the Metropolitan Drinking Fountain and Cattle Trough Association

It lives on as the Drinking Fountain Association, its work still relevant today.

Along the river

It seems that by accident, I have organised a mini expedition that may eventually lead us to the source of the Thames.

It all began last week, when we were debating what to do on our mutual day off. "The coast" had been suggested, but ultimately was postponed for a future hot and sunny day.

After much discussion we decided upon Battersea Park. You would think that Brixton to Battersea and back again would be easy, but nothing is ever easy with Jimmy and me. We had a full and frank exchange of views on how to get to Clapham Common. At one point in Abbeville Village, I said "I love you more than anyone in the world". A man passing by smirked; he knew I wasn't being soppy and sentimental.

But we got to Battersea Park with little further ado. We stopped for coffee and to watch the ducks, then I had the brilliant idea of heading to the river, which conveniently runs alongside the park. We found ourselves at the Peace Pagoda. Bizarrely, neither of us has ever actually been there.

It's always interesting, being in a park, people-watching. We saw a man performing Tai chi on a marble podium which may well exist specifically for this purpose; a couple having a romantic picnic - I guess it would have been more romantic if she had ignored the Blackberry -  and a posh late middle-aged couple who didn't care as their dog peed on the flowers (Jimmy says the acid kills the flowers; I say how  dare these people mindlessly and wantonly destroy something created for all to enjoy. They're no better than 'hoodie' vandals). 

When we left the park we continued along the river. We stopped a few times, partly so that I could take photos. That is one of the downsides of cycling. You see something, and before you have registered that it might be worth stopping, you've sped past.

The views change between each bridge. Between Albert and Battersea Bridge there is a lot of detail to take in. Modernistic buildings, a collection of boats that seem somehow to belong to a small coastal town, and views across the river to Chelsea. It was good to see a development, called Albion I think, that is modern and funky and in keeping with its setting, although there were others, no doubt where flats cost a fortune, that just look like they were assembled from flatpack with never a care about their setting.

Past Battersea Bridge, the view changes totally. A glimpse of an industrial London I am barely aware of. We cycled along this part, but I would like to return and photograph. It's a bleak landscape, could be anywhere, seems unlikely existing so close to swanky Chelsea Harbour. I didn't know then, but I do now, that the Surrey bank casts a strange shadow on the Satellite version of Google Maps

As approached the London heliport, the road seemed to run out. It's variously signed in rather quaint 50s looking-signage as 'Riverside Walk' or in more up-to-date National Trail sign as 'Thames Path'.

We realised that we would have to leave the river to get past the heliport, so decided to call it day and head inland and home (via The Nightingale). But not before Jimmy had pointed out the glucose factory, and Price's Candles, where his mother worked when she first arrived from Ireland, and reminisced about picking up the paraffin from wharves nearby, having been delivered to depot by boat.

We took up the route yesterday where we left off. In hindsight, I would say, just ignore the bit between the heliport and Putney Bridge - it ain't wurff it.

I got increasingly angrier with Wandsworth Council. Actually this anger had started long before we reached the river.  The route we took is supposedly part of the London Cycle network. They condescend to provide this information on blue signs, but it's a joke. I think green strips of road are pathetic and only marginally safer than a bus lane (with off-peak free parking) being designated a 'cycle lane'.

My attitude is sod this, it's not like anyone actually walks around here, they're too busy dangerously driving their overlarge cars. Therefore I shall cycle on the pavement, being very alert to pedestrians and slowing down to slow walking pace when pedestrians' needs dictate. I see the signs threatening fines of £100 for cycling on the pavement and just ignore them...if some jobsworth dares trying to fine me, they won't see me for dust.

The path just runs out somewhere round Wandsworth Bridge. An absence of signage and evidence of new development on the footpath makes me angry. I understand that, with the best will in the world, it may not be possible to maintain the path next to the river every single inch of the way, but I do not appreciate signs pointing to a building sight, I do not appreciate being sent all round the houses get from the river to the river. I was losing my rag on one friend's road, and if I had followed the randomly positioned signs I may well have ended up on another friend's road - but one lives in Wandsworth and one in Putney, and yet they're only four roads apart!

However, we decided to pause in Wandsworth Park despite its forbidding signs saying 'No cycling or we'll shoot you to death cos we are Wandsworth Tories and hopelessly out of touch with Boris and 'Dave' who pretend to want to encourage cycling'.

On the way to Putney Bridge, we had to dismount to squeeze through a flotilla of BMWs parked in obstruction of the cycle path outside a pub ( if I had been on my own and not with Jimmy, they'd be needing a paintjob now!).

Now, this is where I am confused. I concede that I may be going back quarter of a century, but I swear that there used to be pubs along the river at Putney. Like, proper pubs, with beer gardens where you can sit and watch the river, like at Richmond. I distinctly remember going to one with my Putney Aunt, and being distinctly shocked at her encouraging me to drink beer under-age. I did not see any riverfront pubs as such. Sure, I saw antiseptic 'developments' of glass and steel, which I would applaud if I thought they were reclaiming derelict land. But no riverside pubs!

We then went along Embankment. This is full of great big bloody signs saying it's part of the National Cycle Network, be considerate to pedestrians, and even has a token strip of green paint marking the contra-flow cycle lane. Great big 'f*** off don't cycle on our pavements or one hundred smackeroons are uz' signs, so the law-abiding us decide to cycle on the one-way, dead-end road past all sorts of boathouses. We only narrowly avoided being hit by some wanker in a four-by-four they couldn't control.

Beyond there, it's all fields. Or trees. A wooded ride, like being in the country. We relaxed on the beach for a while, laughing as Dulwich College boys fell in the water while learning to scull. 

I had a couple of happy incidents of scaring smug posh people. I think my glares are getting more scary the older I get! One was this couple whose dog decided to dash in front of me just as I approached at my specially seriously reduced 'I'm scared stupid by dogs' speed ie  walking pace. I think they were waiting for me to apologise; my glare changed their mind.

Then there was the walking group who walked five abreast, strung out across the track. Perhaps they thought 'cyclists are aggressive, why should we move over for them?' So I waited and waited, and they steadfastly refused to acknowledge this in the customary fashion - a slight nod or a twitch of a lip. If I had been a pedestrian, I would have just walked up to them and forced them to part; if they had some basic manners, they would not have hogged the whole path.

In contrast, riding along the Embankment, on the pavement, I saw a woman lifting a very small baby out of a buggy. In doing so she was walking backwards, not looking behind her.  The very last thing I wanted was a collision with someone holding a tiny babe in arms, so I moved to over to the far side and slowed almost to a halt. Then she saw me, smiled at me and stayed still: I gave a bit, she gave a bit. How it should be.

I had this bright idea we would turn off and cut across the promontory to Barnes Bridge. However, perhaps typical of our luck for the day, the turn-off (Queen Elizabeth Walk) was closed for resurfacing. So we ended up cycling all the way round the promontory, up to Hammersmith Bridge and back down to Barnes Bridge. I don't know how much that added to our journey, but when we were cycling through the wooded glen, barely able to see the river let alone any landmarks, such as, um, a bridge, it did seem in the region of a hundred miles. It probably was about that, roughly.

We were very grateful to find a pub not far from Barnes Bridge station, where we ate. The menu was extremely limited; I had warm goats cheese tart and salad - which was very very good. Simple, but everything a salad should be. It seems to be a major Jazz venue - The Bull's Head

While we were in there I checked Facebook and Twitter, where people were reporting storms and torrents around the country. We could see clouds that threatened a storm. It had been the plan all along to get a train home, so we strolled along to the station, passing houses with blue plaques for Gustav Holst and Ninette de Valois. Just as we were in the station and under-cover, the heavens opened and it teemed it down. The train came and we soon overtook the storm, finding it to be dry by the time we reached Putney, and still dry at Clapham Junction.

Clapham Junction is where I experienced extreme numptiness. Now, I thoroughly admit that reaching CJ at a few minutes to six on a week night may not have been the most intelligent thing I have done all day, but even so!

I was carrying my bike down the stairs only to find my way blocked by a bloke just standing there. He seemed to have no reason for standing there, just did it.

It's a pretty narrow staircase and was full of people -  off the train from Victoria and wanting to catch their connection - going up; going down were people who were wanting to head to Balham and The South. Pretty hectic. Ignore the fact that I was carrying a bike; ignore the fact that there may have been people with buggies or luggage, it was still a very stupid thing to do.

So, the train comes in, and I tell Jimmy to get on before me. I go to the platform edge and I'm trying to lift the bike up, indeed I'm succeeding. But we have a problem. I cannot haul myself up into the train (which is thigh-high relative to where I'm standing) and hold onto the bike. Hearing the station staff blow his whistle (because the train is ready to depart - right?) I scream at Jimmy to hold my bike as I fling myself into the carriage, almost to find myself unable to get on, blocked by my bike, which is blocked by two blokes standing in the way.

Yes, I know people  stand on trains, when they're full. There were a dozen empty seats just in the third of the carriage to my right. I got on and I got on safely. But the bikes were in people's way. If those blokes had moved, we could have put the bikes out of the aisle. But no, they had to prove just how macho they were by standing. I could kind of understand it if the train had been packed from Victoria and they were only going to Wandsworth Common. However, it came in pretty empty, and they were both still standing there when we got off at Streatham Hill. I wish I'd said something now.

I felt a few drops of rain at Streatham Hill, so we raced like the clappers home, and even had time to sit in the garden as the rain came. And then went away again.

Next time we do Barnes Bridge to Kew, which isn't particularly far, but may well include a Botanical Garden!

Mr ILoveMyself

A very showy-off swan on Tooting Common

I suppose if I spent all day beside the pond I could get a perfect shot of the full span of a swan's wings. Sometimes, life is too short...

Wandle Wander

I have stolen that headline, but it just seems so right.

We cycled along part of the Wandle Way today. We cycled to Earlsfield and joined it there, following it all the way to (near) Mitcham Junction from where we caught a train to Balham - which really is a gateway to the south, I'm surprised nobody's ever thought of describing it so.

It was really fun being out - over four hours, including a pint at the William Morris in Merton Abbey Mills and a coffee outside the cinema in Balham. Some of the route is extraordinarily rural - heading off through the woods, fighting off the midges (I think I swallowed a couple, and gagged a few more), wheeling through the fallen leaves.

In other places we had a strange juxtaposition of trees and a rural feel on one side, and a highly industrial urbanscape on the other. We found ourselves on National Trust property  - Morden Hall Park - which may be worth revisiting for an hour or so one day.

I feel really good after the exercise. It was the first time really we have cycled anywhere with a purpose, rather than heading fora common or park and cycling round like big kids.

I do have several criticisms of the Wandle Way. The first one is the map. It's so busy being twee and seemingly user-friendly, it's not much better than a chocolate fireguard. We didn't help ourselves by going in the 'wrong' direction but nevertheless the map should have been sufficiently easy to follow that we didn't need to keep referring to the A-Z. It's also very badly signed. Many of the signs that show it's the Wandle Way are positioned along stretches where there are no turns or junctions. Many of the turns or junctions are completely without signs, so we took a few wrong turnings. Also, sometimes where there are signs, they have been twisted round to face the wrong way.

Colliers Wood/Merton Abbey Mills was a bit a nightmare, trying to work out how to get from Wandle Park past Savacentre and on the way to the City Farm. Really grotesque arrangement of roads, designed for the car and sod the pedestrian etc.  I can't work out why there are cycle paths on the pavements near the crossings that suddenly peter out into nothingness. It's all very well putting green bikes next to the green man, but the only logical progress is to cycle on the pavement, which is technically illegal (except where marked for cycling, which it wasn't).

I was annoyed at the entrance to one of the small woods - Poulter Park. There was a very tight chicane at the entrance which was extremely difficult to manoeuvre a bike round. I also thought it would be nigh on impossible to get a pram or a twin buggy through it. Looking again at the map it might be that there is a separate entrance for cyclists, but it wasn't obvious from the signs, and, as I say, the map is more an artist's sketch than anything usable. So, sorry if we unwittingly cycled on a dedicated footpath, but it wasn't our fault.

I also found that I took very few photographs. Partly because, although woods and trees are nice to look at  and traverse, they don't make for exciting photos. And also because it would have necessitated frequent stopping which makes cycling a drag.

Despite having been serviced just two days ago, Jimmy's bike is playing up again. I didn't realise until we were cycling away from Balham, so the poor dear was a lot more knackered than me!