The Thames Path goes all the way from the Thames Barrier to way beyond Oxford. I am unlikely to walk all of that in the years left to me, but I am having a go at covering the London end. I do as much as I can in a day, then go back another day and set out from wherever I got to on the last trip.
Before I started the actual Thames Path, because I live in Walthamstow, I decided to walk from Higham Hill north Walthamstow, down the River Lea to the Thames at Limehouse Basin. You start by crossing Tottenham Marsh where birds of prey hover, then suddenly dive into the long grass and rise with a small creature whose life has been snatched away without warning. I am glad to be human and in England. There are large parts of the world where humans are similarly snatched into torture and oblivion without warning.
This route takes you past the Olympic Park and I believe they have developed the waterway so that some of the heavy building materials can arrive by barge. But none of that had started when I did the walk. Swans were nesting and nurturing cygnets on the accumulated debris which had grown thick and permanent due to to the lack of rivercraft causing the locks to be rarely opened and used.
Before Tottenham Marsh, I walked beside the Northern Relief Channel, which is a deep and wide concrete lined watercourse which takes all the storm water from the streets of north London down to the Thames. Sometimes it is full and a rushing torrent, but recently it has been empty, its dry concrete bottom baking in the hot sun, so that all the green algae has dried up and died. After heavy rain, when the channel becomes a river, there are coots and moorhens on it, diving and fishing and frolicking. How do the coots and moorhens know the channel is full of water? And how do they get there? You never see them flying.
Anyway, I've done Greenwich to Tower Bridge, past Boris's tilting glass lump of an office to the South Bank, Chelsea, as far as Battersea Park, where the Thames Path moves inland through depressing streets, which caused me to give up and have lunch in a tiny pub in a south London backstreet. Home made beef stew and dumplings, and cabbage and mash. Wonderful. The food was cheaper than the beer and a hundred times more nourishing. Sent me homeward snoozing on the bus and then the tube.
But next day back to Battersea Park, westward towards Putney. As you walk westward the aircraft heading for Heathrow get lower and lower, larger and larger, and more and more noisy. Chelsea Bridge to Hammersmith, miles of expensive blocks of flats overlooking the river, their names commemorating the industrial past they have replaced, Molasses House, Calico House, Ivory House, all parts of Plantation Wharf. Now there is a hotel with a helicopter landing pad on its roof. Battersea Reach is a construction site with a huge billboard with a picture of what they are building, and to tempt you to fork out astronomical sums, they tell you the site will be a new benchmark in sophisticated city living, defining riverside living with style.
And now we are in rowing country. A voice through a loud hailer jolts me upright. "Come on now. Chest out. Head up. Shoulder blades together." I strain my elderly bones then realise it is a coach in a motor launch following eight fit young men rowing. And there are joggers, dozens of them, male and female, all shapes and sizes, large and small, young and old, all races and religions; a young vicar in a dog collar and trainers and later a lady, presumably muslim, in a tracksuit and close fitting headscarf; then a very elderly lady, I think even older than me, shorts and tee shirt, walking at such a speed that she passed me and was out of sight in ten minutes.
I drink bottled water when I'm walking. There are no public toilets any more, but great joy, the Ship at Chiswick had a notice which said "Toilets open to the public" then in smaller letters "During business hours" then in large letters "CLOSED." It was eleven fifteen. Presumably they opened at twelve.
I enjoyed a heron standing tall and still, ignoring the world, watching the river at Wandle Creek. Wandle Creek must have been a busy waterway in fairly recent times. It has traffic lights where it joins the Thames, but now muddy, undredged, deserted except for the heron. He doesn't need traffic lights.
The Rocket at Putney Bridge was open and to my great relief has magnificent toilets. It was a while before I realised it is a Wetherspoons. They win awards for the quality of their toilets. The Rocket is a very posh Wetherspoons. It has dark wood panelling, quality wood furniture, deep pile carpetting, comfortable armchairs and free copies of the Guardian, the Times and the Daily Telegraph. Our nearest Wetherspoons at Chingford has the Sun and the Daily Mail.
Passed Harrods Furniture Depository and on to Kew, then Richmond where I came to rest at the White Cross, a riverside pub with real food, a real fire, and a notice outside which said "This is a football free pub." It was busy.
Another day I'll do Richmond to Kingston. I doubt I'll ever carry on to Oxford, beyond the reach of my trusty Freedom Pass, but who knows?
Thank you dear readers, see you soon.
