Waterlink Way

I thought I knew all the agreeable walks in the vicinity of my flat. 

Towards the Thames barrier, around the O2 or via Trinity Buoy Wharf.  West to Tower Bridge via the dismal Pepys estate or the venerable pubs in Shadwell.  So a meetup invitation to the Waterlink Way, starting at Cutty Sark and shooting south to Lower Sydenham, was a surprise.  I declined as the day was wet but resolved to explore it by myself another time.

Thursday is a free day; no gym, no writing course and no Arcola. So in crisp chilly sunshine I set off for the official starting point, Deptford Creek. I’d taken the precaution of pocketing a Waitrose cup from my hoard and availed myself of the munificence of the Greenwich branch, sipping hot coffee while contemplating the river.  The spikes of the O2 behind a low-rise building on the opposite bank gave it a Mohican.

Hermione, moving south solely for economic reasons, confessed the change apologetically as though entering purdah and fearful she would be shunned by friends.  Having spent my formative years on the wrong side of London's equator I knew the truth: south is where people go when they are tired of life in north London - to paraphrase Samuel Johnson - or to make babies.  While our ears are rarely calibrated as finely as those of Henry Higgins, the south Londoners’ drawl is as unwelcome to their northern cousins as the grating Brummy or the squeaky Scouse. This distaste is manifested in practical ways: the objections to the proposed Garden Bridge is thinly veiled nimbyism, anxiety that migrant hordes from Lambeth will gain easy access to lusher northern pastures.

None of the capital's great parks lie south of the river, at least in popular imagining. From the jewel of the east, Victoria Park, to the great contiguation of Kensington Gardens, Hyde Park, Green Park and St James’ Park, the formidable lungs of the West End, to the stately reaches of Regent’s Park and the wilds of Hampstead, all the noted splendours of rus in urbe, are congregated in the upper half of London.  Blackheath, Battersea and Richmond are almost unrecognised anomalies; as for Battersea Park and Clapham Common, no one outside their postcodes knows of their existence, and even if they did, how could they possibly get there, or, worse, home again afterwards?  The transport is lamentable, the sole tube line does not even acknowledge its southern presence, resolutely calling itself the Northern line.

So my expectations of the Waterside Way were carefully calibrated; I was prepared for the simplistic alliteration to be its most alluring feature.

The Creekside Discovery Centre was surrounded by sculptures assembled from flotsam gathered during the advertised low tide walks.  The coordinator, Bettina, provided me with a set of eight leaflets describing the route of Waterside Way which also furnished ample historical and environmental information for a future Ramblers walk, then locked the gate behind me for the protection of the school children present.

The route laces together half a dozen strips of parkland adjacent to the Rivers Ravensbourne and Pool, connected by nondescript suburban streets, light industry and building sites.  The result is a satisfying incoherence, rather like a poem compiled from words randomly picked from a holiday brochure.

Brookmill Park Pond, the last remnant of a reservoir, is a placid pool surrounded by trees.  A heron paused for a photo, obligingly striking different poses to ensure I captured her best side.

Ladywell Fields was the highlight.  Here the Ravensbourne has been partly diverted through the park in gentle meanders, mimicking its original route and creating a range of wildlife habitats while creating a simulacrum of a countryside meadow.  I’m always on the lookout for refreshment stops and toilet facilities for Ramblers walks and the Ten Thousand Hands café, occupying the old Ladywell Station premises on the fringe of Ladywell Fields, offered both.  I sat in the sun munching a ham and cheese toastie.

Despite the absence of tubes, there is no shortage of railways in south London.  Every half mile I was obliged to dodge under a tunnel or cross a footbridge, so when I reached the end of the walk I decided to strike out to Beckenham Place Park, confident that I’d be able to catch a train from one of the plethora of suburban stations which included park’s name in their title: Beckenham Road, Beckenham Hill, Beckenham Junction and New Beckenham.   The park is dominated by a golf course and a dilapidated clubhouse where I recalled having a measly sandwich during my tour of the Capital Ring.  I avoided the golf course and headed towards the less manicured northern end, aiming for Ravensbourne station, in honour of the river I’d been tracking.  It turned out to be on the wrong line so I consulted the map and headed off to New Beckenham station which, at the end of the day, felt further than it looked.  Sure enough, there were trains to Lewisham, but only every half hour, a frequency which would be derisory on the tube, Overground or DLR.  I realised that it’s not the lack of railways or stations from which south London suffers so much as an inadequate supply trains. 

© David Thompson 2016