The New River

The New River

The UK had voted for Brexit but Trump was not yet president. The candle of sanity was flickering but not yet quenched.  On the last day of summer it was still and mild. Gerry called me when I was on the way to the gym to suggest a walk. London Bridge station was closed and he'd abandoned his plan to pay Nadia a surprise visit in Sevenoaks. We agreed to meet at Stratford at 1pm and in the meantime Gerry would research a suitable route. I rushed through my gym routine, leaving in a sweat and getting home in time to make a sandwich before setting off. On the train, Gerry called to say we should meet at platform 11. We took a train to Tottenham Hale and changed to the Hertford East line.

Our walk followed the New River, which a notice board admitted was neither new nor a river, having been created in the early seventeenth century as a twentyfive mile aqueduct to supply water to London.

'Must have been as challenging as building a third runway at Heathrow,' commented Gerry.

Before starting the walk, we took a turn around Hertford. Although the responsibilities of being a county town vanished with local government reorganization, the accoutrements endure. An unaccountably grand station and buildings elaborately decorated with swirling plasterwork which Gerry informed me was known as pargetting. One, housing an estate agent and various chichi shops, was for sale. At £5m it seemed overpriced, even given the unusual decoration.

The street market had the usual collection of SWAG (Sold Without A Guarantee) tat. Gerry gleefully unearthed a DVD of Brideshead Revisited. A pall of grease hung over the street and we tracked the source to a wagon branded ‘Neil's Meals on Wheels’ and enjoyed 50p cups of tea. The vendor was unexpectedly well-informed about the town and keen to share his knowledge. The imposing station, he explained, was due to the flourishing brewing industry which had previously acquired ingredients by barge but on the demise of river traffic had to switch to the railways. It didn't seem an entirely convincing explanation. At his suggestion, we visited the castle. The outer wall dates from the eleventh century but the gatehouse, the only remaining building, has been rebuilt and except for a castellated tower, now resembles any other council offices touting for weddings and similar functions. Other buildings have been adapted to the modern world: the sturdy Victorian Bluecoat school buildings in the centre of the town are now luxury flats.

The walk along the New River, or as it should properly be known, the Old Canal, starts through an unprepossessing development of modern town houses and apartments catering to the increasing exodus from London with commuters into Liverpool Street week served by the elegant station. Dusk fell as we trudged along the river banks so we headed to the station at Broxbourne and resolved to continue the route another day.

Dozing in the train, I thought of the other end of the New River. On the way to its final destination at Sadler’s Wells, sections surface in north London in short linear parks where tranquil winding paths offer relief to crowded estates. In Clissold Park, an almost stagnant stretch hosts ducks and Canada geese, sources of endless entertainment to small children in buggies and frolicking dogs. Recent park refurbishment has included the provision of tennis courts, a skateboard rink and, curiously, a butterfly house. Inside the perimeter railing which separates park from pavement, a mile long running track has been fashioned. Periodically as it compacts to mulch it is refreshed with wood chips harvested from fallen trees. In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, it used to be my pleasure to run three or four circuits in the early morning and be rewarded with a hot shower and breakfast on Sally’s patio.