London - Harlow Mill - England, England [and a little bit of Wales]

August 17, 2007

London - Harlow Mill

Where Mistress Poole and Master Jennings finally take leave of the Great Wen and find Lodgings by a Mill Pond in the Countie of Essex.

We might have left the day before, but were badly delayed by indecision in regard to packing, so postponed our departure. Better prepared now, we were on our way at around 10-30am. I had a print out from the TfL web site to help to guide us through the traffic to the Lea Valley cycle path. TfL, Transport for London, is the umbrella organisation for all of London's transport operators. They also provide journey planning options for cyclists on their enquiry page. http://www.tfl.gov.uk/

Nevertheless, we were on main roads for most of the way to Clapton, where we joined NCR 1, ie. national cycle route 1. This designated long distance route starts in Dover and ends in Edinburgh. I'd be very surprised if anyone has ridden the full distance. The UK has a network of cycle routes, not all of which are off road. They are occasionally useful, often frustrating. A sharp eye out for the signing is essential. http://www.sustrans.org.uk/

From Clapham North we took the main A3 road to London Bridge. It's possible to take refuge in bus lanes for a lot of this stretch.

The gold-topped Monument to the Fire of London, from London Bridge.

What the City of London is about. Nat-West tower in front of Swiss Rei building[the gherkin]

Our TfL route directed us past Liverpool Street bus station, the exit from which was blocked off by a temporary fence. We could have unloaded the bikes and lifted them over, but considered that to be too labour-intensive and so made to ride around. An officious bus-inspector, with a South African accent informed me of the peril I was in, by placing myself near a bus. I don't take kindly to being nurse-maided around my own city. That and his accent [they still sound like white supremacists to me] combined to set off a volley of abuse in his direction. 'I've been riding round this city for more than 30 fucking years. I don't need some fucking dozy foreigner to tell me how to go about it.' On the other hand could it be something in the air in the vicinity of Liverpool St. station? Last year on our way out to Stansted airport, I had a slightly less abusive row with a black cab driver.

Bishopsgate Tower, under construction. From Liverpool St.

We continued north-east through Bethnal Green and Hackney to Dalston, where we took a small diversion for a photograph of Ridley Rd. market. This is still a comparatively poor part of London. I briefly worked here a few years ago and one lunch-time, after eating in a local cafe [25% cheaper than SW London} I took a stroll around the locality and came across Ridley Rd. market, or to put it another way, accidentally stumbled into what seemed to be Kumasi or Kinshasa. There were piles of second hand clothes for sale on the footpath, yam and plaintain on the stalls. Today, the market seems more sanitised, [and more Turkish]. The green sign in the photograph shows Hackney, the local borough, council's approach. It is now Ridley Rd. World Market. We joined cycling's Great North Route at Clapton, from where we could forget about city traffic for the day. The river Lea has been canalised to allow for navigation by barge [narrow boats]. In fact where rivers have been so engineered the watercourses are referred to as "Navigations", so we were following the Lea [or Lee] Navigation. This was done originally for reasons of commerce, but today little cargo is carried on the canal system. Narrow boat holidays are popular and ensure the waterways are kept open, but not with Barbara or me.

Columbia Road, Bethnal Green E2. A flower market is held here on Sundays.

Clapton Pond, destination of the 35 bus.

It's possible to cycle along the adjoining towpaths of a large part of the canal system and when we stopped for tea at the Riverside cafe, still in Clapton, we met an enthusiast. "Have you ridden the Basingstoke canal?" he asked us during the course of our conversation. This guy's nuts, I thought. "From here you can ride all the way to Bishop's Stortford," he said. "Oh really." I tried to feign a little interest. I should not have been so dismissive.

I should add here that we have occasionally ridden on canal towpaths. They are often rough, you have to negotiate roach poles [very long fishing rods. We once rode right through a fishing match]and gates to keep out motorcycles and though they're obviously flat, canal scenery can become tedious. Also, Barbara fears losing concentration and plunging into the water.

The Riverside Cafe [that's its name], Clapton

Willow weeping over bike-path, Tottenham Hale N17

Empty gas-holder at Edmonton. The blue shed is a branch of IKEA

Tea-break over, we continued northwards until hunger got to us at Ponders End lock. As we ate, we watched a slow series of narrow boats negotiate the lock. Ponders End lock gates are electrically operated, so instead of hand-winching them open, crews have only to press a button. In one instance, a middle-aged woman left the boat to open the gates. Her husband stayed aboard to steer the vessel through. He brought the boat back to shore some way upstream. "Your husband's sailing away," I suggested. " I should be so lucky," she said. Happy holidays.

Sustrans initiated sculpture, Ponders End lock.

Close to a new housing developement near Waltham Abbey, with the higher ground of Epping Forest visible on our right, we lost the path for a while. I missed a direction sign. I rode up to the main road between Waltham Abbey and Sewardstone, then turned back. A brief word about Sewardstone, Essex; on the fringe of the Forest, it is the only place with a London postcode, which is not part of a London borough. Tell all your friends.

A man was walking his dog. We asked directions. he was very informative: About the nearby military firing range, now a nature reserve, the 24 hour supermarket warehouse facility, new houses built on marshland and now subsiding, his work, the weather, German popes and political instability in Abkhazia. [sorry I made the last two up.] His directions were good though. Between Clapton and our destination for the night this was the only time we had to ride on a road.

We found the entrance to the River Lea Country Park and continued northwards in more rural surroundings. The path north of the country park wanders around reclaimed gravel pits and we had to ask directions to be sure of getting back onto the riverside track. Somewhere near Cheshunt, I booked a hotel for the night, at Harlow Mill, by mobile phone. I was given directions by the receptionist. They didn't sound too inviting, involving busy main roads in the rush-hour. I looked at the map for a while. Our conversation with the towpath enthusiast earlier in the day came back to me. "If you can ride along the river bank to Bishops Stortford, then you can ride to Harlow," I thought. I was still slightly sceptical.

Lea Valley country park, Waltham Abbey, Essex.

Former lock-keeper's cottage, one of many.

Before Broxbourne, I helped two young guys change a tube after a puncture, [they seemed unfamiliar with the procedure] while Barbara observed a nearby angler catch a small fish. I'd been to Broxbourne once before, fishing. Back in the seventies I occasionally accompanied a friend of mine, who was a keen angler, on his fishing expeditions. One of those brought us all the way from South London to Broxbourne. It was winter and after a mild spell, the weather had turned cold. Evidentally, a sudden change of weather puts the fish off their food. We sat on the river bank all day and caught nothing. Or rather, my friend sat on the river bank all day, while I, after an hour or so of shivering, walked up and down the bank, sympathising with other anglers, who had also caught nothing, then went to the pub for a barley wine.

A couple of weeks later, my friend asked me again if I fancied going back to Broxbourne for another attempt. Some variation of "You must be fucking joking," was my short reply.

He was keen and went anyway and for company took a workmate of ours and the guy who lived in the flat above me. Their day was cut short. Chris, the workmate spotted something unusual in the water, a large, at first unidentifiable shape. A crew of rowers directed it to the shore with their oars. It was a corpse. The police were called.

It emerged that the body was that of an Irish building worker, who had stopped off in the pub, [the one where I'd had my barley wine] some days before and after leaving, lost his footing on the riverbank and landed in the water. Chris, also Irish and a building worker took it badly.

Back in the more recent past, the sun was out now and the site of the grisly fishing excursion had a more benign appearance. The light rippled in the branches of the weeping willows, a narrow boat was being returned to the hire depot, ducks and coots were contentedly paddling.

At Broxbourne

Rye House power station, Hoddesdon, Hertfordshire.

Near Hoddesdon a small sign indicated the change of direction for the River Stort Navigation towpath. We crossed a bridge over the Lea and tracked down the new track. This was a much rougher and narrower path, but still rideable.

Across the river from the campsite at Roydon we slowed down to negotiate our way through a group of narrow-boaters, [men, women, kids and dangerous-looking dogs] who were enjoying a beer in the late afternoon sun. They gave the impression that it wasn't their first of the day. The men were burly with cropped hair and strong London accents [could have been scaffolders]. We stopped to talk. I asked the owner of the boat if he was permanently moored there. " No, I've just got back from Burton-on-Trent."
"That's quite a distance on a narrow boat." I said. "I go all over the place. Do you want a beer?" I thought for a while, declined, then wished I hadn't. A rest by the river bank with a beer in my hand began to seem attractive. I would have had some interesting pictures too. The boat owner spoke again. "Yeah, up in the Midlands, we went through a tunnel of Rhodedendrons about half a mile long. Right over our heads." "They looked rough, but they were nice," said Barbara, as we rode off.

At Roydon station we came across a temporary, steel-wire fence, blocking the route, while river-bank reinforcement work was taking place. A small map of an alternative route was posted by the obstruction, but a young angler told us it was possible to ride through and helped us over the fence with our bikes. I took his picture. He'd walked there from Harlow and he was right, though the path was a little rougher than comfortable, at the location of the works.

Angler on the River Stort, Roydon, Essex

We passed Harlow railway station, while still following the course of the river; to our left open country, to our right the station and beyond, the New Town. Harlow was one of four such developments [the others are Bracknell, Crawley and Stevenage] planned and built in the 1960s, as Britain dragged itself out of post-war austerity, offering Londoners [mainly] a bright new future in the rural hinterland. {Stevenage has a fully integrated network of two-lane cycle paths]

We, though, were bound for Old Harlow. The riverside path became narrower and bumpier now, but still just ridable. I pulled ahead of Barbara and on reaching the busy Cambridge road, was pleasantly surprised to find that our hotel was named after an erstwhile watermill, just across the River Stort.

I checked in with the receptionist, who had given me directions over the phone. "We didn't come by road," I said, "We came by river."

We ate at the adjoining pub/restaurant, before sleep.

Bed for the night, Premier Travel Inn, Harlow Mill, Essex

Today's ride: 70 km (43 miles)
Total: 70 km (43 miles)

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