A STROLL ALONG THE THAMES

 

 When I'm in London I oft enjoy strolling by the silvery Thames -- this is not easy because the Thames is of a greeny/brown hue, and unless one wears special kinds of sunglasses this cannot be remedied -- this aside, one of my favourite walks is between Richmond & Chiswick.

 Thus on a fine, cold, sunny day in January of this year (2001) I set off, and was immediately assailed by a woman cyclist who turned out to be possessed of a Germanic accent and had fascinatingly uneven and protruding teeth. She asked me if she was on the correct path for Teddington, to which I replied that "Yes she WAS on the correct path to Teddington but......." and before I could continue she sped off. I called after her "but you're going in the WRONG direction!" but to no avail as she increased her muscular peddling onward towards Kew, oblivious to her fate.

 I crossed over the delightful Victorian footbridge at Richmond Lock where the tidal river is interfered with to suit enthusiasts of the Speckled Raven which inhabits the foreshore. These dark, uninteresting creatures have become a curiosity because of their placid, trusting nature, with the inevitable result that many of them have become stuffed ornaments for mock-Edwardian sitting rooms. They can also be eaten at several riverside pubs, though many of these have been specifically bred for the purpose and carefully moussled amid herb stews. A delicacy I have yet to sample.

 I crossed back over the bridge and continued on my cheery way, strolling purposefully onwards and admiring the fine clear views, especially the lake-like vistas of the saturated Deer Park. Occasionally I would fetch from my ample leather pockets a fistful of mognuts (like cashews but squishy inside and with a flavour resembling something between almonds & Epsom salts). A family came towards me, guarded on either side by juvenile cyclists veering savagely across the narrow pathway. They seemed oblivious to my presence. I moved to one side but was run over by the pedal fiends. I protested but was subjected to dismissive laughter. This didn't happen, but my paranoia feeds such thoughts into my head just to pollute my serenity (and, of course, to make me ready in case such an incident was to really happen along the route). I make note of several forms of protest:

"This is a public footpath not a place of execution!"

"Your children should be disciplined...........and then shot!"

"This sir is England, not pagan Rome!"

 I spied some activity outside a pub across the river at Isleworth, obviously a haunt of Saturday morning socialites getting together to fly kites and exchange bad dialogue. I eliminated them from my field of vision and pursued my way.

 Syon Park hoved into view then hoved out of it as I fell over. This happens to me increasingly - I am moving forwards looking ahead and downwards. Something draws my attention off to one side. I become disorientated and stumble, or sway dangerously in the direction of an old lady inflating a parasol. The old lady reels back, startled etc. etc. Fortunately, on this occasion no other pedestrians witnessed my fall and I picked myself up, wincing at my friction burns.

 Wildlife and the countryside go together. Dogs are not wildlife. They are supposedly tame creatures with a line in unpremeditated assault. They rush towards you in a flame of enthusiasm. The owner is oblivious to canine intent and ignores your cries of distress. You throw yourself headlong into some prickly bushes where the savage animal finds you and sinks its teeth into your protruding exterior. Let this be a warning to all those intent on sublime walks - take with you a "naughty dog correcting apparatus" such as that outlined elsewhere in my website. At only $59.99 it should be part of every walkers' kit.

 I contemplated making an illegal entry into the fabulous Kew Gardens which was fenced off to my right & guarded with a rather tame ditch, but thought better of it. Nothing much to see there at this time of year except in the stuffy greenhouses - a refuge for the Kew Green OAP's with their sodden sandwiches from Marks & Spankers and tea in tartan thermos flasks. There they sit amid fens & misty cyclads talking about Alf's hernia operation or Caroline's visit to the Bahamas where she contracted food poisoning by eating a woefully undercooked guinea fowl, but the sauce was absolutely delicious and made with some congealed fruit only found on 1 island in the Bahamas group but now has become so saturated with tourists that the government is thinking of shutting it down and growing dinosaurs on a farm......apparently they can grow dinosaurs from bits of fluff trapped in the fossilised ears of ancient pigs....but I was telling Deardre only yesterday that they can't look after the animals already on the planet now, without making more of them, and what do they want BIG animals for when little cuddly ones are much nicer, and the children can cuddle them without having their hands bitten clean offf.......

 And so to Brentford! HaHa, my little joke. Brentford! Don't make me laugh. Why on earth would I cross over Kew Bridge to visit Brentford? I couldn't think of any reason so I crossed over Kew Bridge and entered a little cafe near the railway station to fill my rumbling gut with a bacon sandwich (which was made with margarine unforgivably), and a cup of strong tea in a mug displaying the logo of Brentford Football Club - a silver elephant disporting itself in an isosceles triangle amid a thrashy pink quarter folio bible-and-sun motif. Belching avidly I tipped the owner with a penny piece newly minted to specifications that the Soviets can only dream about in their vodka singed hermitages and left the establishment. That was a good reason to visit Brentford, I quipped amiably to myself as I crossed over the busy bridge road and descended the steps to the waterside at the start of the magical Strand On The Green a parade of ancient riverside dwellings accessed by a narrow riverside footpath. Many a photograph has been taken of it as representing the charm of the metropolis. It is an area favoured by the stray cyclist and the Chiswick drunkard, an escape from the family and wailing kids, a haven for the river addict. Despite the cold, a flurry of idlers were siting outside the numerous pubs swilling pints of Old Necktie and chomping on the innards of speckled raven. I entered one of these olde worlde inns at random, one entitled The Duke Of Chiswick and immediately crashed my head against a low wooden beam. The locals chortled. I ordered a coffee and sat at the window seat to sippeth it at my leisure whilst rivuletting my attention on the watery scene outside. The gamey smell of charred speckled raven drove me away in time but not before I admired some nice old hand coloured prints on the wall which celebrated the Chiswick of the Eighteenth Century, a time when Dr Johnson & a party of his avid followers (not including James Boswell who was recovering from the clap again) sailed up the river and alighted at the charming resort of Chesiwick where they stuffed themselves with oysters & fetid pig entrails and debated the nature of womankind, whom Dr Johnson forcibly insisted were mere apparel for the betterment of mankind, but were truly delicious and handsome creatures so long as they knew their place in the scheme of things. Goldsmith concurred and praised Dr Johnson's ability to get at the knubby of a difficult topic.

 I continued along footway past the splendid houses and admired the clear views of the river. I did a little jig as I went along to warm myself up a bit. Too soon I had to head off towards the railway station along banal streets that could have been anywhere in England. On the platform waiting for the delayed train (points failure at Willesden Junction) a little girl was endlessly replaying the "happy birthday" tune inside her birthday card. Everyone around her was giving her lots of attention, the cute little girl on her birthday. Standing next to me she paused silently and remained intent on me for a full minute until I looked at her and smiled. She smiled back and played her music again. The train pulled into the station and we all got on.