February 5, 1995: Golders Green to Finsbury Park
Hampstead Heath’s Kenwood
Encouraged by promises of temperatures in the mid-fifties, the Lees and the Linicks agreed to undertake an eight-mile walk on Sunday, February 5, – utilizing Bob Gilbert’s book on the Green London Way. It was our third walk on this circular tour of London’s parkland, and today’s jaunt had, to this point, the distinction of being the earliest date for a walk in my hiking history – beating by a week a walk along the Thames that I had taken with Chuck Sidman in 1989.
Dorothy, Toby and I waited for about fifteen minutes outside the West Kilburn post office before a 28 bus roared up at 9:50. The driver was losing no time in his relentless dash for home base and a nervous Toby never relaxed on my knees. His presence discomfited a fellow passenger in a wool cap –who changed seats to get away from the dog’s presence. We arrived at 10:10 and the Lees soon emerged from the underground station. Everybody but Toby and I went to the loos in the station before we could begin our walk at 10:15.
Because Gilbert’s route takes the walker through the Hill Garden, forbidden to dogs, I had decided to substitute my own plan for the beginning of this walk through what is essentially home territory for us. The route used was one I had devised as a parkland charity walk (never used) for the American College in London some years earlier. Because I wanted to test my abilities as a guidebook writer I prevailed on Harold to test my typescript. We were soon off and the text, as read aloud by Harold, seemed to hold up pretty well. West Heath Avenue had a street sign (one had been missing when I planned the route) and the name Golders Hill Park no longer appeared at the duck pond entrance – but we were soon over these obstacles and Toby had been unleashed to begin a day of sniffing and trotting. Jan Gillespie, the middle school associate principal, jogged by us just as we began to head uphill – accompanied by two of her dogs.
A fallen log was no longer rotting at a junction further up the hill, but this was not an impediment either. Soon we had ascended as high as the Hill Garden and within a few minutes we were at Jack Straw’s Castle at the top of the hill – and using zebra crossings to make our way over to Hampstead Heath proper. My instructions were easy to follow here, though we should have abandoned them by the time we drew opposite Kenwood. I was deep in conversation with Tosh about the book order budget in the English Department and I missed a turnoff; we headed downhill when we should have crossed over in front of Kenwood and we had circumnavigated the wood itself before escaping at the east side of the grounds. Here too I was a bit uncertain as to directions, and the consequence was that once again we descended too far on the east side of the Heath, making our escape from dog heaven at Merton Lane instead of higher up the hill, as Gilbert had intended.
One reason I didn’t particularly care about losing time at this point was that I was hoping to have us stop in some Highgate pub for lunch – and I knew none of these would open before noon on a Sunday. We pulled up at the Flask at about 11:45 and asked a lad who was sweeping the forecourt if dogs would be admitted. When he said no we continued up to the village and I lead my group to a shrine on Southwood Lane, the offices of my urologist, Ronald Miller. We continued north on this street but I sensed we were soon leaving Highgate and so I used Park Walk to head back to the Wrestlers Inn – which I had read abut in the guidebook. They were just unlocking their doors and yes, they did take dogs. Indeed, we were followed into the establishment by a chap with a giant Old English Sheep Dog on lead.
We had a nice leisurely lunch; everyone drank a pint while the girls ate ploughmans, Harold had cod and chips and I had a beefburger with cheese and bacon. There was a comforting laidback atmosphere here, only interrupted once when the two dogs exchanged barks (the OES started it!). We had a final cup of coffee and got up at about 1:15. Outside it remained grey and damp, through there was no moisture. I don’t think it ever got near 12 degrees, as promised, and, in retrospect, it probably wasn’t such a good idea for Dorothy to spend so much time in the damp air. She was midway between two bouts of respiratory infection.
After lunch we retraced our steps to Southwood Lane and began to follow Gilbert’s directions in earnest. I had re-typed most of these on a single sheet of paper, which was more convenient to carry in my pocket than the entire book. We were walking in a part of London that was now entirely new to us. As we neared the bottom of a hill we were directed onto three suburban streets, The Park, Bloomfield Road, and Bishops Road. Deep into the People’s Republic of Haringey we passed a courthouse and crossed the busy Archway Road at a pelican crossing.
On the opposite side we entered Highgate Woods, but it wasn’t easy to figure out which exit to take onto Muswill Hill Road – and we had to backtrack a bit on this in order to reach a likely looking entrance into Queen’s Wood. I was encouraged by the sight of a paddling pool on our right but when we reached the back of some houses there did not seem to be a convenient spot for turning right along the fence. Indeed the only fenced path headed left and crossed another suburban street. Unfortunately I was tempted to take this route (assuming I was at the spot where Gilbert advises us to “Cross Queens Wood Road and follow the path straight ahead.” I was, I can now see, crossing the right road – but much too far to the north. The inviting walkway on the other side did give us a wonderful view of Alexandra Palace above us on a hillside – but by the time we reached the end of the tarmac path I knew we were seriously off-route and that I had would have to consult my A-to-Z as soon as I could see some street names.
We were at the corner of Park Road and Park Avenue South. My walking companions didn’t even know we had lost our way and I was just as glad to conceal this fact and save an ear bashing on the subject of extra walking. I turned us in a southeasterly direction, utilizing the pavements along Park Road. We passed a municipal pool and a school and turned right on Woolsey Road. A steep uphill climb followed as the street name changed to Shepherd’s Hill. On Coolhurst Road we turned left again, descending into deepest Crouch End. I was on the lookout for the narrow ribbon of greenery known as the Parkland Walk, hoping to climb aboard at a point slightly after its start, making up a little for lost time. We turned right just before the bridge that carried the walkway over Coolhurst Road – since I thought there might be an entrance off Claremont Road. I should have kept going and found an entrance off Coolhurst. We walked another long block along Claremont, heading in a direction opposite to the one we wanted, before reaching Northwood Road. Here I found an entrance up to the embankment that carried the Parkland Walk – and we headed east for Finsbury Park.
We should have had an uninterrupted progress of several miles but bridge construction at Crouch Hill Road required us to abandon the walkway and take to a parallel street for a while, Blythewood Road. When this walkway came to an end and a bridge over the railway line lead into Finsbury Park (the park not the village) I should have taken this and walked south in greenery. Instead I chose to stay on the west side of the tracks, returning to urban squalor along Woodstock Road. When we reached Stroud Green Road we were not far from the tube station and we were soon aboard a Piccadilly Line train heading south. It was 3:30 and we had had enough of pavements, grey skies, and detours.
We said goodbye to the Lees in Piccadilly Station and transferred to a northbound Bakerloo train. A tired Toby sat in Dorothy’s lap as we watched in horror while half a dozen punks slurped at bottles and rolled around on their seats. One spent most of the time on his back in the central aisle. Later, to deepen our dismay, the crew got off at Maida Vale and preceded us up the escalator. The prone one also decided to lie down on the escalator risers. Unfortunately he was urged to resume a standing posture just before reaching the top. “What a pity,” I said, “I was hoping for some form of decapitation.”
A car had crashed on Elgin Avenue, giving the punks something to celebrate. Toby managed one last poo on Grantully and sank into a deep snooze as soon as we were home. He was quite stiff that evening, but Dorothy gave him an aspirin and he seemed fine the next day.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: