September 1, 2004: Cockfosters to Enfield Lock
Trent Country Park
A very rainy August (and the Lees’ usual catalogue of schedule conflicts and double-booking) meant that we did not return to the trail until some two months after our eventful Dales Way walk. By this time, Harold, hospitalized after a serious fall on the first day of that expedition, reported that he felt well enough to venture onto the trail again – and I chose a short day in case he needed to depart early. In the event he did quite well and we were very happy to see him back among us.
I picked the Cockfosters to Enfield Lock section of the LOOP for our outing this day, a warm and sunny Wednesday, the first day of September. Dorothy took Fritz to the park and I slipped out behind them at 9:00, heading for the Maida Vale tube stop. There was a delay on the Bakerloo line, something about an injured train at Baker Street, and we sat for about five minutes as our car got hotter and hotter. At Piccadilly I switched to the eastbound Piccadilly Line – beginning an endless journey to its eastern terminus, Cockfosters. About six stations from my goal I looked up at the other passengers in the almost empty car and discovered that the Lees had been at the other end, buried in their newspapers, all this time.
We used loos at the station and I told Tosh how it was that I knew so much about this place – having picked up puppy Fritz from our breeder outside this station a year ago June – when I even saw LOOP signs across the street. We didn’t have to cross Cockfosters Road today, turning right almost immediately to find a grassy enclave between the station car park and a cemetery – which we followed in an easterly direction (the dominant line of march today) until we had reached open countryside, where we turned left for some walking in woods. Starting time was about 10:20.
I was paying close attention to my guidebook, which proved to be quite useful today, but this Enfield section of the route also seemed to be well waymarked – not something you could say about all of the stages by any means. While we walked along I reviewed the last day of our summertime Dales Way walk – with all of its frustrations – for Harold, and then continued on to discuss our next major walking project. I reviewed a number of options, including the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, the Cleveland Way and the Alternative Pennine Way before suggesting we next attempt the first half of Paul Hannon’s Westmorland Way. The Lees agreed.
We encountered the first of the day’s berry pickers as we reached the road into Trent Country Park, where there were lots of people and dogs enjoying one of the best days of the summer. Woodland walking provided some relief from the sun but I found the woods to be quite dull, with little of interest in terms of undergrowth or wildflowers. We crossed over the head of a lake and climbed a hill, turning in a northwesterly direction to emerge onto a busy road. An obelisk of 1702 was off to our left, a monument erected purely for visual interest by the proprietors of Trent House, now part of the Middlesex University campus – a monument to itself.
A short westward dogleg (I told the Lees I always like walking in the exact opposite direction of my goal) brought us to a path heading north downhill to the Salmon Brook, where we were at last allowed to resume our eastward trod. The topic of conversation was once again India, which Dorothy and I would visit in November – with the Lees providing lots of advice. We were making really good time and as we crossed the brook on a bridge I sort of slowed things down with a standing rest – with views of the hamlet of Botany Bay on the skyline of the Ridgeway to our north.
We eventually turned left to climb a flank of Cuckolds Hill, nearing the Ridgeway Road ourselves, but the LOOP actually uses woodland paths parallel to this highway and here we found a large number of volunteers sawing and clearing and improving the path. There was equipment everywhere, including that needed for the inevitable brew-up. Then there was a little road walking (we used the verge) at the end of this stretch – with the large complex that was the Royal Chase Hotel before us. We pulled in at about 12:20 and headed into the King’s Bar.
The surroundings were a bit posher than we are accustomed to and the bar girl didn’t want us to sit at a booth that was supposedly reserved (no one ever came), but we found a comfortable table and ordered our drinks. I drank a pint and a half of lager. The Lees had half pints followed by coffee; they ate sandwiches, I had scampi and chips. I presented to Tosh the latest version of her official walking records – “Tosh at 2300” and announced that we were also celebrating my 3700th mile on British footpaths.
We were in the place for an hour or so, and there weren’t too many others about (one drug rep was on the phone at a nearby booth throughout the session). After we had paid (and failed to receive our 10% seniors discount) and used the loos we returned to the bright sunlight (Harold and I now in shorts) – waiting a long time to cross the Ridgeway and then making a quite sharp turn onto a track down to Rectory Farm. Here we encountered for the first time the Turkey Brook (“Salmon, Turkey,” I said, “when do we get to Roast Beef Brook?”). On this first meeting we merely crossed the stream, climbing uphill past the Red House toward the shelter of some more woodland. Boys on bicycles came up behind us. They were pulling on their Cokes when we reached our next junction, a meeting of two litter-strewn lanes.
We headed east again, passing factories on our right and a suburban development on our left and turned back toward the brook in Hilly Fields Park. This we did on a metaled path that ran along the side of a tilted football pitch (sharply favoring the southbound team) and reaching the stream, which we crossed. There was a little ambiguity about when to leave the waterside (a sign having gone missing for once) but I guessed right and we marched uphill a bit before leveling off and heading for the distant Rose and Crown pub.
After crossing a road we continued along the south bank of the stream, with one or two ambiguous moments requiring close scanning of the OS maps in Sharp’s book. As we neared the New River we met a man with two overstuffed Dalmatians. He, too, was picking berries, though he said he didn’t eat many. We also encountered more boys on bicycles; this lot were trying to ride in the stream bed itself. Fishermen were sitting at the side of a narrow slit of a pond. At the next road junction our wooden footbridge over the brook had been closed – but there were other ways forward, with Turkey Brook still as accompaniment. I must say that some of this scrubland was rather substandard walking territory, but I was enjoying the exercise at least. A good place for the latter came with the surmounting of a pedestrian walkway – high above the next road.
We passed the modest burial sites of a crematorium on our right and then beneath a railway bridge to emerge into one of Enfield’s stretches of suburban sprawl. Tosh had announced that she wanted to stop at the next pub and a dogleg to the right put us on Turkey Street and here we found the Turkey pub. Tosh wanted a Coke with lots of ice but there was none to be had – as the ice machine was broken. I had a Diet Coke – at least these drinks came from the chill cabinet.
I had told the Lees that trains left from Enfield Lock station at 14 and 44 minutes past each hour and that we needed at least twenty minutes to reach the station so we took off at 3:20 or so and I lead a fast-paced march through the rather downmarket streets of Enfield Wash, first on Turkey Street itself, then, after a jog to the left, on St. Stephens Road. A kid on the smallest of motor scooters (also the noisiest) was coming across the grass of Albany Park as we neared a pedestrian bridge over our railway line. Here we turned north on a suburban street of no great charm, walking away from the LOOP to emerge at the corner – where a brief left turn put us onto the platform of the Enfield Lock Station. It was 3:43.
Our train was a couple of minutes late but soon we were aboard, passing Ponders End and the Scrabble Factory. When I reported another factory (this one with the legend “personalized thongs”) Tosh said, “I could use some of those.” This certainly puzzled me – and Harold had a most quizzical expression. “I saw some in Italy, they were supposed to be on sale, but they were still too expensive,” she continued. At this point I had to ask, “Are you talking about underwear or footwear?” Of course she was talking about the latter; my factory produced the former. We arrived in Liverpool Street at about 4:10 and I said goodbye when Tosh went off to buy another paper. I took the Metropolitan Line as far as Baker Street and by 4:55 I was home.
Our next walk on the Loop was a continuation of the route from Enfield: