Thursday, 20 November 2025

Walking Across The Mountain Of Tongues.

I like a walk. I love a walk sometimes. I very much enjoy a walking project. I've done Offa's Dyke Path, the London LOOP, and the Capital Ring, and I'm more than halfway along the Thames Path. Some of those walks are nearly two hundred miles long but Tom Parfitt's walk from Sochi on the edge of the Black Sea to Derbent on the Caspian Sea knocks all of my walks into a cocked hat.

It's one thousand miles long to begin with (it took Parfitt about three and a half months which is a fairly impressive clip) but it also passes through some of the most unstable regions of Russia. The Caucasus. A very specific part of Russia, a part of Russia that hasn't always wanted to be part of Russia (and in some instances still does not), and a part of Russia where, during Parfitt's walk, guerrilla warfare was still ongoing. It is, in the words of many, "bandit country".

I was at The Horse and Groom on Great Portland Street (a Sam Smith's pub where a pint of pure brewed organic lager will set you back an eye watering £8.20, didn't Sam Smith's used to be famously cheap?) where the Sohemian Society have set up their new home. A counter to the extortionate beer prices (I only had one pint) is that the function room is spacious and comfy, a vast improvement on the function room of The Fitzroy Tavern where so many non-attendees were allowed in you could hardly hear the speakers.

Rather than a talk, or lecture, the evening was set out as a conversation with the articulate, knowledgeable, and occasionally humorous Tom Parfitt and fellow author and Sohemian Paul Willetts (Willetts wrote Members Only:The Life and Times of Paul Raymond which was later made into a film directed by Michael Winterbottom and starring Steve Coogan). Parfitt has worked as Moscow correspondent for The Times, The Guardian, and The Daily Telegraph and lived in Russia for twenty years. His wife is Russian and his son is half-Russian. He loves the country so it was with no small amount of sadness that he had to leave it in 2022 when, following Putin's invasion of Ukraine, it became unsafe for him to remain.

The tragedy of Ukraine, however, was yet to come when Parfitt set out on his epic walk, which he later wrote about in a book (a book I actually bought and got signed by the author) called High Caucasus:A Mountain Quest in Russia's Haunted Hinterland). Instead it was another horrific event that, in part, inspired the walk. The Beslan school siege of 2004.

Parfitt had arrived in Russia in 2002 and that was a time when there was active Islamist insurgency in some the regions of the Caucasus, not least in Chechnya where there had been more than one actual war. It's worth delving a little bit into history and remembering that many of these regions were, historically, the home of Muslim people but were invaded and conquered by Russia in the 19th century. Hundreds of thousands of people died. Later, during World War II, many from Chechnya and Ingushetia were forcibly expelled to the Central Asian regions (now countries in their own right) of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan.

Understandably, some were not happy about this. Less understandably, in September 2004 the Riyad-us Saliheen Brigade of Martyrs, as Islamist force of suicide attackers, took over one thousand hostages (pupils, parents, teachers) at School Number One in the small town of Beslan in the republic of North Ossetia-Alania. Parfitt was called to cover the story and as we all know now the story did not end well.

It ended with the death of 334 people, 186 of them children, and is still, despite valiant efforts from America, the deadliest school shooting in all history. After the siege ended, Parfitt - who had been there - couldn't get it out of his mind. He was haunted by nightmares and kept replaying one terrible image over and over in his mind. A young mother collapsing in grief on hearing that her child was one of the casualties.

He needed to get these horrors out of his mind, he needed time to think, and he needed to understand the region in more depth. To understand how so much blood and horror can come from the region's soil. So he decided he would walk one thousand miles from the Black Sea to the Caspian Sea through many of the regions of the Caucasus.

If nothing else it would be an adventure. There may, he thought, even be a book in it. That'd worked for Eric Newby who wrote 1958's A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush. As a foreign correspondent he was called upon to report the news but rarely got a chance to go deeper into the story, to add historical context, to add personal context even. He checked the Foreign Office advice and they said, basically, don't do it, don't go there.

Which he ignored and speaking now he's glad he ignored that advice. He found his walk both liberating and enlightening though he was, at the same time, rather keen to avoid the nature cure trope. Something he expressed deep suspicion of. He said he never wanted to read, or even see, another book about wild swimming. I couldn't help thinking of recent controversies relating to the disputed narrative of Raynor Winn's The Salt Path.

Parfitt saw, and sees, walking as a method of discovery. A walking book not as an instruction manual but a chance for the author to learn and pass that learning on to their readers. Walking alone you are vulnerable, you're almost always present in the moment, and you simply have to engage with whatever it is you're presented with. There is no escape and Parfitt, who had long been interested in travel writing (although was conscious of the big colonial shadow that hangs over much it), was being a purist about it. He was, most nights - unless offered hospitality, sleeping in a tent and was refusing to take public transport or lifts except on one occasion when his own safety pretty much demanded it.

Which in 'bandit country' is perhaps hardly surprising. Parfitt, who can speak Russian and knew the country pretty well, considered his walk a calculated risk despite the guerrilla warfare and the organised crime. He knew that hospitality often went hand in hand with ideas of honour and military prowess and on his walk he found many families that insisted he stay with them and refused any offer of money for their services. Guests and visitors, in the Caucasus, are to be treated with the utmost respect.

During some sections of the walk he travelled with a local man who knew the mores of the area though, it turned out, rarely knew what roads of paths they should take. At another point, he needed to consult with the tourism minister of Dagestan. Not a particularly busy job you'll have probably surmised and indeed it was not but the tourism minister proved helpful to Parfitt as did two other unlikely specimens.

In the disputed state of Abkhazia, Parfitt stayed overnight in a forest with a man he believed to be a local hermit but who, instead, turned out to be a murderer called The Wolf who was on the run and hitting the booze big time. Parfitt was also arrested in Abkhazia under suspicion of being a Georgian spy. The man who arrested him told him he could stay at his house overnight and he would be treated like a prince but also let him know that as soon as he left his house in the morning he should watch his back.

These are the sort of cultural differences that are hard for a British person to understand but Parfitt found that alcohol was a great leveller although when he offered some locals some rather special whisky he was disheartened when they glugged it down like a fifty pence bottle of vodka. During last night's talk Parfitt didn't really get to talk about how the walk ended but he did talk about having to leave Russia in 2022 and what he's been up to since.

Despite being scared of bears and terrible at reading maps, he's now investigating the boreal forests of Alaska, Canada, and, soon - hopefully, northern Russia. Parfitt wholeheartedly and unreservedly condemns what Putin has done to Ukraine and what he is doing to Russia but, of course, the people of Russia and the country itself are not to blame. Even those that support Putin mainly do so because of the propaganda pumped out by the country's client media.

I'd love to visit Russia one day but I know that day is unlikely to come anytime soon so for now it was lovely to hear about someone's incredible travels in that country. A Q&A took in wolves, avalanches, Tolstoy, Pushkin, Orientalism, and the rather bizarre practice of catching frogs and dressing them up in little uniforms to generate rainfall.

Parfitt also mentioned how the Arabs refer to the Caucasus as "the mountain of tongues" because so many languages are spoken in the region. Over fifty. More, some say, than all of the rest of Europe. The geography, the language, the politics, and the history of the region are all fascinating, if often bloody. I'd like to study them all in more depth. Last night's talk was really interesting (and I hope I've done it some justice here) but I think the book will be even better and can't wait to get started on it.

Thanks to The Horse and Groom (except for the £8+ pint), the Sohemian Society, and Paul Willetts for a great evening but thanks, primarily, to Tom Parfitt for an amazing talk about an amazing walk. It's got me thinking about big future projects but first let's get to the source of the Thames




Sunday, 16 November 2025

Standing On Top Of London:A Walk To Westerham Heights.

Sometimes it's about the journey more than it is about the destination. And yesterday's walk to the highest point in all London, Westerham Heights in the borough of Bromley, was most definitely a case of that. There's not a lot to see there. Even less if you get then when it's already dark. There's a garden centre which, obviously, I didn't go in. There's a nearby Indian restaurant which, perhaps more surprisingly, I also didn't go on. And, fifteen minutes away, there's a pub. Which, predictably, I did go in.


Just for one, mind. There's a Wikipedia page devoted to the highest points in all of London and towering above all others you can find Westerham Heights. At 245 metres (804ft) high it's got a good lead on second place Sanderstead Plantation in Croydon (175 metres) and bronze medal winner Stanmore Hill (Harrow, 152 metres) but it doesn't actually feel that high.

I walked from my front door (as planned) and it took five hours and forty seven minutes (not including my brunch stop) but what was remarkable was that at no point did I feel I walked up a steep hill. I mean, I live quite high up as it is but nowhere near as high as Westerham Heights. I must have been walking up gradual inclines almost all day although it rarely even felt like that.

The only building in London higher than Westerham Heights is, at 306 metres, the Shard so there would have been people higher up than me yesterday at teatime but not many and I was certainly the highest up person, ever so briefly, on London land for a few minutes for the first time ever. Was it worth it? Yes, I both enjoyed the day and felt a sense of achievement in reaching a destination that the Internet had informed me was 13.9 miles from my front door.

I left home at 10.42am and almost immediately my mum rang for her regular weekend catch up call (usual subjects:ours, and everybody else's, health concerns) and I ended up speaking to her as I cut behind the Horniman Gardens and into and through Forest Hill. I'd actually planned so make my brunch stop in one of the regular cafes in Forest Hill but as I was chatting thought I'd pick somewhere up later.

I did too - and it was a great discovery. On Perry Vale and still, just, in my home postcode of SE23, I came across the Forest Cafe & Bistro which I'd never noticed before. Perhaps it's new. I don't come down this way often but it's hardly uncharted territory. It looked quite posh but they had a very agreeable menu so I took a very tasty plate of scrambled egg on toast and a cup of tea and read about Sara Cox who, at the age of 50, has just run five marathons to raise over £9,000,000 for Children In Need. Suddenly my walk didn't seem quite so daunting and better still there was still no rain yet.



The forecast hadn't been overly positive but I only got about half an hour of drizzle at the end of the day so I was happy with that. My friend Colin had suggested that I was to give up and seek the solace of a cosy pub nobody would think less of me. First temptation came straight after leaving the cafe when I noticed a new pub in SE23.

The Stuffed Walrus (named for the celebrated marine mammal of the Horniman Museum) is on the site of a former, long closed, pub - The Prince of Wales - and it looked pretty inviting. But I knew if I made a stop that early I'd be making more and probably not reach my destination. I decided I'd only make a pub stop if it absolutely pissed down. There'd be bushes and trees for me to wee up against and a pint could wait until it had been probably earned.


So I continued down into Bell Green and Lower Sydenham and along the Kangley Bridge Road industrial area where there wasn't much happening. A few people were working, driving forklifts, chatting on the phone, but mostly - it being a Saturday - everywhere was closed and quiet. 

At the end you come off on to a path that follows, for a while, for the course of the river Pool (a tributary of the Ravensbourne which is itself a tributary of the Thames) and this was a pleasant spot with wildlife left unspoiled so as to hopefully attract bees, butterflies, and invertebrates. People cycled and jogged through the canopy and it wasn't long before I came out on the edge of Cator Park.
















I took a photo but I didn't go in. My phone was telling me to take a zig-zag of roads through Beckenham so that's what I did. I'm rather fond of Beckenham and it was good to be back there for the first time since my David Bowie walk in August 2023. There were, of course, some tempting pubs in Beckenham too but my resolve, my steely resolve, held out and I headed down Village Way past the Croydon Road Recreation Ground where Bowie once played the bandstand and later wrote the song Memory Of A Free Festival about it.

This was a pretty suburban stretch, full of large and attractive semi-detached houses, and it continued in the same vein through Eden Park (where I stopped for a Crunchie and a bag of Discos) and into West Wickham and Coney Hall, passing at one point a Capital Ring sign and at another, later, point a London LOOP sign. Reminders of walks long gone now. Lovely memories.

There were even a brace of Egyptian geese, surprisingly far from any river or lake, an impressive church in St Edmund of Canterbury, an Art Deco Odeon cinema, and, most of all, leaves. Leaves, leaves, and more leaves. I enjoyed the feeling of the autumn leaves mulching around my walking boots as I plodded relentlessly to my destination.





















Not long after West Wickham, and near its common, I finally entered a part of London I'd never visited before and knew pretty much nothing about. I was probably about halfway and even after 29 years of living in London I am still astonished and just how vast this city is. I walked six hours from my home and was not only still in London, I was still still in south east London.

Incredible. There was one of those twee knitted hats on a postbox and there was a reminder of my mate Colin on Colin Close. There were people walking dogs, there were large poppies (and a few flags) on lamp posts, and there were decorative herons and flamingoes on people's lawns. And then there was ... well, nothing really. I hadn't reached the end of London but it felt very much like it.


















A single track lane with passing places and some cars speeding down it, Jackass Lane (and I'd have been a jackass to try that after dark), fields with cows in, and signs pointing down overgrown paths to Keston and the mysterious Nash. 

When I turned it to Blackness Lane there was a horse trotting very slowly behind me. I kept expecting it to overtake me but it seemed to be walking even slower than me and I reached the village of Leaves Green before the horse. Leaves Green is a place I'd not even been aware of before but it at least had paths (though nowhere near as many as it had flags) and it had a couple of pubs too which I made a mental note of it just in case. Signs pointed to Darwin's village of Downe and to Cudham but also, for the first time all day, Westerham.











Which was just as well as it was starting to rain (only a bit) and it was also starting to get darker. Leaves Green, and then Biggin Hill, and Aperfield if you wanna chuck that in for good measure, seemed to stretch on for miles. That's because they did stretch on for about three and a half miles but at least there were some nice aeroplanes to look at. As well as what appeared to be decommissioned former military buildings.

Formerly an RAF station, the airport now serves business and private passengers but is not permitted to carry regular fare paying passengers so it's unlikely you or I will ever find ourselves making use of it. There were restaurants, bars, and what looked like hotels there and they all looked a lot warmer and cosier than I was. As was appropriate when outside a former military base, I soldiered on. Not long now.























It was pitch black and the lights of the Aperfield Inn looked inviting but they also meant I was fifteen minutes from the end of my walk and it would have been daft to bail out there so I carried on to what is called Hawley's Corner (stopping to look at some nicely coloured wheelbarrows) and all of a sudden, if you can class a six hour walk as all of a sudden, there I was on the very top of London.
 
Near a garden centre and a road junction. What was more unexpected was that I wasn't even at the top of the hill. The hill continued upwards but as this was now classed as Kent it couldn't be the highest point of London. But, hey, I'd got up and walked all the way to Kent - the garden of England - and that deserved a pint so I walked back to the Aperfield Inn, roaring fire thankyou very much, had a pint of Peroni, charged my phone up, uploaded some snaps to Facebook, and read The Guardian.
 
I didn't walk back! I took a 246 bus to Bromley (stopping for another pint in the Richmal Crompton, a cavernous Spoons named for the Just William author) and a train to Crofton Park where I had another quick one in The Brockley Jack before walking home and notching up just over 40,000 steps for the day. It wasn't as much fun as a TADS walk (the company makes the fun there) but it was a worthwhile day and I felt I'd achieved what I set out to do.The pint/s was/were earned and I think this blog was too.