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Although the chorus, of sorts - above, of Pavement's 1992 banger Conduit for Sale could sum up our feelings about completing the 78 mile Capital Ring (we are, after all, trying) the reason I've started with it is because, on our first leg/two legs of this project, we did actually pass a conduit (photo above) and, as well as that, I also learned that I'd been pronouncing the word sluice incorrectly all my life. Who knew it was a silent 'i'?
Almost everyone except me it seems. We'd been meaning to get this Capital Ring walk off the ground since we finished the London LOOP in Purfleet, burnt out car and all, back in March and with all the positivity of a new year behind us, we finally came good on our promise yesterday. Or at least three of us did. Shep, Pam, and myself had arranged to meet in Woolwich at 1030am for a quick fry up and then to kick off a circular walk that, all being well, we'll have done by the end of the year.
Unlike, the LOOP, we saw plenty of other walkers (and, possibly, more dogs in one day than I have ever seen in my life). The Capital Ring differs to the London LOOP in other ways too. At seventy-eight miles it's almost half the distance of the LOOP (150 miles) but both walks are broken up into fifteen sections. Some on the Ring are a mere 3.5 miles so we thought it'd make more sense if we tried to do the walk in seven parts. Six lots of two and, as an epic finale, three sections in a day which would lead us from Stoke Newington back to that Woolwich Foot Tunnel.
How would that work out? I don't know, and it's too early to say for certain but even sections one (Woolwich Foot Tunnel to Falconwood) and two (Falconwood to Grove Park) ended up confounding a few of my expectations. I'd predicted better pubs but less interesting wildlife and more expensive cafes than those we found on the LOOP. But if this walk was anything to go by, I'm only half right (read on to find how) and, it turns out, less than five miles from my house there are some amazing parks and woods that, somehow, in twenty-four years as a Londoner I'd never visited before. London may sometimes be hard to love but, as with other relationships, it's one worth working on. For she never fails to surprise you.
My first trip of the day was very much one down memory lane. I took the 122 bus to Woolwich, a journey I did often in the late nineties as my then partner was at university there. I used to think the bus journey took fucking ages (and she did it twice nearly every day) but, on a crisp grey Saturday morning, it seemed to pass through Brockley, Ladywell, Lewisham, and Lee fairly briskly and it wasn't long before we were descending down Grand Depot Road, near Ha Ha Road, and into General Gordon Square.
Evocative names that brought the memories flooding back. The DLR station in central Woolwich was a new thing though and I instantly regretted telling Shep that his best bet, overground trains weren't running, was to take the DLR to King George V station north of the river and walk through the tunnel to meet us. I rang him but it was too late. He was nearly there.
Pam had done her own research and taken the DLR all the way to Woolwich. Never mind, we all convened at the Arsenal Gate Cafe and Shep passed me over The Capital Ring book which will become our bible, of sorts, for the year. I was in an indecisive mood and had cheese on toast AND beans on toast washed down with a cup of tea AND a can of Coke. It was good, the cheese on toast especially. Pam's big veggie breakfast (tomatoes, mushrooms, hash browns, baked beans, and fried egg) looked even better although Shep was unimpressed with his bubble'n'squeak.
From the cafe we still needed to get to the actual start of the walk (the foot tunnel, where Shep had just come from) so we walked through some of Woolwich's maritime history which is now combined with, or converted into, you guessed it, luxury flats and riverside developments. I probably couldn't afford to live there now but I would say it's been quite tastefully done. I'll be leading both a TADS walk and a LbF walk from Woolwich later this year (and with the Ring ending up there if everything goes to plan there will be four visits to Woolwich in 2020. It's the new Croydon) so I'll probably research, and write, more history of the place then.
Our book/bible gave us some though - much of which I didn't already know. The history of Woolwich can be traced to pre-Roman times with evidence of a Celtic Iron Age settlement near where the ferry terminal now stands. The Romans set up a fortified encampment in the hills and the Saxons, later, moved the centre back to the riverside and established a small fishing village with the fantastic name of Uuluuich. We're reliably informed that, in Saxon times, the letter W had yet to be invented!
In 1512 the Royal Naval Dockyard arrived in Woolwich and it was followed by the Royal Arsenal (1545), the Royal Military Academy (1721), and the Woolwich Equitable Building Society (1847) who those of a certain age will remember by their catchy jingle 'we're with the Woolwich'. All have now moved from the area. As has, perhaps most famously of all, the football club formerly known as Dial Square. Dial Square changed their name to Royal Arsenal not long after forming in 1886 and, in 1893, to Woolwich Arsenal. Woolwich was dropped when the club moved north of the river to Highbury in 1913. A move that upset fans in Woolwich, residents of Highbury, and, most durably of all, supporters of Tottenham Hotspur FC who, to this day, bore on relentlessly about these 'invaders'.
The Thames here is broad, majestic, and, for the most part, still fairly industrial. We passed jetties, piers, and the slide of the Woolwich Riverside leisure pool - a place I'd taken a dip in back in the nineties. We reached the foot tunnel (and all of its many signs), had a regulation snap taken, chatted to some other Ring walkers, and headed further west along Old Father Thames.
This part of the Ring doubles up with both the Thames Path and the Jubilee Greenway and, sometimes, it was easy to miss the signs. As the day passed we got the hang of sign spotting much better. The first sight of note along the riverside path was Ferry Approach Road and the Woolwich Free Ferry. A ferry that is believed to have been, in some form, in operation since the 12th century. A toll was charged until 1889 when complaints from the people of Woolwich forced it to be dropped. It is, even now, financed by local government.
Building work was happening so we had to come off the riverside for a bit as we passed the St Mary Magdalene Church and the area that was, for over four hundred years, the Royal Naval Dockyard. Established over five hundred years ago to build Henry VIII's flagship The Great Harry. The biggest warship of the era.
The expanding dockyard earned a further place in history when, in 1831, Charles Darwin's HMS Beagle set off for his five year circumnavigation of the world from Woolwich. Within forty years of that momentous event, however, shipbuilding had ended in Woolwich and the stockyard remained in use for storage and administration until 1926 when it was sold off to the Royal Arsenal Cooperative Society for warehousing.
It's looking a bit threadbare round there these days. A couple of (once) dry docks are adorned now with empty discarded cans of lager and other rubbish and visited only by coots (who, according to Shep, "don't give a fuck") and, apparently, anglers! The views, across to the O2/dome, the Emirates Airline, and the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf, make up for it. There's also a large Tate & Lyle sugary refinery (you can really smell the sugar) that had me wondering how Mr Lyle reacted when Mr Tate told him he'd had it with sugar and was going to open up an art gallery.
I know that's not really how it happened. Please don't write in. Another sight to take in is that of the Thames Barrier. Once considered a marvel of modern engineering (it was completed in 1984) but, these days, a rather forgotten if vitally important part of the city. Word is that if global warming continues at its current rate it will need replacing within decades or London may find itself starting to disappear under water.
On the path itself there's a somewhat battered mosaic map of the world that was installed, in 1984, by the National Elfrieda Rathbone Society who help people whose needs are not met by education. Elfrieda and the Rathbone family made names for themselves as what would now be called 'social justice warriors' and fighting what we must always remember is the good fight. Trying to help people instead of blaming them. Carrots. Not sticks.
Elsewhere you're constantly reminded of Woolwich's history by canons. They're everywhere. Facing out to the sea in shows of mock aggression and yet unable to serve anything but a decorative purpose. The kind of impotent yelp of a nation that thinks leaving an advantageous trading block will be a positive thing. A drunk man in a pub shouting abuse at a television.
We came to a wall, part of the flood defences, which could not be breached. Except, that is, by the perfectly rational solution of walking over the stairs built for just that purpose. Described, in our book, as 'graceful', it struck me that Saunders (his co-writer Sharp was not around for this project and has now passed away) had changed his tune since he so haughtily dismissed a small and inoffensive bridge near Cockfosters as 'pompous'.
On the other side of the wall we managed to miss a turning so added on a few hundred metres as we slowly picked up the path again. After we'd allowed about fifty different cyclists in various different pastel shades of hi-viz to pass us we crossed through a housing estate, near a disused Siemens factory where submarine cables were made for over one hundred years, and into Henry's Wharf Estate where steam engines were built in the 1830s and 1840s. We saw our first discarded, and soiled, mattress and we soon saw our first boarded up pub. I made my first wanking joke too. That train's never late.
The area felt a little unloved but the McDonalds was shiny, new, and doing a roaring trade. Sigh! I stopped to take a photo of the copper turret of the Windrush Primary School and we had a quick look at the Royal Greenwich University Tehnical College (opened in 2013) before turning off the road and into the Ring's first stretch of parkland.
Things improved almost immediately. A children's playground with an anthropomorphic teapot singing a song about itself led to a railway bridge and views down to a railway tunnel and soon into Maryon Park. Maryon Park (along with Maryon Wilson Park, Charlton Park, and Hornfair Park - all of which we'd pass through) was once part of the grounds of the grand Charlton House (more later) and Maryon Park, specifically, was once Hanging Wood where huge sandpits provided sand for the days when people chose to cover the floors of their houses with sand. Carpets being either prohibitively expensive or widely unavailable.
One of the pits, after use, created a valley nearby and that valley became The Valley, the home of Charlton Athletic FC. Maryon Park also, in 1966, became the location for Michelangelo Antonioni's surreal evocation of London in the swinging sixties:- Blow Up! That film features a tennis match without a ball and we wondered, but were unable to verify, if the tennis court in front of us was the one used for that scene.
It was a pleasant enough park but, following quite a steep ascent up 115 steeps, we entered Maryon Wilson Park which was nicer still. A petting zoo had pens for sheep, peacocks, chickens, and geese and we stopped to admire some ponies and a Japanese Akita dog. In a day of many hounds the Akita won first prize for us.
We crossed a road from the rolling and hilly Maryon Wilson Park into the flat Charlton Park, mostly given over to football pitches but with a mural featuring Lethal B(izzle), Kano, and Wiley and a little coffee and cake shop decorated with images of the Queen, Henry VIII, and other regal notables taking tea and tiffin. When I went to take a photo of this incongruous imagery a grumpy man at a nearby table jumped out of his seat to inform me it was rude to take photos of people without their permission.
Before I'd had a chance to explain to him that it wasn't the real Henry VIII, he went on to further lecture me about the invasion of his privacy. Which would be fair enough if I was taking a photo of him. He didn't look the sort of guy whose life had been affected much by paparazzi long shots but if I'd not been in such a happy mood I might have told the miserable cunt to go fuck himself.
You meet grumpy gits. It's part of life. The trick is to not let them ruin your day and, sure enough, it wasn't long before we were enjoying views of Charlton House and making rude jokes about Inigo Jones when speculating on how the name Inigo never really took off. The image of Inigo himself making a joke about it on his own wedding night gave me ideas for some very niche pornography.
It's not clear what the architect of Whitehall's Banqueting House has to do with the area but it seems he made some alterations to Charlton House at some point. The house is considered to be one of the best examples of Jacobean architecture in London and was completed in 1612 for Sir Adam Newton, the tutor of King James I's son Prince Henry. It's now a community centre and has a cafe so at least it's no longer for nobs. There were, we had discovered, enough knobs in Charlton Park already.
The green in front of Charlton House used to be the village green and it's where the Charlton Horn Fair took place from the 16th century to 1829. After which it continued in a nearby field before being closed down in 1875 'following increasingly drunken and libidinous behaviour'. In 1973, though, it was revived and continues to this day so if anyone's up for some drunken and libidinous behaviour let me know. I'm quite adaptable.
The last of Charlton's four parks, Hornfair, was the least impressive. Even Saunders has described it as "rather bland" and, for once, he was not wrong. Again, a flat dull affair given over to multiple football matches but with the grass too long for that sport in reality. It's overlooked by brutalist tower blocks and you exit the park through a rather unbumptious gap in the fence. Very much the tradesman's exit.
After some brief time in a built up area (this walk was far less urban than I'd imagined) it was on to the much lovelier, and surprisingly vast, Woolwich Common. In the 18th and 19th centuries the army would camp out on this common before heading down to the docks to embark on their ships, their adventures in colonialism, and, for some of them, their deaths. Tucked behind trees is the site of the former Woolwich Stadium (1920-1973) where various military sporting 'entanglements' were played out.
It was used during the 2012 Olympics for shooting. A suitable callback to its military past, perhaps, and certainly an apt sport to be played on Shooters Hill which is where we had now arrived. We were quite near Charlton Lido (where I 'd enjoyed a dip with my friend Paola and her son Seb some years back) and there were also views of the grey brick former Royal Herbert Hospital (now private apartments, obvs) and a red brick water tower (same fate, of course). We crossed Shooters Hill and learned how it is part of the Roman Watling Street that leads all the way to Dover. It's one of the highest points in all London and on a clearer day the views would probably have been spectacular.
It wasn't that sort of day but we were dry, and we were happy. We'd only seen one fingerpost pulled from the ground in anger and we were soon to reach Severndroog Castle, a place I'd long been meaning to visit. Its unusual name comes from a fortress in India that was 'captured' by Commodore Sir William James who owned the land on this area.
Land that is quite wild, varied, and just a little tricky to orientate yourself through but land that is very beautiful. With names like Oxleas Wood, Jackwood, and Castlewood it was never certain exactly which bit we were passing through but they all looked just super. The castle is not a castle really. It's a folly built after the commodore's death in 1784 by his widow as a memorial and now open to visitors. It was such a cloudy day we deemed the extra steps unnecessary and descended down a couple of staircases flanked by an inordinately large amount of benches and lots of orange peel.
I can only assume the good folk of Shooters Hill get their kicks eating oranges and taking in what is described as "an extensive view across Sidcup". It's hardly the pyramids but it's pretty nice. I might go there again in the summer. With an orange, of course.
The path zigged and zagged, climbed and dropped, and we passed through the lovely little former rose garden of Castlewood House and the former ornamental garden of Jackwood House. That both seemed to be the same place. Both houses, certainly, have not stood since the 1920s. The path took us into the flatter, but spacious, Oxleas Woods where Shep decided he fancied an ice cream. In January. We entered the little cafe and after a fruitless attempt to engage two further Capital Ring walkers in conversation, he decided he'd prefer a Mars bar.
So he bought one. I had a Twix. It was bloody lovely. We crossed a busy road, Rochester Way, and walked through the densely verdant Eltham Park North before reaching, at last, out first pub. The Falcon in Falconwood. The only problem being it was a bit shit. The combination of being a Harvester and having a huge Sky Sports sign outside was never a good omen but when Shep discovered they had no real ale on tap it plummeted a little further in our reckoning.
To celebrate my last weekend as a proper European I had a San Miguel, as did Pam, and Shep had some bottled ale. It went down well, the pub wasn't rough or anything - just a bit soulless, and after a quick visit to the facilities we were back out on the Ring and Shep was trying, and failing, to buy a samosa. He wasn't having much luck with food or drink.
We were on section two of the Capital Ring but we weren't to get very far and although that left a mild sense of disappointment, the reason for it was simply that it got dark and that we were having too much fun and these walks, as much as they're about exercise and history, are mostly about friendship and fun.
We crossed a railway bridge into Eltham Park South. A different beast to Eltham Park North in that it was another big field full of dog walkers, joggers, and cyclists. Eltham Park North was the Amazon jungle in comparison! It brought us out on to our longest stretch of road walking of the whole day and, consulting the book, I saw we had two more pub options before the walk ended. One was in Mottingham and some distance from the route of the walk. The other was here in Eltham and it was coming up very soon.
Eltham became infamous in April 1993 for the racist murder of local teenager Stephen Lawrence and, probably because of that, I'd not had it down as one of the parts of London I'd really go out of my way to visit. Though I did have a nice day out at Eltham Palace over a decade back admiring the 1930s design.
Eltham was to prove me wrong. Again. Conduit Meadow featured the unprotected but Grade II listed conduit that you see topping this account of the day. It once housed sluices to control the flow of water from springs nearby to Eltham Palace. On Southend Crescent, there's the Holy Trinity Church (below) which was consecrated in 1869 and contains, in the form of its Gallipoli Chapel, a memorial to those who died in the Gallipoli Campaign of World War I. Bob Hope was born in Eltham in 1903 before emigrating with his family to America four years later. Frankie Howerd, another comedian - titter ye not, spent much of his childhood here too.
Most of our laughter would come from our time in, and most of our focus would be directed upon, the Park Tavern. An absolute peach of a pub. From its design to its large ale, and gin, selection (which Shep and Pam both did some expert investigation in as I clutched my pro-European lagers), to the roaring fire and the friendly clientele. A chat and a chuckle in a toasty old boozer with two of your best mates. What could be better?
Not much it seems. In fact it was so good that it got dark while we were there so we abandoned the rest of the week. There was less than two miles to go but it was through parks and woods and in the dark we'd see nothing. Not even Eltham Palace. So we vowed to restart from Eltham next time (making quite a schlep to Crystal Palace and on to Streatham), got another round in, raised a glass to Monty Python's Terry Jones, and Pam booked an Uber to take us to Grove Park so we could at least finish where we said we'd finish. Goober in an Uber.
George, our friendly Uber driver, first took us to a dead end but we soon got him back on track and we were soon in the Baring Hall Hotel, an Antic pub (a chain that should feature heavily on this walk - which is a good thing - their reliance on shabby chic, mismatched furniture from reclamation yards, and interesting musical choices make for enjoyable drinking locations).
The Baring Hall Hotel had more potential than it had actual. Grove Park is a quiet, mostly residential area and it just doesn't seem to have the footfall to sustain such a large pub. At least not yet. No doubt further, and more wide reaching, gentrification will get out that way soon. For now we enjoyed the quiet, a couple (underestimate) more drinks, and I had a tasty plate of veggie sausage and mash. Pam and Shep had an avocado plant burger with tomato relish and chips. They gave positive feedback and the whole experience was completed by the barmaid asking us, in her still improving English, "how it was?". Cute.
I'd felt a little guilty we'd not finished the walk but these projects, by design, never go completely according to plan. That's part of the fun and the day was, for certain, a lot of fun. I laughed hard and I laughed a lot. But I also saw things only an hour or so walk from my flat that I had previously known nothing off. We took the train back to London Bridge, Pam headed home, Shep and I had one more (ill advised) pint in The Bunch of Grapes and then we too went our own separate ways. When I finally hit the hay I slept very well (walk, booze, and hearty meals will do that) and I'm already looking forward to returning to Eltham and walking to Crystal Palace and Streatham which for Pam will be a very short journey back home. The Capital Ring actually passes her road! I'll see if I can find some more Pavement lyrics to suit the mood.
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