Invocation Of Hathor:The Women Of The Golden Dawn.

"I'm closer to the Golden Dawn, immersed in Crowley's uniform of imagery. I'm living in a silent film, portraying Himmler's sacred realm of dream reality" - Quicksand, David Bowie

Trying to get your head around the Golden Dawn, you may well find yourself sinking in the quicksand of your thoughts. It's bloody confusing stuff. The first couple of paragraphs alone on the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn Wikipedia page have hyperlinks to metaphysics, theurgy, Wicca, Thelema, masonic lodges, and the SRIA (Societas Rosicruciana in Anglia). I think I'd need a month long crash course on the Golden Dawn itself to even understand it at the level of a keen hobbyist.

But, of course, that's part of the point of these 'secret' societies. They're clubs. You have to learn the rules, the traditions, the behaviours and then you fit in. If they let you. The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn was, for its time, quite forward thinking in terms of gender. Men and women were treated, apparently, completely as equals. Which means that last night's London Fortean Society talk, Women of the Golden Dawn (delivered by Geraldine Beskin, co-owner of the Atlantis Bookshop), was, in some ways, regressive as it singled out one gender for appreciation above another.

The Golden Dawn themselves wouldn't do that. But, to be fair, history has made more of a big deal about the men of the Golden Dawn than it has of the women so some sort of redress was not only fair, it was overdue. Men of the Golden Dawn included Aleister Crowley, Arthur Machen, Arnold Bennett (the Hanley born author of Anna of the Five Towns), W.B.Yeats (plenty more of him later), and Fu Manchu creator Sax Rohmer.

 

All pretty well known. The women included Moina Mathers, Annie Horniman, and Florence Farr who you would have to admit are not quite household names. Railway Children author Edith Nesbit was reputed to be a member but in her case it seems the secret society really did manage to be secretive so nobody, it seems, knows for certain.

Geraldine Baskin was at The Bell in Whitechapel to talk a little about some of the most prominent, and most important, female members of the Golden Dawn and what the talk lacked in narrative thrust it at least made up for by being interesting and containing lots of information that was new to me and, presumably, many others in attendance.

Beskin started with a brief, and probably unnecessary, introduction in which she outlined how far ahead of their time the women of the Golden Dawn were and how they changed the world. In the early nineteenth century, women were seen as obedient and servile, almost as property, but by the end of that century some of them, the women in focus here, were considered desperate and evil. How by 1900, 75% of women were employed and many were even, whisper it, unmarried.

It was still a time when men could get their disobedient and unobliging wives locked up for insanity under the flimsiest and most misogynistic of pretexts. Madame Blavatsky (my friend Jack, predictably, corrected it wouldn't be long before she showed up) had fought with Garibaldi's troops in 1867's Battle of Mentana and in 1875 had founded the Theosophical Society in New York City with Henry Steel Olcott.

Some of whom, inspired by an ultimatum from a group of freemasons from Preston, went on to form the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. Which soon became, in Beskin's words, "the hottest ticket in town". Joining the Golden Dawn was seen as joining a cult. Something that is deemed weird and dangerous now but even more so back then. But Beskin claims the Golden Dawn was not weird and dangerous, that it was brave and empowering. 

Especially for the female members. Many of whom were suffragettes or suffragists. Many of whom worked for the embroidery designer, and daughter of William Morris, May Morris. A highly skilled job that brought in good money. £1 a day!

In the Golden Dawn, one could learn how to experience wonders, invoke (and evoke) Gods, and communicate with denizens of other worlds. That was the claim but you needed to become deeply involved before any of these skills or abilities were revealed to you. Which does, you'll have to concede, sound ever so much like a cult.

Geraldine Beskin was less cynical than I on this matter and instead of taking a deep dive into just how much of a cult the Golden Dawn was, she instead listed a few prominent female members and told their potted histories. Which, to be fair, was how the talk was advertised.

Moina Mathers was born in Geneva in 1865 to an Orthodox Jewish family. She was a fluent French speaker and sister of the esteemed and influential philosopher Henri Bergson. Bergson, himself, was the President of the Society for Psychical Research and he lived in splendour while his sister, evidently, did not. Henri and one of Moina's other brothers even got a mention in James Joyce's Ulysses.

Moina, a talented artist, attended the Slade School of Art in London and took to dressing like an Egyptian princess. Some, including Geraldine Beskin, claim she invented collage (before the likes of Max Ernst, Kurt Schwitters, Braque, and Picasso) and she married Samuel Liddell who had styled himself, and renamed himself, as MacGregor Mathers and was also partial to getting done up in Egyptian garb.

With William Robert Woodman and William Wynn Westcott, MacGregor Mathers set up the Golden Dawn and its first temple, the Isis-Urania Temple. Moina was the temple's first initiate and so devoted were Moina and MacGregor to the Golden Dawn they chose to have a sexless marriage. Magic(k) and the higher realms were their priority. Plus, in those days sex led to children and children were (and are) bloody expensive.

When MacGregor died in 1918, Moina continued with her art but had little success. Aleister Crowley, as cutting as ever, claimed he'd seen her prostituting herself on a bridge in Paris (this could be taken literally or may simply mean she was posing for caricaturists, in Crowley's mind - it seems - there is little difference), and accounts claim she lost interest in life itself and died, aged 63, in London. Geraldine Beskin still calls her "the greatest clairvoyant of the century".

Annie Horniman's grandfather had a corner shop near Reading and he pioneered new ways of packing, and transporting, tea. This made him so rich that he died with what these days would be equivalent to £25,000,000 in the bank. His son, Frederick John Horniman, opened Forest Hill's Horniman Museum (a very short walk from my flat, I've even seen friends married there) and later Annie would enjoy a senior role at the museum where she would employ one MacGregor Mathers.

She was also close to, and fond of, William Butler Yeats and the two of them corresponded for an entire decade but when her father's first wife, Rebekah, died and he married the much younger Minnie, Annie and Frederick fell out. Which resulted in her struggling financially. Her nepo baby days had come to an end.

She found a remarkable way out of it. She set up Manchester's Gaiety Theatre and in doing so invented the concept of repertory theatres. The theatre didn't survive World War I but she inspired Lilian Baylis who would go on to manage the Old Vic, Sadler's Wells, the English National Opera, and the Royal Shakespeare Company. Baylis saw that if Horniman, a woman, could run a theatre then so could she.

Annie Horniman, herself, died near Guildford, aged 76, in 1937. Unlike her grandfather, she did not leave millions of pounds behind.You are probably getting the feeling, by now, that these women were rarely remunerated or celebrated for their achievements. That's why talks like this are important. If way too late.

Actress, director, composer (as well as lyre and dulcimer player) Florence Farr was named after one of her father's friends, the founder of modern nursing Florence Nightingale. George Bernard Shaw was one of her many lovers (I got a feeling Beskin delighted in celebrating Farr's promiscuity - and why not?) and Yeats was another who was captivated by her.

She performed on stage in Ibsen's proto-feminist productions and published books on Egyptian magic and Egyptology as well as becoming a highly proficient astrologer (even if that's not a real thing) and a principal in a Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) girl's school. Shaw felt she was 'hiding' in Ceylon because she'd failed as an actress and her looks were fading but that probably says more about him than her.

Florence Farr died in Colombo aged 56. Georgie Hyde-Lees was born in 1892 in Fleet, Hampshire and is mostly remembered as the wife of Yeats. Yeats believed there was an "astrological imperative" for him to marry before the age of fifty or he would be doomed to remain forever unwed. Despite, or perhaps because, of the age gap - Yeats was twenty seven years her senior - Yeats believed Georgie to be both "serviceable" (!) and wealthy enough to put him "above anxiety".

The old romantic. They married and in 1914 Yeats inducted her into the Golden Dawn where she rose far faster than he did and she is credited with breaking his (eight your) drought as a poet. He wrote A Vision in 1925 while the couple were experimenting with automatic writing. Geraldine Beskin believes it to be Yeats' finest ever work.

Sadly, Georgie's story seems to have been almost entirely subsumed into Yeats's story and, equally disappointingly, the artist and occultist (not to forget travel writer) Ithell Colquhoun was rejected twice, over cups of tea, by the Golden Dawn so could only be touched on in Beskin's talk. It's a pity because Colquhoun has gone on to become the most well remembered of all these women and a show of her surrealist paintings will be coming to Tate Britain this summer.

It had been an interesting look at these forgotten, or at least marginalised, figures from history and though I would have liked a more structured story, Beskin did well in eking out something about the essence of these women that made them so extraordinary. I won't be joining the Golden Dawn (pretty sure it no longer exists) but I will try and learn more about it. Thanks to Dewi, Paula, Steve, Tim, Michael, and Veronica for joining me at the talk, thanks to David Barrett, the London Fortean Society, and The Bell for hosting, thanks to Pizza Union on City Road for fuelling me earlier, and thanks to Geraldine Beskin and the Women of the Golden Dawn for an illuminating evening. Even now, I'm still sinking in the quicksand of my thoughts.

Read It In Books:Politics On The Edge.

"'Politics' dominated the news - but it was treated as a horse race where all that mattered was position - and to enquire after the character or beliefs of a politician was considered as absurd as to ask the same of a horse" - Rory Stewart

I hesitated before picking it up (in Village Books) and I even felt a small degree of shame walking through Dulwich Village with it in my hand. Not because I thought Rory Stewart's Politics On The Edge would be a bad, uninteresting, or embarrassing read. But because Rory Stewart was once, and may still in some ways be, a Tory. I don't buy, or read, books by members of the Conservative Party.

Obviously Rory is no Liz Truss, Priti Patel, Suella Braverman, Robert Jenrick, Jacob Rees-Mogg, or Boris Johnson (the latter of whom also has a book out which I saw thrown in a bin near Herne Hill - the best place for it) and therefore his book is unlikely to be full of lies and idle boasts. I've enjoyed Rory Stewart's The Rest Is Politics with Alistair Campbell and the fact he was kicked out of the Tory party by Boris Johnson suggests to me he's at least got some moral fibre. Rory Stewart is an old school Tory. Somebody I'd fundamentally disagree with on many issues but at least has honest intentions. You can't say that for the likes of Johnson, Truss, or Michael Gove.

But, what's the book like? Is it just Rory Stewart settling scores. In a foreword he warns us that some will see it that way and then he lists the 'dramatis personae' who will populate the book. An absolute rogue's gallery, with the names stretching from Johnson to Steve Baker, Priti Patel to David Cameron, and Liz Truss to Dominic Raab (and let's not forget Gove, Hancock, Kwarteng, and Rees-Mogg). I must admit I was hoping he was going to seriously spill the beans on them. Did he let me down?

Well, Johnson's first blatant lie comes as early as page two of the book, Rory Stewart considers the man, quite correctly, to be an "egotistical chancer" who destroyed what was left of the One Nation tradition within the Conservative party, damaged the economy, created a "weeping wound" in Ireland, and further alienated Scotland. Indifferent to truth, shameless, and utterly incapable of responding to the problems of our modern age except in glib soundbites and dismissive put downs. 

Elsewhere, Dominic Cummings is revealed (again) as a man who confided in Rory that he loathed Boris Johnson but offered Johnson, Stewart, and, in fact, all other Tory leadership candidates (Dominic Raab, Sajid Javid etc;) the same advice:- "get Brexit done, beat Jeremy Corbyn, unify the country". He even had the audacity to tell Rory Stewart where he should go on holiday and for how long. It's not clear if that destination was Barnard Castle.

Jeremy Hunt and Sajid Javid are revealed as spineless chancers who voted for Teresa May's Brexit deal and then a month later, trying to win either votes or favour from Boris Johnson, opined that to do so would be to join a remainer's conspiracy. Rory's Tory colleagues are not the only terrible people in the book. Saddam Hussein and the Taliban crop up too as Stewart traces his journey from his time in Iraq to the frontline of British politics via stints in Indonesia, USA, Bosnia, Kosovo, India, Nepal, Pakistan, Malaysia, and Afghanistan (he could come across as a show-off but he's too self-effacing for that) to excitedly becoming a new MP in 2010 (unaware of the shitstorm that was coming down the line) and on to failing to beat Johnson to become Tory leader in 2019.

He's lived quite the life. Iraqis wave banners calling for his death, mortars crash through the roof of his Baghdad office,he huddlses from mortar fire in Nasiriyah, meets Aung San Suu Kyi in Myanmar where he tries (and fails) to persuade her to stop the Burmese army's rapes and massacres of the Rohingya people in Rakhine. Consulting with George Clooney about the possibility of a genocide in South Sudan is almost light relief.

The times he has lived through, too, have turned out to be interesting in ways many of us would have preferred them not too be. In the UK, he sees Scottish independence narrowly averted, Brexit narrowly win, and division and rancour enter into British politics in a nastier, more mean spirited way than many of us can care to remember. Further afield, he witnesses the rise of populism in the forms of Modi and Trump.

He's pretty matter of fact about it at all and the book is never less than readable. He's also got a pretty good turn of phrase. A dinner with John Kerry and Al Gore is described as "what it might have been like to dine with Roman senators on their way to becoming marble statues" and when George Osborne says the word 'Conservative' he leans backwards and lifts his nose for emphasis, "as though posing for a statue, or anticipating a punch". Even buildings come in for his light, yet deft, criticism. Portcullis House looks as if "a 1980s retail block was experimenting with the identity of an Edwardian power station"

As well as these comic sketches, there's some interesting insight into what politicians really think. Not least when Paddy Ashdown, then leader of the Lib Dems, advises Rory not to become a Lib Dem as "Lib Dems get nothing done". Ashdown at least sounds like a man with a sense of humour and a degree of self-awareness. Others not so much.

David Cameron comes across as a well meaning, but not very serious, man who surrounded himself with Etonian chums and rapidly promoted cretinous jokes like Priti Patel and Liz Truss through the ranks and made a promise to Rory Stewart that when he ceased to be PM he would return to the back benches. That promise, of course, was a lie. In fact, Witney - Cameron's former seat - deserted the Conservatives for the first time ever, voting in a Lib Dem, at the last general election. 

It remains inexcusable, however, that Cameron once suggested to the then Justice Secretary Ken Clarke that he listen to the disgraced/disgraceful Sun editor Rebekah Brooks and her proposal to establish prison ships. Just one of many examples of how Cameron's privilege and ego allowed him to make fatal mistakes. 'Dave' thought the British government's policy in Afghanistan wouldn't result in disaster and he fatally called the bluff of the country on the Brexit vote. So sure of victory was he he instructed departments not to do any contingency planning whatsoever in the case of the alternative.

George Osborne is depicted as a man who holds grudges, Jeremy Corbyn's only real legacy is inspiring the populist right to retreat into blinkered nostalgia, and Kwasi Kwarteng, who Rory Stewart had gone to school with, doesn't seem to have much time for anyone except himself and teases Stewart as "a wet, Europhile, out of touch with 'real people'" - whoever they are. Matt Hancock, remember him?, comes across as a spineless toad who loathed Boris Johnson but backed him anyway in a bid to advance his own career.

He saves the worst for Liz 'the lettuce' Truss, a woman who couldn't even be bothered to offer him one iota of sympathy on hearing of his father's death and once claimed that barking dogs could deter drones from delivering drugs to prisons. As well as trashing the British economy and going on to shill for the fascist right in the US. Truss is portrayed, correctly, as a monotone party animal who refuses to ever answer a question and simply parrots whatever line the Tories are pushing at any given time. Truss, Stewart says. "was the leading exponent of Instagram in Parliament. She seemed to be using images of herself in different costumes to suggest a pattern of progress, just as she used provocative policy announcements to create an impression of forcefulness". 

He goes on:- "her genius lay in exagerrated simplicity. Governing might be about critical thinking but the new style of politics, in which she was a leading exponent, was not. If critical thinking required humility this politics demanded absolute confidence: in place of reality it offered untethered hope; instead of accuracy, vaguenss. While critical thinking required scepticism, open-mindedness, and an instinct for complexity, the new politics demanded loyalty, partisanship, and slogans: not truth and reason but power and manipulation".

Johnson fares just as badly and Gove's no better. Aberdeen's most infamous suit wearing raver went from telling Rory Stewart that Boris Johnson was chaotic and unstable to asking Rory to back Johnson in a leadership contest to then going against Johnson again. All in very quick succession. A whole book could be written about Johnson and Gove's fucked up friendship though to call it a friendship is not really a Tory thing to do so let's call it an alliance, a oft severed alliance.

It's a bit irritating when Stewart doesn't name names (and sometimes even Googling doesn't help). I wanted to know the name of the Tory MP who threatened to punch him on the nose for having the audacity to critique the invasion of Iraq and that was just one occasion when Rory Stewart, and his sense of fairness, let me down a little.

Did anyone come out of it looking good? Question Time's most regular panelist Ken Clarke comes across as a decent enough old cove who's neither hamstrung by bitterness or wanton ambition, Theresa May at least had the sense to sack George Osborne and Michael Gove and demote Liz Truss and Matt Hancock and it's clear that Rory Stewart liked and backed her (yeah, she was better than Johnson and Truss but, come on, that's a very low bar).

Amber Rudd and Nicky Morgan receive some very feint praise but probably doing the best is David Gauke who Rory seems almost in awe of. Stewart talks of Gauke's "unexpected warmth and irreverence", marvels at his patience, admires how "tough" he can be when he makes a decision, and later goes on this panegryic:- Gauke was "skilfully adept at unpopular decisions, practical and moral, modest and natural, a good listener and an astute and elegant observer of politics, generous, provocative and witty". Get a room.

Rory, himself, always tries to be self-effacing and self-aware and I don't think he's aiming to big himself up in this book but you can't help warming to him. Walking is a major passion in his life and that's something I share with him. In Politics On The Edge he talks about walking from his home in Scotland to his new constituency in Penrith, how during the Brexit debates he was told by a Brexit supporter he should be "ashamed to be alive" and by a Remain supporter that he's a "Brexiteer cunt".

But, perhaps, more than the individuals - himself included, that come up for criticism, it is the whole process, the institution, itself that Rory Stewart feels let down by. Right at the start of his journey as an MP he complains there's not enough conversation about policy and too much "gossip about the promotion of one colleague, or the scandal engulfing another" and claims he "sensed more impotence, suspicion, envy, resentment, claustrophobia, and Schadenfreude" than he'd seen in any other profession.

There are some very moving testimonies about how political actions play out in people's actual lives and it is during these moments that you're reminded that politics is a serious business and Rory Stewart, agree with him or not, is a man who took it, and still takes it, seriously. Too bad for him that he arrived in politics just as the lunatics had taken over the asylum.

Permbulations on the Perimeter of .... SE27: From the Royal Circus to the Greek Orthodox Necropolis/What Became Of The Great North Wood?

I surprised myself. It'd been over a year since I last took one of my 'perambulations on the perimeter' walks. That one was around SE25. Yesterday's was SE27 which doesn't border SE25 (as it does SE19, SE21, SE24, SW16, and SW2) but isn't that far away. It's not the largest of postal codes to go exploring and much of it consists of long suburban avenues of pleasant, if unremarkable, houses but, like everywhere, if you look hard enough there's plenty to see

 

I enjoyed my day. That's for sure, and it didn't even rain as almost every weather forecast had predicted (I heard from my mate Dave Fog that West London was enjoying/enduring something of a thunderstorm but South East London remained untouched, in fact it was a pretty warm and sunny March day). I walked to Tulse Hill via Dulwich Park and Belair Park chatting to my mum (about her and my dad's recent mini-break in Eype's Mouth near Bridport and, as ever, medical conditions) and as soon as I arrived in Tulse Hill I popped into the Co-Op and bought a copy of the day's Guardian.

Roxy Music's Dance Away was playing on the radio (see what I did there?) and it would be the first, and probably the best, of the earworms that would accompany on my day's walking. After that it was into the Tulse Hill Cafe Restaurant (definitely more a cafe than a restaurant) for an absolutely delicious plate of cheese omelette'n'chips with bread and butter and a cup of tea. A couple of guys on the next table were chatting about the British class system, Maggie Thatcher, and the privatisation of the railways and, of course, I joined in as the radio played Come On Eileen and Let's Stay Together (more earworms). The guy serving at the cafe was a friendly old cove too, asking if I could pay him in Turkish lira.

From the cafe, I headed down Norwood Road, left into Lancaster Avenue, and, just before reaching the A205/South Circular, turned right into  Tuslemere Road where, at the bottom - near its junction with Idmiston Road, I was attracted by a rather beautiful, if somewhat careworn, blue and white painted Gothic Lodge.

This morning's cursory research revealed 21 Idmiston Road to be of late 19c provenance and that it now serves as a care home - which may or may not explain the balloons in the windows and the young filipinas I saw inside the 'lodge'. A reason I didn't take any more photographs.

On nearby Barston Road, Ziggy the cat had gone missing and somebody had mislaid their four way locking cat flap. I couldn't help wondering if these two incidents were related. Barston Road took me to Chestnut Road which reminded me of my ol' mate Rob Uriarte (he was nicknamed Chestnut because he was nuts about chests) and just as it turned a right angle into Park Hall Road there was a large mural dedicated to the Great North Wood, from where Norwood takes its name.

It's very colourful and it's got a badger and a fox on it and who doesn't like badgers and foxes. It wouldn't be the last time on this walk I'd think of badgers either but more of that soon. The Great North Wood (which is a potential walk I've had in the back of my mind for some time) was a natural oak woodland that stretched all way from Deptford to Croydon and from Streatham to Lewisham. As you can probably imagine much of it was swallowed up by London's sprawl southwards into what was once Surrey. But pockets remain.

Dulwich Woods, Sydenham Hill Wood, Beaulieu Heights, and so on. Samuel Pepys wrote of meeting fortune tellers in the Great North Wood in the 17c and Daniel Defoe extolled the virtue of the area in the eighteenth. As late as 1802 it is believed a hermit named 'Matthews the hairyman' lived in a cave deep within the woods and even Herne the Hunter, an antlered ghost more often associated with Windsor and its Great Park, has been linked to the area. 

None of those characters were on show yesterday - unsurprisingly - so I decided to dip into West Norwood Cemetery (one of London's Magnificent Seven and one I incorporated into a walk back in 2019 - more here) for a look around. Like most large cemeteries, it is a place of peace and reflection and a place I don't find depressing. Instead, it fills me with hope for humanity when I see the efforts we make to celebrate those we loved who have now departed. The children's graves though, the graves of day old babies even, they're absolutely heartbreaking.

Having written, in some depth, about the cemetery and its notable internees before, I won't go into too much detail except to say some of the graves, and especially the Greek Orthodox necropolis, are highly impressive. Notable 'residents' include the sugar magnate and gallery founder Sir Henry Tate, pottery manufacturer Sir Henry Doulton (not hard to miss his one, it's done in terracotta), household management guru Mrs Beeton, inventor of the machine gun Hiram Maxim, and steel magnate Sir Henry Bessemer.

Then there's the graves of Victorian engineers, medics, MPs, and sportsmen - many of them now barely remembered - and also the graves of ordinary people. The name Carlton Parchment proved satisfying to me and the balloons wishing Happy Birthday and Happy St Patrick's Day on some of the graves reminded me that this a working cemetery as much as it is a historical site. Near the side of one grave, I heard a young lady singing to the deceased and the flowers on another that read "MORE NANNY MUM NAN" reminded me of the complicated interpersonal relationships we all form in our lives and how when a person goes so much goes with them. It's not just the body that has gone, it's all the memories and links to the past that have gone with it. Cemeteries always remind me that we should make the most of our time here because we don't know how long we have. I always leave them resolving to be a kinder, more resilient, more adventurous, and more compassionate person.

You enter, and leave, the cemetery near the West Norwood Library & Picturehouse and later today they're showing, thanks to my friend Jack I know this, a short film about the history of the Crystal Palace dinosaurs (alongside films about Saudi women's football, crazy golf, and the transformative power of sport for disabled people) which would be nice to go and see but I've made other plans. It's a nice cinema though and I was nearly tempted in for a hot chocolate and a cake.

Instead, I continued up Norwood High Street past St.Luke's Grade II listed Anglican church and the South London Theatre (originally a Victorian fire station designed by Victorian fire station architect Robert Pearsall, its upcoming programme includes productions by Steven Moffat and Moira Buffini) before dipping down and along Auckland Hill with fantastic views (and not for the last time of the day) of the Crystal Palace Tower in front of me. 

Regular readers, if - indeed - such people exist, will know I love the Crystal Palace Tower. Auckland Hill bought me out on Gipsy Road and Gipsy Road took me to my first pub stop of the day. I'm doing an alcohol free March so I knew it wouldn't be a long stop but I was looking forward to a sit down and to tackle the crosswords and quizzes in the newspaper.

The Two Towers was a new pub on me and I can't see it becoming a regular port of call. Nothing bad happened (except the pint of lemonade I ordered was nowhere near a pint) but the pub didn't have the sort of character I looked for in a pub. It did have character though. Several locals propped up the bar while another couple played pool. The only indoor seats that were free were rather moth eaten looking sofas so instead, with the weather still pleasant, I headed out to the garden.

Nobody else was in the garden but I didn't feel alone. Far from it. Keeping me company were stepladders, sack trucks, wheelbarrows, shovels, normal ladders, sun loungers, and loads of empty (and some full) flower baskets. I sat with my lemonade near a brightly painted Gozo themed ashtray and as the jukebox blasted out Elvis's In The Ghetto, Barry White, The Eagles, The Prodigy's Smack My Bitch Up, and a couple of Kinks tunes (Lola and Sunny Afternoon) I read an interview with Jeff Bridges and discovered (via a quiz in the paper) that Eddie the Eagle's real name isn't even Eddie. Or Edward.

From the pub I crossed under the railway line and came off Salter's Road into Norwood Park. Commanding views of the London skyline, a skatepark, a (much needed) toilet, and a somewhat minimalist sculpture by a chap called Richard Trupp which had me thinking about the monolith in 2001:A Space Odyssey.

 

The North Wood Group Practice Surgery, on the other side of the park - a little up Crown Dale, is a nice modern building painted in a fetching yet sympathetic shade of green and from there it was a ninety degree turn into Tivoli Road and Tivoli Park. Named for the park in Rome but, presumably, nowhere near as big. I only popped my head in and refrained from taking more than a couple of photographs as it was full of young children and that's not a good idea.

So, instead, it was a walk along the near deserted Dassett's Avenue, on to Knight's Hill, Bewlys Road, Roxburgh Road, Cheviot Road, Casewick Road, Lamberhurst Road, and, best of all, St Julian's Farm Road before following a couple more roads (you don't need all the names, c'mon) up to Royal Circus.

Royal Circus? Fancy name, you might think. I certainly did when I first lived in the area. Back in the late nineties, Tina and I walked here specifically to see what it was all about. This circular road with a patch of green (which I thought might be a small park) in the middle. About ten years ago I cycled through when heading to Streatham for an appraisal. The hills were fun. Like a rollercoaster.

The reality of Royal Court, however, should not be overstated. It's a big roundabout with a large house, Tongue House, in the middle that has been converted into flats and therefore is neither a park nor a place the public are allowed to access. The views are good however and Lansdowne Hill is a short steep hill that leads you, and - yesterday - me, to the centre of Norwood once again. My joy was at this point near unconrollable.

 

There's a few pubs and bars around the centre of Norwood but my curiousity was piqued by a place called Badger Badger (see, told you badgers would reappear) which was a pub/bar I'd never seen before that served Japanese food and had a board games shop attached. The playing of board games was very much encouraged and nearly half the people in there were indulging.

The games were more of the ilk of Catan of Onitama than Monopoly or Scrabble but it looked like a lovely place to waste an afternoon. Good beer, good company, and good board games. Sadly, I had none of the three (another day perhaps) so I finished my lemonade and took a fairly stiff walk home via the Forest Hill Sainsbury's.

I was back home by about 6pm (that doesn't happen with TADS, LbF, or Thames Path walks) so I had a little nap before getting up again, writing a blog about Friday night's John Cale gig, scoffing a pizza, and watching The Last Leg and Gary Lineker and Alan Shearer talk about Thomas Tuchel's first England game as manager (a 2-0 victory over Albania with 18 year old local - Denmark Hill - boy Myles Lewis-Skelly scoring on his debut and Harry Kane netting his 70th international goal) before turning in remarkably early for a Saturday night. Saturday nights may not be what they used to be but Saturday daytimes are fun. In two weeks time the TADS are back and we're heading from Balcombe to Haywards Heath where we will be acquainted with a figure nearly as mysterious as Herne the Hunter and Matthews the hairyman, a certain Mr Ouse. Mr Booze may also return to say hello.