Byrdes Fly South:Ozark S1.

"I was told over the phone you had organic pistachio ice cream. All I see is mint" - Wendy Byrde

I'll be 52 in ten days time so, understandably, I'm not too up on the way young people talk and the words they use but one new pejorative I have recently become familiar with is Karen. A Karen is a woman, almost always white and middle class, who uses her privilege to make demands beyond the scope of what is appropriate and necessary and often lacks the self-awareness to even realise she's doing so.

Wendy Byrde's passive-aggressive request for organic pistachio ice cream hits that nail squarely on the head but understanding what a Karen is isn't the only way I've got with the modern world recently. On 11th August 2020, 23 years after it was founded and about a decade after most of my friends signed up to it, I finally got Netflix. Lockdown's still not fully eased, the gout was preventing me from walking too far, and, love her though I do, I can only watch so much Lucy Worsley.

There's a lot on there and I'll work my way through some of it soon enough but, following recommendations from my friend Ben and others, I thought I'd kick off with Ozark. There's three seasons of it available, with a fourth on its way, but this assessment will cover the first season only. The basic premise revolves around the life of Marty Byrde (Jason Bateman), his wife Wendy (Laura Linney), and their two kids, Charlotte (Sofia Hublitz) and Jonah (Skylar Gaertner).

Marty's got a big house in Chicago and a good job as a financial adviser but something has gone wrong, both in his marriage and his work. He watches porn in the office and jacks off in his car while Wendy's having an affair while, at work, a money laundering operation for a Mexican drug cartel he's been tempted into by his partner Bruce Liddell (Josh Randall) takes a very nasty turn and soon he needs to get out of the windy city - and fast.

His destination of choice, the Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri - "more shoreline than the coast of California", gives the programme both its title and its southern gothic flavour. There are elements of Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, Benh Zeitlin's Beasts of the Southern Wild, and even John Boorman's Deliverance as the Byrdes start their new, and uncertain, life in the Ozarks.

With Camino Del Rio (Esai Morales) demanding, often with menaces, debts repaid and scores settled, Marty finds himself with both the cartel and the FBI on his back. His attempts to up his laundering game to settle these debts and keep his family safe bring him into contact with local business owners and local criminals and there's a thin, and very porous, line between the two.

One of the joys of these long form US series' is that there is plenty of space for character development and though that's at least partially true for Ozark the action does ramp up exponentially pretty quickly. Marty 'invests' in the Blue Cat hotel and bar (run by Rachel Garrison, a fantastic Jordana Spiro), the Lickety Spitz titty bar (owned by the sleazy Bobby Dean (Adam Boyer)), and even gives money, with conditions - obvs, to Pastor Mason Young (Michael Mosley) so that he can move his floating sermons to a newly built lakeside church.

To varying degrees all of these people have their qualms about Marty but bigger problems arrive in the form of the Langmores, a local criminal family whose most astute operator is Ruth Langmore (Julia Garner plays her as a trailer trash version of Virginia Madsen's Dolly Harshaw from Dennis Hopper's 1990 film The Hot Spot). Jacob Snell (Peter Mullan, you wouldn't know he's Scottish if this is the first thing you've seen him in) and his wife Darlene (Lisa Emery) are even more of a threat. Oozing an easy hillbilly menace from every pore in their bodies as they keep watch over their large poppy farm with shotguns and pistols.

The scenes where Chicago city slicker Marty comes face to face with the southern fried Snells play out as if a muscle memory of the Civil War. But where that war was a tragedy that resulted in the loss of more than half a million lives, these scenes play out more as a comedy albeit a very dark one and that's one of the few things Ozark doesn't always get right.

Occasionally the makers of the show go for a cheap gag at the expense of the narrative and it sometimes jars. It's a minor quibble and more worrying are the elements of poverty porn (ha ha, look at the stupid hicks and the stupid ways they dress) and the prevalent idea that the very worst criminals of all are always the Latinos. Seasons two and three may alter my view on this but it seems that, unlike almost every other character, the Mexicans don't warrant a back story or any motivation beyond pure greed and self-interest. It's a narrative even Trump could get behind.

Thankfully, those cavils don't detract much from a drama that is tense, tangible, and even part of a story that though about as realistic as the one told in Breaking Bad (surely a major influence on Ozark) is played out with, for the most part, a straight enough face to defy you not to fall for its artifice. The novels of William Faulkner and Cormac McCarthy, the music of Bobbie Gentry and Drive-By Truckers, and the paintings of Grant Wood and Andrew Wyeth as well as earlier films like John Huston's Wise Blood and Debra Granik's Winter Bone serve both as forebears and parallels for Ozark's maelstrom of animals with their innards sliced open, eyes in jars, vultures, and burning churches but, besides the stock tropes of southern gothic there are nods to key events in US history (the disappearance of Teamsters union leader Jimmy Hoffa), the baseball rivalry between the St Louis Cardinals and the Chicago Cubs, and how the US (and global) economy only survives because of its tacit reliance on drug money.

Throw in a house that looks like Frank Lloyd Wright might have designed it and abstracted digressions into woke concerns about homosexuality, toxic male behaviour, female emancipation, and the difficulties in finding genuine personal and physical connection and it would seem like it occupies the intersection of what is an almost perfect Venn diagram for me.

Which it was - about 80% of the time. Scenes of darkened makeshift FBI offices with mugshots pinned to clipboards are just a bit too cookie cutter for these kind of dramas now, Marty Byrde survives more assassination attempts than Fidel Castro, and one or two scenes of yacht parties on the lake look more stylised like hip-hop videos (and particularly The Lonely Island and T-Pain's spoof I'm On A Boat) than real life.

Much better are scenes like the one between Del Rio and Marty in which, during a flashback to Chicago '07 and over glasses of extravagantly priced cognac, they discuss the nature of ambition, integrity, and ethics and ponder the social contract and how the differences between legitimate businesses and criminal enterprises are very small and extremely fluid. At the core of Ozark is the idea that if people really want to do something they will often find a way to morally justify their doing it. Either before or after they have done it.

Sometimes the action, surely intentionally, adopts the style of a faded Polaroid picture and it's a nice trick in a show that never lacks for style. But, earlier critiques notwithstanding, there is substance to Ozark too and a lot of that is down to the fine performances that each and every actor puts in. Peter Mullan's Jacob Snell has something of the ruthless, psychotic nature of Prisoner Cell Block H's Geoff Butler (the Ray Meagher of Missouri?), and Jason Butler Harner as monomaniac FBI agent Roy Petty is a masterclass in resentment, thwarted ambition, and toxicity but some of the minor characters deserve credit too.

Michael Mosley plays Mason as a man of God torn between two devils (Jacob and Marty) and his wife, Grace (Bethany Anne Lind), gets one of the best lines in the whole ten episodes when she tells Mason that it wasn't God that saved him from a gunshot, the kid just had "shitty aim". Estate agent Sam (Kevin L Johnson) and his domineering mother Eugenia (Sharon Blackwood) play out a dysfunctional relationship for both laughs and drama, McKinley Belcher III (as FBI Agent Trevor Evans) performs well in a tough role as one of the few seemingly honest players in the show, and Harris Yulin (Buddy Dieker) provides light relief as he ambles down to the lakeside butt naked and chats to Jonah about his terminal illness.

Yes, despite scenes where Sam covers his cock (thankfully unseen) with peanut butter and gets a small dog to suck it off, it is a show where terminal illness provides light relief. The main players (Bateman, Linney (whose Wendy redeems her earlier Karen behaviour with the great line "I'm just a big fat existential mess"), Hublitz, Gaerner, Spiro, Garner, Morales, Mullan, and Marc Menchaca as Russ Langmore) are all great and, as I watch seasons two and three I'll get to write about them, or some of them - no spoilers here, more but it's also worth taking time out to give some props to a quite impressive soundtrack.

Radiohead, DJ Shadow, The Rolling Stones, Buddy Holly, Run The Jewels, and the hitherto unknown to me Polish artist Daniel Spaleniak all feature alongside Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band and one of my favourite tracks of the last five years, Black Beatles by Rae Sremmurd. There was no place for Missouri's most celebrated musical son Chuck Berry but other than that the makers of Ozark mostly did Missouri proud and the lake itself looks so beautiful I can imagine the tourists have already started flocking there safe in the knowledge that both Jacob Snell and Ruth Langmore are fictional creations.

As a very clear fiction Ozark was never likely to have the verisimilitude or exactitude of something as epic and incisive as The Wire but compared to its closet rival and forebear Breaking Bad it scrubs up pretty well. I'd say Breaking Bad, on the basis of first seasons alone, has the edge but it's tight enough that when I dip into the second season, and it won't be long, my expectations will remain as high as one of Jacob Snell's clients.

The Capital Ring:Parts VII & VIII:Richmond to Greenford (5-4=Unity).

Ah, I needed that. After a week under the most humid of heatwaves I can remember, accompanied by a rather nasty bout of gout, and after two weeks in which I didn't see a soul (nothing really, I didn't see anyone (IRL) for over a month and a half between mid-March and mid-May), I really needed to get out, do some walking, and sink a beer or two in the company of some of the very best friends I could ever have or ever wish for.

They didn't disappoint - and neither did the walk. The last leg of the Capital Ring that had taken us from Streatham, via the commons of Tooting and Wandsworth, and the parks of Wimbledon and Richmond, would, we thought, be hard to beat and, indeed, it's hard to say yesterday's stretch, that took us from Richmond, through Isleworth, Brentford, and Hanwell, and on to Greenford was more beautiful than say, the deer or Pen Ponds of Richmond Park, but it ran it pretty close. On top of that, once we'd crossed the Thames, apart from a small part of Brentford, it was all uncharted territory to me.

I felt, at times, like I was in a brand new city. Things looked familiar, there were pubs and shops and tube stations, but somehow different. Ian, who lives in Maida Vale, came out to meet us in Greenford and even he'd had to cycle the best part of ten miles west along the Grand Union Canal to get there. It was a similar distance to the one our walk had covered by the time we finally got to him.

I'd taken the train to Norwood Junction, another to Clapham Junction where I met Pam, and then we hopped on one more train to Richmond where we gassed under our masks before meeting Shep who, as ever, had arrived at least half an hour early and had already had a 90p lime'n'soda in a nearby pub so he could use their toilet. A 'cheap piss' apparently!

Which was handy for him. What was handy for all of us was that he'd located a good brunch stop so we sat on the small terrace outside Portofino and I had some delicious scrambled egg on toast with tea, Pam's cheese and cucumber sandwich was washed down with cappuccino and Shep took a cappuccino too even though the wrap he'd ordered wasn't available. They let him switch to beans on toast which, in lieu of bubble'n'squeak being on the menu, was what he wanted really anyway. 

Fed and fuelled, we passed through the bustling town centre of Richmond and headed down to a less bustling than normal Richmond riverside. After observing some ambitious parking we found ourselves back on the Capital Ring proper. Here it joins with, briefly, the Thames Path National Trail and as rowers-a-plenty passed by in the Thames we strolled, me a little gingerly - the gout hasn't completely gone yet, along Cholmondley Walk and the gardens where once stood Henry VII's great Palace of Richmond.

A favoured residence of Elizabeth I who even died there. After the Tudor era, however, the palace fell out of favour and was partially destroyed by Cromwell's troops and left to slowly crumble. In its place now are some grand, but not so grand, buildings but the only one we were able to see on this walk was Asgill House, built in Palladian style, which sits on the site of the former Palace brewhouse. Or brouhaha if you're not paying attention, distracted by waterfowl or something.

We passed under the Richmond Railway Bridge and Twickenham Bridge while to our right we could see a seemingly random obelisk and the wider expanse of Old Deer Park which once included Kew Gardens. It's still Crown property but the parts that have not been given over to a private sports ground have, at least, been made a public space. 

It's where, before the Greenwich Observatory opened, the meridian line once passed through. Due to the site of the Kew Observatory (built for George III in 1769) which should, according to our book, have been visible in the distance. We couldn't see it and, anyway, we only had eyes for the surprisingly picturesque Richmond Lock.

Lock, weir, and footbridge made for an impressive architectural set piece as well as a reasonably decent climb but the question that bugged me was why there was a lock on the Thames when you can simply pass down it anyway! Opened in 1894, it turns out Richmond Lock is a half-tide lock allowing boats to pass over the, hidden by the high tide as we crossed, weir two hours either side of high tide. Ah.

As we passed over I even had a twinge of vertigo. I'm not normally that bad with heights but, if I think about, I suppose I haven't been in any tall buildings for months now! When we reached the western shore of the Thames we turned immediately right and headed into the pedestrianised River Crane Walk (it's the last part of that walk having accompanied the Crane all the way from Feltham - another future project?)

We passed the red and yellow brick, and topped with a clocktower, Gordon House which was built in the 17th century and was until recently the Twickenham Campus of Brunel University. Before that it's done service as a girls' school, a teacher training college, and an institute of higher education but it is now, you guessed it, private/luxury apartments. Perhaps, one day, all of London will be. Creeping gentrification, more than anything else, is ripping the soul out of London.

We got our first brief glance of Isleworth Ait (a river in the Thames) before we had to turn inland, cross the Crane, look across to the bright white Nazareth House (a former convent and care centre now converted into, yes, even more luxury flats), and enter into Isleworth (impressively twinned with places in Palestine, Pakistan, and India as well as France) and, our second of the day's three boroughs:- Hounslow. The borough of Richmond, interestingly to me though probably not you, is the only London borough that straddles the Thames.

I was not familiar with Isleworth at all but even on a grey and overcast day it was rather lovely. We had to pass across the veranda of the riverside Town Wharf pub (which was closed but looked a nice spot to waste a Sunday afternoon one day) before we reached The Duke of Northumberland's, or more simply Duke's, River and had to chicane around it.

It's an artificial river that seems to date, nobody seems certain, from the 15th century and was, before the local land was acquired by the Duke of Northumberland, known as the Isleworth Mill Stream - more accurately reflecting the waterway's purpose. Once we'd observed a satirical poster referencing Dominic Cummings' infamous jaunt to Durham we reached the London Apprentice and, as there wasn't a pub due for quite some way after this, we stopped for a pint.

Post-reopening, and with Covid far from gone away, pub etiquette and even the simple business of getting a pint and finding somewhere to sit can be fraught with uncertainty. We asked if we could sit outside but were told the tables had all been booked but it was pretty empty within so we took a table and each had a pint of refreshing Icebreaker Pale Ale. A Greene King pub and drink but one which Shep, not a fan of that Suffolk brewery, heartily enjoyed. Metronomy on the jukebox made Pam happy and I was pleased just to be able to rest my feet and shoot the shit over a beer.

The pub takes its unusual sounding name from its history. Members of the City Livery Companies, on completing their apprenticeships, would row here to celebrate and one can only speculate that that must have been quite thirsty work. We left the London Apprentice and looked out at Isleworth Ait. There were about a dozen swans, a gang of Egyptian geese, a heron in flight, and even a couple of people cooling down by swimming in the Thames. Each to their own.

All Saints Church in Isleworth was destroyed by vandals setting fire to it during WWII but was rebuilt in a more modern style in 1970. It's a juxtaposition with the still standing 18c steeple but it's one that time, and greater understanding of architectural methods, allows me to appreciate far more than I would have done as a younger man.

Soon, we turned into Syon Park. None of us had ever been here before and I was surprised how vast it was. Tower blocks on the horizon told us we were near Brentford but Syon House has a very different feel. Signs warned not to enter fields because they had bulls in so we took a slow and leisurely amble toward Syon House itself.

Fronted by a ha-ha and framed by twin lodges, Syon House and Syon Park were created by the dream team of architect Robert Adam and, our old friend, landscape gardener Capability Brown. It's now the London home, hey - why have just one?, of the Dukes of Northumberland but the site once housed a convent that was named after Mount Zion (Zion, Syon, see?), the hill that overlooks Jerusalem.

 In 1539, during Henry VIII's purge, the monastery was dissolved but, eight years later, when VIII died his coffin stopped en route from London to Windsor at Syon where, in supposed divine retribution, it burst over and some of his corpse was eaten by dogs. Judging by paintings of him towards the end of his life they had a good feed.

There's all sorts of stuff going in Syon Park, or there would be if it wasn't for coronavirus. There's topographical groups, kids playgrounds (Snakes'n'Ladders), a cafe, a garden centre, and a Hilton hotel. Still easing out of lockdown most of that was closed so we left the park via the Brent Lea Gate and continued on to the edge of Brentford itself before turning left on to the towpath of both the Grand Union Canal and the river Brent.

The GUC and the Brent are sometimes different waterways, sometimes the same, they break up with each other and get back together more often than that couple you know but, just like that couple you know, they make for good company. A mother duck and her eight ducklings set a ludicrously cute scene as we followed the canal to the large, glass, global HQ of GlaxoSmithKline. Shep told of a job he held as a teenager when he would regularly have to send a telex to Glaxo before they bought out the American pharmaceutical firm of Smith, Kline & French. Wonder why French's name didn't carry over.

Braunston, in Northamptonshire, is your constant reference point as you walk along the Grand Union Canal and we were 93 miles from it. The first stretch we passed through was being turned into apartments and restaurants and refashioned as the trendy Brentford Lock but it's not long before you're passing under and through a rather haunted looking little dock that's clearly not had the estate agents in yet. There were, instead, a large group of youngsters dressed in black hanging around amicably.

Looking across to the GSK building there's a large Allen Jones sculpture, The Athlete, and a small waterfall that unloads into the canal. It's not purely for show and works, somehow, as part of the air conditioning in the GSK offices. We kept on, Shep (as ever) leading the way, until we reached the humpbacked Gallows Bridge. An iron affair from 1820 that we crossed to the eastern towpath.

My gout was beginning to trouble me but I knew the next pub wasn't too far and Pam had promised me both ibuprofen and paracetamol. Combined with a drink and a sit down I felt this would be enough for me to be able to finish the walk but there was another part of my brain preparing for the fact that the pub, The Fox, may have to be my final stop of the day before I turned in.

We passed under a 'battleship grey' bridge that carries the Piccadilly Line out towards Hounslow, Hatton Cross, and Heathrow and, after bumping up close to it earlier, we finally crossed under the M4 motorway. It's somewhere round here, we estimated that we were halfway round the Capital Ring in total and, 200 yards later, we passed through Osterley Lock and were on to the second section of today's walk. A 4.9 mile stretch from Osterley Lock to Greenford.

All canals are indeed beautiful and we fully intended to enjoy this one, even if it wasn't local to any one of us, but the thought of nearly another five miles with a heavy gouty foot and now a sore heel due to overcompensation filled me with anxiety if not full on dread. I managed to enjoy the sight of a 'labyrinthine weir', to marvel at how nature finds a way even in running water and atop brick chimneys, and even I had to giggle to myself at the notion of the British Waterways people still banging on about winning a pile driving competition 71 years ago but the greatest joy of all was seeing the sign for The Fox pub.

It was a nice sign too - and it was an even nicer pub. Friendly with a great range of beers, I had a Brixton pale ale, and a spacious beer garden. Tucked back on a quiet residential street away from the canal it would have been easy to make a two,, three, or even four pint mistake and knock the walk on the head but (a) we're made of stronger stuff and (b) we'd made plans to meet Ian in Greenford.

So over a most agreeable pint I necked two ibuprofen, two paracetamol, and applied some Deep Freeze pain relief cold gel to my foot and hoped it'd do the trick which, as the day progressed, it certainly did. It was still a disappointment to have to leave such a nice pub though. I still have no idea what the rest of Hanwell is like but it seems unlikely there could be much there to rival the little beauty that is The Fox pub. Shep went so far as to award it a 10/10.

Not long after bidding a fond adieu to The Fox we said goodbye also, at least temporarily, to the Grand Union Canal but continued along the Brent River Park Walk. At this point the Brent and the GUC following decidedly different paths. A leading light in the formation of this path was Luke FitzHerbert (1937-2007) and this stretch, FitzHerbert Walk, honours him.

We passed under Uxbridge Road, in a subway that sometimes is too flooded to pass through, and came out into the Brent Meadow. Not for the first time, and hopefully not for the last time, on one of these walks I marvelled at just how green and expansive the nature of London is and how it seeps into almost each and every corner of the city. Often barely observed by those that live less than a mile from it.

Ahead of us was the imposing Wharncliffe Viaduct that carries the Great Western Railway from Paddington out to Reading, Bristol, Wales, and Cornwall. I'd have been over it many times but this would be the first time I'd go under it and that was much more exciting. Named after Lord Wharncliffe who steered the GWR Bill through the House of Lords it was built in 1838 by, you guessed it, Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Bridges, boats, tunnels, viaducts, you name it. IKB was on the case.

The other side of the viaduct only brought further wide green expanses in the form of Brent Lodge Park. The textbook LOOP/Ring image of a housing block towering over empty green fields pleased me but so did the spire of St Mary's Church. Built in 1841 by George Gilbert Scott. One of his early works before he made his name with the likes of the Albert Memorial, St Pancras station and the Midland Hotel that's attached to that station.

A circuitous route followed, roughly, the bends of the river Brent and looked across at a maze, a playground, and (apparently) a zipwire before we dipped down to cross the Brent and passed through the middle of Brent Valley Golf Club. Always with the golf clubs, eh. This time the golfers refrained from bantz but a father did reprimand his son for stopping to let us pass. He should be more assertive apparently. Parenting in the age of Donald Trump and Boris Johnson. Do what you like. Fuck everyone else.

The next open space was called Bittern's Fields and, pretty though it was, the highlights were an almost natural tunnel made by the trees and a nature board in which a seemingly outraged butterfly spotter could take no more the confusion between the meadow brown butterfly and the brown argus. I checked the Internet. That's a brown argus alright.

At Greenford Bridge we should have passed through Perivale Park but, somehow, made our first wrong turn of the day (already an hour late to meet Ian) and, instead, followed the Brent for longer than we should have done by the side of a garden planted with a very colourful mix of flowers. Even a beautiful sunflower or two.

Calling Shep, who was steaming ahead, back, we corrected ourselves by passing by South Greenford station and, after crossing the busy A40 Western Avenue by footbridge, followed some roads and rubbish strewn footpaths (some of the only genuine urban walking of the day) past Northolt Rugby Football Club, and, finally - it'd been a far more testing stretch than I had planned for, into Greenford.

Ian had located himself in a pub called The Black Horse so we picked up, once again, the Grand Union Canal, and joined him there. Being Ian he had, of course, made several friends when we arrived and was deep in conversation with an Indian chap about the Keralan town of Varkala. It had started raining by this point but our garden seats were sheltered by large parasols and we enjoyed a couple more pints, gin for Pam, in the garden. It was nice to put our feet up, the last couple of miles had been tough, and The Black Horse proved to be the third, and final, of the day's lovely pubs. Even if Shep had more difficulty choosing a drink than I think I've ever witnessed before.

By the time we left it was dark but I'd booked a table at Crispy Dosa 100% Pure Vegetarian Restaurant. From the outside it didn't look any great shakes but it was fantastic. One of those places that keeps the lights on full and seems to exist more for the local Indian community than beer consuming walkers like ourselves, at 9pm at night (except for the owners and their kids) we were the only ones in there so we grabbed a round of Kingfisher beers and the food came when, not before or after, it was ready.

I had delicious idly dipped in sambar and chutney and a cheese paper dosa, Shep a paneer paper dosa, Ian some delicious cassava mogo, and Pam had tadka daal and paratha. We all agreed the food was superb, the service was friendly, prompt, and unobtrusive and the bill was extraordinarly reasonable. £15 each doesn't seem much to pay for such a tasty meal when you chuck in one large beer each.

The temptation of an extra pint in nearby Moloney's Bar was extinguished when I realised I'd probably miss the last tube home so, as Shep sped off ahead and Ian cycled off towards the canal, me and Pam worked our way back to Greenford tube station via a road called Uneeda Drive which, considering the inaccessibility of the place, just seemed to be rubbing it in.

I'd not been on to the tube since I came back from Reading after seeing Stewart Lee in the middle of March (158 days) so it was an event to be back on it. Although not a particularly exciting one and quite a hot one with a mask on. I changed at Bond Street for the Jubilee which took me to London Bridge. A train from there took me to Honor Oak Park and as my sore legs, now from walking and not gout, took me up the hill to my flat the clock struck midnight.

I'd walked 34,451 steps that day but more than that I'd walk a bit more happiness into my life and I like to think the others did the same for themselves too. It'd been a great day, I'd remarked how each walk (even this far down the line) always manages to reveal something different - a surprise of sorts, and it had been a day that made me feel good about life, good about London, and even, in these still very uncertain times, hesitantly positive about the future.

Soon, we'll be back in Greenford and from there we'll continue on to South Kenton and, eventually, Hendon Park. It's another area I'm not familiar with but I'm confident that it will prove to be both interesting and enlightening in ways I can't yet imagine. Before that though, and for the first time since March, TADS are back in action on the August bank holiday weekend. I will turn 52 on the Friday and, as if going back to my roots, my first walk as a 52yr old will be in South Wales. We'll be going from Chepstow to Monmouth via Tintern Abbey. It'll be beautiful, there's no doubt about that. But, it turns out, Hanwell, Isleworth, and Greenford are surprisingly beautiful in their own special ways too.