It is, quite frankly, astonishing that so large an area of unspoilt heathland should still exist just four miles from central London. Hampstead Heath covers 800 acres of prime quality real estate, and yet it's covered not by houses but by grass, trees and wildlife (and slightly dodgy blokes after dark). It nearly wasn't so. In the early 1800s most of Hampstead Heath was owned by lord of the manor Sir Thomas Maryon Wilson. He was keen to make a sizeable fortune by selling off his land for development, but the required Act of Parliament was stopped in its tracks by an outcry in the Commons. Sir Thomas tried again and again over the next 40 years, but was always thwarted by local public opinion. On his death in 1869 his estate was promptly snapped up by the Metropolitan Board of Works for the princely sum of £45000, plus £2000 expenses. Many further acquisitions were made, extending still further the area of protected land, and the preservation of this unique heathland habitat is now the responsibility of the Corporation of London.
You just can't beat the pleasure of a stroll across Hampstead Heath in the summer sunshine. Maybe you'll head for the open grassland, perhaps you prefer the wooded undergrowth, or maybe you'll just follow one of the well-worn paths and see where it takes you. It's even possible to find remote areas well away from the picnickers, the kite fliers and the dogwalkers if you look carefully enough, usually up on the highest ground in the centre of the heath. And the view can be spectacular, either across the Fleet valley towards the summit of Highgate or (more popularly) south from Parliament Hill towards the meandering Thames. It's only up here, with such an impressive panorama spread out before you, that you begin to realise just how wide central London really is. Can the Gherkin and the Post Office Tower really be quite so far apart? Apparently so.
There's a new attraction on the slopes of Parliament Hill this summer - a Jack and the Beanstalk sized desk and chair. It's contemporary art, obviously - a 30 foot tall wooden installation by Italian artist Giancarlo Neri entitled The Writer. Giancarlo describes his work as "a monument to the loneliness of the writer", which I can relate to, then ruins the illusion by adding that he "challenges the notion of the writer's inherently private workplace by installing it in the most public of contexts", which is clearly artistic bollocks. The piece looks impressive from a distance and has proved a magnet for flocks of heathgoers who come to stare, touch or just sit and eat sandwiches at its feet. Close up the wood looks a little cheaper and less sturdy although, judging by the graffiti on the side of the tabletop, it's strong enough for an (illiterate) hooligan to climb right up to the summit.
Reviewing the Fleet
It is, quite frankly, astonishing that so large an area of unspoilt heathland should still exist just four miles from central London. Hampstead Heath covers 800 acres of prime quality real estate, and yet it's covered not by houses but by grass, trees and wildlife (and slightly dodgy blokes after dark). It nearly wasn't so. In the early 1800s most of Hampstead Heath was owned by lord of the manor Sir Thomas Maryon Wilson. He was keen to make a sizeable fortune by selling off his land for development, but the required Act of Parliament was stopped in its tracks by an outcry in the Commons. Sir Thomas tried again and again over the next 40 years, but was always thwarted by local public opinion. On his death in 1869 his estate was promptly snapped up by the Metropolitan Board of Works for the princely sum of £45000, plus £2000 expenses. Many further acquisitions were made, extending still further the area of protected land, and the preservation of this unique heathland habitat is now the responsibility of the Corporation of London.
There's a new attraction on the slopes of Parliament Hill this summer - a Jack and the Beanstalk sized desk and chair. It's contemporary art, obviously - a 30 foot tall wooden installation by Italian artist Giancarlo Neri entitled The Writer. Giancarlo describes his work as "a monument to the loneliness of the writer", which I can relate to, then ruins the illusion by adding that he "challenges the notion of the writer's inherently private workplace by installing it in the most public of contexts", which is clearly artistic bollocks. The piece looks impressive from a distance and has proved a magnet for flocks of heathgoers who come to stare, touch or just sit and eat sandwiches at its feet. Close up the wood looks a little cheaper and less sturdy although, judging by the graffiti on the side of the tabletop, it's strong enough for an (illiterate) hooligan to climb right up to the summit.
Reviewing the Fleet
It is, quite frankly, astonishing that so large an area of unspoilt heathland should still exist just four miles from central London. 
There's a 