However close to civilisation the milestone in High Street may suggest, most Londoners have never ventured out to Henbrook. You won't find this charming suburb on any railway map of the capital - territorial Victorian landowners saw to that - but that's the way the residents seem to like it. House prices round here certainly reflect Henbrook's unique mix of community and exclusivity. To the west of town, surrounding the recreation ground, stand row upon row of elegant Edwardian terraces. Out east, in contrast, there's considerable council overspill, as well as the famous Stephenson Estate with its Art Deco brick façades. But continued outward sprawl has blurred the borders between Henbrook and the surrounding commuter belt, and some fear that the entire neighbourhood now risks losing its identity.
It was Henry VIII who first brought the area to prominence, although all trace of his royal palace has long since disappeared. It was here that Anne of Cleves lived out her last pre-divorce summer, banished to what was then the heart of the Middlesex countryside. Residents in Aragon Avenue still occasionally claim to find valuable gold coins and pottery buried in their gardens, but experts remain divided as to its authenticity. More tangible are the stumpy remains of the windmill on the slopes overlooking the old village green. Previous inhabitants of this unusual residence include Henrietta Banks, widow of the second Londoner to be killed by the new-fangled motor car, and an early campaigner for road safety. She would no doubt be pleased by the many speed bumps recently installed down Mount Hill, although I suspect local petrol-heads (and bus passengers) find their number somewhat excessive.
Henbrook is named after the river that threads through the centre of town - now more a concrete flood channel than an idyllic pastoral stream. More of the river used to be visible until half of the town was built on top of it. From the tunnel mouth in Kings Park the water continues underground for several meandering miles, before eventually joining up with another of the Thames's vanished subterranean tributaries. According to local tradition if you stand at the entrance to the tunnel at sunrise on midsummer morning it's still possible to hear the screams of two children murdered in the long-gone water mill several centuries ago - although I suspect this tale owes more to alcohol and screeching cats than having any basis in reality.
John Betjeman was a regular visitor to the town, and to St Luke's Church in particular. He loved the half-timbered nave with its ornately carved font, and often attended Evensong when his busy schedule allowed. A commemorative plaque in the Lady Chapel remembers a poem he wrote in respectful tribute.
"She lifts the latch and nips inside, Her yellow duster raised in prayer; The brass will gleam, the pew will shine, And lilies by the chancel stair." Henbrook Pride (1955)
One further direct link to the past is Henbrook Fair, held every year on the second Sunday in September. Founded by royal charter in 1638, this annual celebration still attracts considerable crowds to the streets of the Old Town. Nowadays the dog show is the biggest draw, but for many it's still the Apple Hurling contest that provides the highlight of the day. The event begins, as in olden times, with a carefully selected adolescent maiden picking "the golden-est apple" from Lord Milton's Orchard. Two teams, one from each side of the river, then compete to propel the harvested fruit across town without letting it touch the ground. Shops and businesses board up their windows in preparation before the procession passes through, although these days this is more to prevent asbo-centric adolescents from doing too much damage. Sadly the Applepip Princess went uncrowned this year after the foot and mouth crisis put paid to the event.
Despite the best efforts of Henbrook's elected representatives, this is no pastoral Arcadia. The multi-storey car park behind Woolworths casts a nasty 70s blot on the town centre, and the graffiti on the bus shelter in Mulberry Lane tells its own sorry story. There are pound shops in the High Street now, and even a couple of kebab emporia in the less desirable corners of town. Knife crime is on the increase, as is car theft, and the community centre runs self defence classes for fearful pensioners. As the sorry woes of the capital continue to encroach upon this overlooked location, residents fear that one day Henbrook might fade away altogether, as if it had never existed.
However close to civilisation the milestone in High Street may suggest, most Londoners have never ventured out to Henbrook. You won't find this charming suburb on any railway map of the capital - territorial Victorian landowners saw to that - but that's the way the residents seem to like it. House prices round here certainly reflect Henbrook's unique mix of community and exclusivity. To the west of town, surrounding the recreation ground, stand row upon row of elegant Edwardian terraces. Out east, in contrast, there's considerable council overspill, as well as the famous Stephenson Estate with its Art Deco brick façades. But continued outward sprawl has blurred the borders between Henbrook and the surrounding commuter belt, and some fear that the entire neighbourhood now risks losing its identity.
Henbrook is named after the river that threads through the centre of town - now more a concrete flood channel than an idyllic pastoral stream. More of the river used to be visible until half of the town was built on top of it. From the tunnel mouth in Kings Park the water continues underground for several meandering miles, before eventually joining up with another of the Thames's vanished subterranean tributaries. According to local tradition if you stand at the entrance to the tunnel at sunrise on midsummer morning it's still possible to hear the screams of two children murdered in the long-gone water mill several centuries ago - although I suspect this tale owes more to alcohol and screeching cats than having any basis in reality.
One further direct link to the past is Henbrook Fair, held every year on the second Sunday in September. Founded by royal charter in 1638, this annual celebration still attracts considerable crowds to the streets of the Old Town. Nowadays the dog show is the biggest draw, but for many it's still the Apple Hurling contest that provides the highlight of the day. The event begins, as in olden times, with a carefully selected adolescent maiden picking "the golden-est apple" from Lord Milton's Orchard. Two teams, one from each side of the river, then compete to propel the harvested fruit across town without letting it touch the ground. Shops and businesses board up their windows in preparation before the procession passes through, although these days this is more to prevent asbo-centric adolescents from doing too much damage. Sadly the Applepip Princess went uncrowned this year after the foot and mouth crisis put paid to the event.
