Walking the Lea Valley 0: PREMATURE-LEA Houghton Regis → Leagrave(2 miles)
The windscreen wipers are working overtime. I'm aboard a bus meandering around the blander outskirts of Luton, relieved to be safely enclosed as a rainstorm deposits its worst overhead. Through identikit estates, picking up soaking pensioners and dropping off soon-to-be sodden pushchairs. After several unnecessary diversions the driver opens his doors and deposits me beneath a welcoming shelter. All around me the rain is puddling across impenetrable tarmac and snaking off in search of underground drainage. It is a good day to be a river.
Houghton Regis isn't somewhere you'd ever go without good reason. Once a backwater Saxon village, it was swallowed up in the 1960s by characterless housing overspill and lives on as a none-too-thrilling outpost of nearby Dunstable. The medieval parish church survived, but the 15th century Tithe Barn was replaced by an especially bleak concrete shopping centre whose only redeeming feature is that it was opened by Hattie Jacques. Across the street is the village green, formerly the site of an ornamental lake in the private grounds of Houghton Hall. The lake's long since been removed, but a watery trace remains beneath the trees beyond the cricket pavilion. For it's here, emerging from a pipe below a grassy bank, that the first dribbles of the River Lea's uppermost tributary can be found [photo]. The official source, go figure, is still two miles downstream.
Having arrived after a prolonged downpour, my experience of the Houghton Brook was of a fast and (relatively) deep stream. The channel's deep enough to cope, but I suspect its hourly flow is usually far less impressive. I followed the river by following the main Dunstable to Luton cycleway - along the back of some houses, across a feeder road and out into a larger open space. My map showed the main path continuing through semi-impenetrable undergrowth. I braved the brambles as far as seemed sensible, but the sight of a fox and the unmistakable smell of weed drove me back to seek a diversion. It was at this point, as I entered a completely exposed section of scrubland beneath fizzing electricpylons, that the rainstorm returned for an encore performance. I battled on, past the built-up ends of far flung cul-de-sacs, getting steadily more drenched with every step. To my right the river gurgled and grew.
The cycleway curved across the valley, crossing the empty nomansland between neighbouring estates [photo]. Town planners might once have thought otherwise, but this lonely track was nowhere I'd consider walking after dark. Then, right on cue as the rain eased and the sun came out, the brook headed off into adjacent farmland with a more-than-tempting footpath alongside. And this was gorgeous. The swollen stream skirted the edge of a rolling cornfield, starkly illuminated against the threatening sky [photo]. Its blossoming banks provided a safe haven for passing wildlife, and I was treated to a delightful succession of flowering orchids, some pink, some white [photo]. I'll let you know if I change my mind, but I suspect this half-mile stretch will be my favourite along the entire river. Almost perfect, at least were it not for the roaring motorway careering past atop a screened embankment.
The M1: Britain's first full-length motorway opened in 1959 between St Albans and Rugby. Traffic was considerably lighter 50 years ago, and drivers enjoyed the unexpected freedom of their futuristic highway. The M1's architecture was cutting-edge, all concrete bridges and curling flyovers, most of which survive until smoothing the flow with widened carriageways becomes more important. The M1 heads through Luton in an elevated canyon, safely hidden from view, with the Lea marking the northern boundary into neighbouring Beds. The river disappears into a nine-sided tunnel beneath the traffic, with pedestrians and cycles diverted through a wide subway to the south. Next time you drive by, remember the intricate infrastructure beneath, linking together what was here before the car carved through.
Walking the Lea Valley
Houghton Regis isn't somewhere you'd ever go without good reason. Once a backwater Saxon village, it was swallowed up in the 1960s by characterless housing overspill and lives on as a none-too-thrilling outpost of nearby Dunstable. The medieval parish church survived, but the 15th century Tithe Barn was replaced by an especially bleak concrete shopping centre whose only redeeming feature is that it was opened by Hattie Jacques. Across the street is the village green, formerly the site of an ornamental lake in the private grounds of Houghton Hall. The lake's long since been removed, but a watery trace remains beneath the trees beyond the cricket pavilion. For it's here, emerging from a pipe below a grassy bank, that the first dribbles of the River Lea's uppermost tributary can be found [photo]. The official source, go figure, is still two miles downstream.
Having arrived after a prolonged downpour, my experience of the Houghton Brook was of a fast and (relatively) deep stream. The channel's deep enough to cope, but I suspect its hourly flow is usually far less impressive. I followed the river by following the main Dunstable to Luton cycleway - along the back of some houses, across a feeder road and out into a larger open space. My map showed the main path continuing through semi-impenetrable undergrowth. I braved the brambles as far as seemed sensible, but the sight of a fox and the unmistakable smell of weed drove me back to seek a diversion. It was at this point, as I entered a completely exposed section of scrubland beneath fizzing electric pylons, that the rainstorm returned for an encore performance. I battled on, past the built-up ends of far flung cul-de-sacs, getting steadily more drenched with every step. To my right the river gurgled and grew.
The M1: Britain's first full-length motorway opened in 1959 between St Albans and Rugby. Traffic was considerably lighter 50 years ago, and drivers enjoyed the unexpected freedom of their futuristic highway. The M1's architecture was cutting-edge, all concrete bridges and curling flyovers, most of which survive until smoothing the flow with widened carriageways becomes more important. The M1 heads through Luton in an elevated canyon, safely hidden from view, with the Lea marking the northern boundary into neighbouring Beds. The river disappears into a nine-sided tunnel beneath the traffic, with pedestrians and cycles diverted through a wide subway to the south. Next time you drive by, remember the intricate infrastructure beneath, linking together what was here before the car carved through.
