You know how some some companies provide a service you really like, and find useful, and value? They provide what you need, and they don't add lots of extra bits you don't need (or, if they do, you can opt out). Their service may not be cutting edge, but it works and it's reliable and it's provided with minimum fuss.
And then they announce a change, an upgrade, an 'improvement'. And you look at what they're offering and your heart sinks, because in your eyes the enhancement is a retrograde step. Something you don't need is being added, something you find very important is being amended, and something you completely relied on is being taken away.
This would be what's happening to Haloscan comments. Changing, upgrading, 'improving'. I am not pleased.
Let's backtrack a bit. Haloscan's been around for years, emerging back in the days when Blogger and other blogging platforms didn't provide a commenting service, so users had to add their own. Haloscan did what it had to do, and not a lot else. It enabled conversation where there was none, and it grew, and it thrived. But Haloscan was always an amateur service and eventually running it became too much. The service stagnated, rudderless - still functional but barely maintained. And then last year a young and thrusting company called JS-Kit came along and rescued Haloscan, and all its users, and the entire comments database. Hurrah! And yet not hurrah.
JS-Kit are very young and very thrusting. They have a mission statement("Think only the biggest sites can afford to offer a truly dynamic and interactive online experience? Think again!"). They have a vision("we make sites more interactive and social through lightweight, snap-on features"). And they have a new comments service called Echo.
Echo is completely unlike the ancient static textbox provided by Haloscan. Echo is evolutionary, Echo is dynamic, and Echo is fully integrated. "Publishers can quickly embed Echo on any site and turn their static pages into a real-time stream of diggs, tweets, comments, ratings and more." Yes, it's that different (see here for a flavour of the difference).
Echo's not perfect yet, it's still in Public Beta. It's a bit flash, so it takes longer to load. It's not yet available in a pop-up box, so it has to be embedded into the page. All existing JS-Kit subscribers have been upgraded already, with minimal advance warning. And all existing Haloscan users are also going to be upgraded to Echo, whether we want to be or not.
I'm in the 'not' camp. I'm perfectly happy with a pop-up box with text in it. I don't think this blog will be enhanced by a dynamic stream of interactive comments embedded into the page. I like small and simple, not intrusive and complex. For me, it's the words that are important, not any surrounding noise. But that's not an option, apparently. All legacy comment modes will be de-operationalised, all archived posts will be switched across, and Echo will take over. I'm not quite sure of the timing - could be imminent, could be within a couple of months. But change is a-coming, and apparently it's unstoppable.
I am not happy. And below is the precise moment when I got very worried indeed:
JS-Kit's staff are prone to hype and hyperbole, repeatedly declaring that their system is marvellous. They're also blind to any criticism. Don't like the new system? You're wrong. Want to modify the basics? Sorry, that would compromise structural integrity. Want to keep the old templates? You can't. Either you adapt your blog to use Echo, or bad luck, you're stuffed.
If I read the FAQ properly, my blog isn't compatible with Echo. I'm using an old Blogger template, and I can't use Blogger widgets, and I don't have post pages enabled, so I could only upgrade to Echo by ditching my current set-up. But it'll be better, say JS-Kit. But why should I change just because you don't allow the alternative, says I. But it'll be better, say JS-Kit. QED, I lose.
So, just a warning. If you have Haloscan comments, or if you use them anywhere (like here), then they'll be changing. And if you turn up here one day and comments have vanished, then I may be searching for somewhere else to put them.
"You're looking well." No, I'm not. I'm looking a bit tanned, that's all. I've been outdoors more than usual, and the weather's been good, and I've caught the sun. Blame Blackpool. It wasn't deliberate, I didn't intend to end up this way, it just happened. I'm not looking well, I'm just lightly charred.
"You're looking good." No, I'm not. You're basing that assumption on a slight change in skin colour, which ought to have nothing whatsoever to do with my external desirability. You're just jealous you're not this brown yourself. You've been stuck in the office while I've been on leave, and my colour reminds you of our inequality. Plus you go that awkward shade of red, whereas my body tends to go more olive than beetroot. Lucky me.
"You're looking healthy." No, I'm not. I've been absorbing ultraviolet and oxidising my melanin. I've been burning off cells and micro-wrinkling. I've been ageing prematurely, increasing my risk of a nasty skin condition and reducing my life expectancy. It's only society that considers the brown look healthy, whereas medical science would suggest otherwise.
"You're looking well." No, I'm not. I'm looking exactly the same, but darker. If I'd thought more carefully I could have prevented this - maybe worn a hat, maybe worn something with longer sleeves, maybe rubbed in a gallon of suncream, maybe not gone out in the heat of the afternoon at all. But it didn't look especially sunny when I set out, and I didn't want to look a wally, so I left myself exposed.
"You're looking brown." No, I'm not. Only parts of me are looking brown - the parts you can see. The rest of me's still the same pasty white as ever. My arms change colour two-thirds of the way up. My legs are just as pale as ever, because I don't believe in shorts. There's a bleached ring of skin around my left wrist where my watch always sits. My neck and chest are in sharp contrast. Uncovered, I look bloody stupid.
"You're looking tanned." Yes, I am. But please don't be fooled into thinking that this tan suddenly makes me a better person, or healthier, or happier. Your sudden interest in my appearance is only skin deep. You're only enquiring about what I did at the weekend because I'm brown. I'm only interesting to you because I'm the right side of burnt.
"You're looking well." No, I'm not. Quite the opposite, actually. Hopefully I'll be looking normal again soon.
The Pleasure Beach: For many, the whole point of going to Blackpool is to spend time at the Pleasure Beach. Lots of time, because there's tons to do. And lots of money, because fun doesn't come cheap. A day pass costs anywhere between £20 and £32 depending on the season (it was £30 at the weekend) but for that you get to go on everything as many times as you like come on, shall we go round again, yeah again, again, again! Plan in advance, book online and that's only £20. Even getting inside merely to look at stuff, which used to be free, now costs a fiver. This is Britain's most popular paid-for attraction, so I guess the owners must be raking it in. But stay for a full day and you should get more than your money's worth.
And it's not just rollercoasters. There's a monorail, and Edwardian Flying Machines, and several restaurants, and ice skating, and an Art Deco casino, and the Grumbleweeds, and even some dancing fountains. But mostly it's about the rollercoasters. Here's three...
i) The Big One: It's the ride for which Blackpool is famous - no longer the world's tallest rollercoaster but still holder of the European record. The BigOne's first drop's more than 200 metres down, inclined at 65 degrees, tipping riders over the top at 3½g. Obviously only a thrill-seeking nutter would choose to perch precariously in the sky on a steel frame for kicks. I queued up and took my chances. The line wiggled round the giant Pepsi can at the start of the ride, giving us a good view of the ascent, then entered the slightly damp-smelling embarkation chamber. Where to sit? At the back, obviously, where the over-the-top yank effect is at its greatest. And then the dawning realisation, as the coaster trundled round to begin its 45 second climb, that there was no backing out now. The rest of the park was laid out below as we teetered up to the top and ohmigod ohmigod that's fast how steep ohmiohmigod a twist this is so steep i'm plummeting down hey nearly there cor whoosh that was fun woohoo climbing back up again up up i know what's neeeeeext ohmigod wheee urrrrr how fast are we going round this curve hell i hope we stay on we did and dooooooown again hey hey this is great ooh oh hell hehehe fab etc etc. I had a very dry mouth when I got off, but sadly nobody was selling Diet Cokes near the exit. [video] ii) The Grand National: A full 60 years older than the Big One is this special wooden double coaster, where two trains race each other round an extremely undulating course. The 'race' begins beneath the "They're Off" sign, then it's over Becher's (up, float, down), Valentine's (up, float, down) and the Canal Turn (up, float, down) before the sprint to the finish. Modern metal rides keep you tied to the track, whereas a vintage woody gives you flashes of elusive 'air time'. At the end of the ride each train brakes into the opposite platform to that from which it departed - this is one of only three remaining Möbius Loop rollercoasters in the world. And yes, obviously I was aboard the train that won. I'd have had to go round again otherwise. [video] iii) The Big Dipper: Another jiggly oldwooden coaster, this time dating back to 1923 (but sssh, please don't mention last night's crash in which 32 people were injured) (bit close that)
Louis Tussaud's Waxworks: For another quintessential Blackpool experience, nothing's quite so entertaining as a collection of not quite convincing waxworks. The Del Boy and Rodney in the ticket hall provide a pretty good idea of what lies ahead, but they're nothing compared to some of the sights inside. The celebrity foyer is a real pick'n'mix of credibility. Posh beats Becks, for example, and (in a rare outcome) Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen completely thrashes both Tom Hanks and Tom Cruise. As for Elton John, I thought he looked more like my eldest cousin, and Whoopi Goldberg's realism was mainly down to a well-selected wimple. Upstairs is an adventurous zone (the Titanic and Leo are equally wooden), followed by a sporting cavalcade where ten dummies (including a second Becks) are spaced out to try to fill a room. If you're a Corrie fan you'll love the replica Rover's Return, complete with Ena out front and hotpots served from the cafe behind, although I ranked their Bet Lynch the second least convincing waxwork in the entire show. There's a room full of top musical stars (for a change, Michael Jackson was more realistic then the real thing), then a sad room where all the cast-offs from earlier seasons go to die (Enoch Powell's on the shelf, as are Larry Hagman and the Duchess of York). The Royal Room's a hoot, from a tentative Obama round to a smiling Diana. Slip on the cape provided and you can even have your photo taken with the Queen (I watched a granny place the crown over her baseball cap, for that very special look). Thatcher, Blair and Major are on display ("Mummy, who's John Major?" asked a passing 12 year-old) but, tellingly, there's no sign of Gordon Brown. A few final Hollywood moments (including the most ghastly Spock - that's my bottom of the barrel), then down into a really quite extensive Chamber of Horrors. I had the atmospheric basement all to myself - just me, some movie demons and the world's nastiest serial killers. OK, so the whole building was full of horrors, but I wouldn't have missed it.
The Doctor Who Exhibition: I've had a hankering to go round this museum ever since the Saturday teatime BBC1 continuity announcers revealed its existence back in the 1970s. Sadly it didn't live up to expectations. A nasty fire at Longleat ten years ago destroyed many of the Time Lord's props and foes, and those that remain have a distinctly underwhelming feel. All your favourite stories from the mid 1980s are represented (like, er, the Paradise Towers swimming pool cleaning robot), which means today's kids and most of their mums and dads must leave scratching their heads. Sure there are Daleks and Slitheen and Cybermen, and there are even the various doctors' original costumes plus Bessie the flying car. But most of the dimly-lit cases were full of stuff I only remembered, not loved. Could somebody please invent time travel and go get the old monsters back?
Brilliance: And finally, the latest weapon in Blackpool's entertainment arsenal, which I stumbled upon in the town centre on Saturday evening whilst hunting for a cashpoint. There were lights and music blaring from an unassuming street, and when I turned the corner the entire road was ablaze with flashing pink and pounding tunes. Blackpool town council have installed six giant silver arches along the middle of the street, each with twirling projectors attached, and the plan is to put on a show every evening during the Illuminations to lure pedestrians into the town. Goodness knows why they chose to site 'Brilliance' in Birley Street - its nightlife appeared to be nil - but maybe there'll be more life here at six in October rather than half past nine in August. For several glorious minutes a Pet Shop Boys medley exploded over my head, and I stood in mute amazement at the volume, cheek and bravado. The lightshow switched from green lights to pink beams to purple shimmers, and the music segued seamlessly from West End Girls to Being Boring to Go West. I adored the emptiness - it was like arriving early at a club as the DJ cranks up the speakers before the crowds appear. I think unseen engineers were testing the system (oh boy, it worked), but I hope Brilliance attracts an audience larger than ten in the autumn.
Seaside postcard: Blackpool Britain's most popular seaside resort isn't quite as popular as it once was. Gone are the days when Lancashire milltowns decamped to the Golden Mile for Wakes Week, and long past is the time when millions of Britons preferred the Irish Sea coast to the Med. But I'd never been to Blackpool before, so I thought it was about time I found out what I've been missing. The seafront swarmed with hens and stags, the town was crawling with festival-goingpunk rockers, and the sun shone all weekend (until it was time to catch the train home). For a couple of days at least, Blackpool rocked.
The Golden Mile: One thing you soon learn on visiting Blackpool is how long it is. Far longer than Brighton, much longer than Great Yarmouth, more like ten Weston Super-Mares all bolted together. You'll be at one end of the town (say the Tower) wanting to get to the other (say the Pleasure Beach), and you'll sigh as you realise just how far away it is. You could get a bus, or more enjoyably atram, if your feet aren't up to the journey. There are horse-drawn landaus, at a price, if you fancy clopping your way from pierhead to pierhead, or perhaps a mobility scooter is the way to go. But more enjoyable to walk, at least the first few times, until the whole thing starts to become more of a regular ordeal. The northern end of the Golden Mile is all about beer, food and entertainment. Some bars advertise themselves as hen-friendly, others prefer to aim for the thick-waisted family audience. Smiley reps hang around near the Central Pier trying to flog wristbands to weekend trippers, while one amusement arcade attempts to lure punters inside with a 10p cuppa. Further south the Mile turns to hotels and guest houses - the mere tip of an accommodation iceberg stretching back for several streets behind. This being August, the town's famous illuminations are already hanging across the street awaiting the big switch-on next month. They run in themed chunks - Hawaiian girls here, mermaids there, even some Tardises and a big gold dalek. Alan Carr's turning them on, which probably gives you a fairly good clue as to whether the event's worth attending or not. And the lights run not just for a golden mile but for a glittering six, because Blackpool really is very long indeed.
The Tower: There's a lot more to Blackpool Tower than just the Tower. They don't sell tickets for a quick ride to the top and back oh no, you have to negotiate your way through the entire complex, at £12 a time, before you find the 6th floor lift. First the ground floor aquarium, which is the oldest part of the complex and quite frankly looks it. Far more impressive is the legendary Tower Ballroom, home to many a Come Dancing final, which fair takes the breath away as you first step inside. It's a huge space with ornate ceiling and scalloped balconies, below which clusters of tables are arranged around a central dancefloor. The on-stage organist holds court, announcing each rumba and quickstep to entice the surrounding couples up for a twirl. They don't need much of an excuse. Up they come to display their talents, gliding as a simultaneous whole before slipping back to their tables for a welcome cup of tea and slice of cake. For many, this is retirement heaven.
For other visitors, there's still a motley sequence of additional rooms to trawl through. The Jurassic Walk, for example, where a selection of unconvincing animatronic dinosaurs growl at passers by along a dimly-lit back passage. Then there's the Charlie Cairoli exhibition, in memory of the Tower Circus's most famous clown (does the the present incumbent, Mooky, have his own CBBC show? I think not). There's a restaurant with all the least appealing features of a provincial department store cafeteria, as well as a seaview terrace (currently with a really dreadful sea view while the promenade is dug up and the town's flood defences strengthened). And finally there's the lift, running once every five minutes, to crank you up through the rusty metal frame to the observation platforms above. There are four elevated storeys to explore - linked by ancient spiral staircase - three of them open to the elements with only a metal mesh for protection. I was most fortunate with the weather, enjoying fine viewsacrossBlackpool to the Lake District and Liverpool, but not quite as far as the Isle of Man.
The Piers: Blackpool's the only seaside resort in Britain with three piers. The South Pier used to be the posh one, but the burnt-out Royal Pavilion has been replaced by a white knuckle ride and the Regal Theatre is now an amusement arcade. Central Pier is a cast iron affair with a Ferris Wheel at the centre and a funfair at the end. But the oldest, and most elegant, is the North Pier which dates back to the summer of 1863. Still the perfect spot for a leisurely promenade, there's a theatre and carousel at the far end and a mass ofrusting legs underneath.
The Beach: Once you've seen Blackpool's sandy beach, you'll wonder why you ever put up with Brighton's pebbly foreshore. Miles of golden sand, stretching so far down to the sea at low tide that there'd be plenty of room for everyone even if everyone turned up. But the tide's not out forever. It creeps in surprisingly fast, gradually rising up the beach until the Irish Sea is beating against the sea wall and newly-installed stepped terrace. Desperate children might find one last tiny patch of sand to defend, but overtopping is inevitable and that's the entire beach vanished for a couple of hours. I'm sure those are the hours that proprietors along the Golden Mile enjoy the most.
The Airshow: On Sunday afternoon (100 years after holding Britain's first airshow) Blackpool boasted a very special two-hour aerialdisplay. Fine weather brought miles of crowds to the seafront, and we were treated to wing-walking, a WW2 flypast, a rare appearance by a Vulcanbomber and the RedArrows. Wish you were here?
Walking the Lea Valley 3: WEIRED-LEA East Hyde → Harpenden → Wheathampstead(4 miles)
Much of the upper Lea Valley Walk has nothing to do with the Lea and everything to do with the valley. That's because the river is frequently sealed off inside private land, and there's no way the owners are letting hikers and bikers tramp across their beloved property. To the northwest of Harpenden the culprit is farmland, with the wiggling Lea hedged off for the benefit of nibbling horses and grazing cows. On the outskirts of the town it's a none-too characterful industrial estate, then the local allotment society who've captured the river for their multifarious vegetative purposes. But the next stretch, around Batford, has been reclaimed for the enjoyment of all. And it's here that the idea of the Lea Valley Walk began.
Back in 1953 a local conservation group sprang up with the avowed intent to maintain Harpenden's Lea-side open space as a "green lung" for the town. Volunteers cleared derelict land, planted trees and reconstructed a series of weirs, transforming half a mile of riverside in the process. They were the Upper Lea Valley Group, and they also inaugurated the ULV Walk from Luton downwards. If engaging in active manual tasks isn't your thing, you can always enjoy the fruits of the group's labours. A series of stepping stones cross the braided river at various points [photo], but step carefully otherwise you'll slip into the raging torrent and look a bit of an idiot. I teetered perhaps rather too carefully beneath the weir, only to be followed across by a nimble pensioner and his unflustered dog.
Then onward via another section of secluded disused railway. I passed a bunch of friendly bird-watchers, no doubt politely fuming that I'd unintentionally disturbed all the wildlife along the strip they were about to walk down. All was going well until the path suddenly stopped at a fallen tree, with no way past other than to clamber high over a slippery ivy-clad trunk. A minute later I passed a cyclist who offered a cheery "Good morning" as he proceeded unaware towards this unseen obstruction. I never saw him return, but I doubt he appreciated the extra frame-humping required to continue on his way.
At Leasey Bridge a cattery has been built across the old railway line, so the walk is forced to climb to a much higher level via the front garden of an unfortunate bungalow. There were pleasant views from one slope across to the other - nothing particularly unusual for a rural valley, but rather special to a contour-deprived Londoner like myself [photo]. Parallel rows of cosy rooftops peeped above the treeline, while two teams of tiny orange ants could be seen playing slanted football in the distance. Regular notices along the farmland footpath warned ramblers that the surrounding hayfields were "private land keep out". Having heard the farmer's wife barking orders at her horse-riding daughters in the upper paddock, I took special care not to venture off the path.
Wheathampstead next - a quaint cottagy Hertfordshire town with several acres of more modern housing estates attached. St Helen's church is particularly fine, its 13th century tower topped off with a twin-tapered Victorian spire [photo]. The Lea Valley Walk crossed the churchyard (busy with communion-goers and grave-tenders as I passed), then descended the HighStreet to the river. A small weir diverted water down a gushing sidestream, while the main flow sped beneath the mill (now home to arty workshops and boutiques) to emerge in a broad pool beside The Bull public house [photo]. Below the bridge was a small concealed quayside, recently added by the town council to allow weary souls (or more likely can-swilling alcoholics) to stop and admire the river's reeds and ripples.
Nomansland: A mile south of Wheathampstead, in the Harpenden Dry Valley, there's an elevated patch of infertile ground stripped by post-glacial meltwater. No farmer would claim it, so it's been grazed as common land since medieval times. Part of it is forest, part is open heathland, and one corner's a cricket pitch. The pub by the crossroads is called the Wicked Lady in memory of a masked 17th century highwaywoman, and it's easy to imagine her on horseback stalking the remote lanes across the common.
These days Nomansland is a pleasant enough spot for an afternoon stroll, but it wouldn't have been worth the lengthy diversion from my Lea walk were it not for one important thing. Because it was here 50 years ago, in a tented village on this unlikely upland heath, that my parents first met. And it seemed only right to make a first pilgrimage to the same-ish spot, given that I wouldn't be here today had events played out differently. The first people I saw on arrival were a courting couple, he wearing spectacles suspiciously similar to those my Dad might have worn in the 1950s, she with a hairstyle most definitely more recent. Elsewhere were elderly couples and families and dog-walkers, all of whom appeared to have met their beloved prior to arrival. I sat down on a bench above the car park and gave my parents a call, just to say I was here, in a simple attempt to link people and place. We're glad I went.
Walking the Lea Valley 2: FLIGHTY-LEA Luton (Airport) → East Hyde(4 miles)
The Lea's exit from Luton isn't glamorous. The river re-emerges as a decorative feature in the centre of a roundabout, then runs in a channel along the edge of the Manor Road Recreation Ground [photo]. Some over-optimistic planner had embedded a bank of concrete steps in the riverbank in the hope that local children might come paddling for sticklebacks, but none were evident when I passed by. And that was the last I saw of the river for a while, as it snaked off between some factories and around the Vauxhall Motors Recreation Club. For walkers a unlikely diversion is required, along the hard shoulder of a new dual carriageway and up the edge of a steep chalk embankment [photo]. To the edge of Luton Airport.
Luton Airport: It was charter passengers on Court Air, Britannia and Monarch who helped to transform an insignificant RAF airfield to London's fourth-busiest airport. Why queue through Heathrow when you can speed out to Luton and be in Alicante in a trice? The airport's well sited on the top of a hill, and the land falls away sharply beyond the end of the runway allowing planes to soar into the sky across the south of the town. It's across this high strip of land that the Lea Valley Walk passes, immediately alongside the perimeter fence beneath the roaring flightpath [photo]. A gathering whine means takeoff is imminent - roughly once every five minutes on a summer weekend - and the plane that emerges above the bushes is usually either Irish or orange [photo]. There's an even closer view as the footpath continues through the thistly undergrowth between the double fence and a row of trees. One minute you're passing Emergency Gate 3 (unstaffed, exit into a cornfield), the next you're watching butterflies dancing round teasels (whee, Easyjet G-EZTK). Maybe one day airportexpansion will mean the destruction of this unspoilt boundary zone [photo] and the rolling cornfield below [photo]. But for now it's hard to express the sheer unlikeliness of this interface between rural idyll and international travel-hub. Paradise? Nah, Luton Airport.
Someries Castle: A short uphill diversion at this point allows Lea Valley Walkers to visit one of the oldest brick buildings in the country. SomeriesCastle isn't especially well named - it was really a fortified manor house - and dates back to the 14th century. But a fair-sized amount of the original lodge and chapel walls remain, and it's impressive to see such large chunks of medieval brickwork still standing [photo]. Even more impressive, given that there are regular flights taking off and landing less than half a mile away. The remains now stand within the grounds of Someries Farm and are supposed to be fully accessible along a public footpath. I wasn't so lucky. I'd arrived at feeding time, and entered the field facing three cows' backsides nibbling in a nearby trough. Before I'd gone too many steps further I noticed the rest of the herd approaching for a feed, and also spotted that I'd misjudged the animals' gender. My choice was simple. Explore a fascinating medieval ruin close-up, or retreat through the kissing-gate before any of the dozen bulls came too close. When one of the ambling beasts broke off to stare at me intently, his angry eyes burning into mine as I backed slowly away, I knew that I'd made the correct decision. Back to the 21st century, and a plane-spotting descent down the golden hillside.
There's little sign of the river for the next few miles. It's hidden beyond a wall in the grounds of Luton Hoo - a neoclassical stately home recently reopened as "Hotel, Golf & Spa". Or should that be Hoo-tel. The surrounding estate is massive, some of it landscaped by no less than Capability Brown, and that includes two serpentine lakes created from the waters of the Lea. I'm sure they're delightful, but I saw neither. Even the house itself was only visible once, slightly, hidden away behind lush green foliage on the other side of the valley.
Instead the walk hugged a mile of Midland Mainline, with almost as many trains careering by as there had been planes overhead earlier. This section's part of a very-nearly-complete cyclepath between Luton and Harpenden, created by Sustrans as part of National Route 6 but also for the benefit of local leisure pedallers. The freshly laid loose tarmac was great for two-wheelers, but a bit tedious for those of us on two feet.
There were once two railways here, and the cycle path now veered off to follow the defunct Hertford, Luton andDunstable Railway along the edge of a kilometre-long sewage works. It didn't make for the loveliest walk, especially the clouds of hovering flies which were a frequent reminder that Luton's most unpleasant export was being treated immediately alongside. I spotted a disused stationplatform at New Mill End, but only because my guide book had pointed out where to look. And eventually I broke out into another cornfield on the county boundary at East Hyde, where the river at last made a welcome reappearance. This time if I'd followed the instructions in the guide book I'd have missed the pastoral view from the bridge altogether. Behind me Bedfordshire [photo], ahead Hertfordshire [photo], and still a very long way down to the Thames.
I read ontheinternet yesterday that News Corp (the Murdoch-led company that owns the Sun, Times and New York Post) is set to start charging online customers for news content. There's increasingly little money to be made out of online advertising, or indeed print advertising, so the transglobal media giant is searching for additional revenue streams after announcing big losses. And the subscription wall could come down within the next 12 months.
I have much to say on this subject. I consume a lot of news - you'd expect me to - and much of that is online. There's a directness and immediacy about online news that you just can't get from a once-daily publication. But I still prefer buying a newspaper to reading my news on a website, and that's because...
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You realise Rupert's idea will never work, don't you? Yes No
In common with many London bloggers, I took a ride on the Jubilee line yesterday afternoon. A ride on specially-preserved 20th century stock. A journey in the company of fellow London Underground enthusiasts. A trip from the old half of the line to the new, at a price, in a train without air-conditioning. There were crowds on the platform waiting expectantly to see the train as it arrived into the station. They gaped open-mouthed at the number of passengers in each carriage. And then the train was gone, diving into the tunnel ahead like an unexpected ghost. It was a memorable journey, and no mistake.
Unfortunately I was travelling on a normal Jubilee line train, built in 1996, and not aboard the special 1938 stock that had run along the line earlier in the day. TfL are upgrading the signalling on the Jubilee, and, once complete, these heritage trains will no longer be able to pass. So, any excuse to take the old girl out of the depot and run her up to West Hampstead and back. Mid-day mid-week was the only gap in the timetable where such a journey would fit, so those of us with jobs to do were restricted to taking a more normal rush hour train home. I only missed by a couple of hours, but in doing so I missed by more than 70 years.
Never mind. Plenty of other online Londonfolk went along instead, so I can experience this journey back in time through their eyes, ears and cameras. I mean, it's nothing special to visit the disused Charing Cross station, is it? We've all been there, ten years ago, before the Jubilee diverted to Stratford, so what's to be gained in pining for a 21st century re-visit? Really, I adored riding nose-to-armpit in a sea of London Lites, because that's the genuine Jubilee experience, innit?
If you didn't go either, here's what we missed:
• Ian visited."As the excited crowd gathered at Stratford station, the tannoy repeatedly asked passengers for the 1938 heritage train to assemble by platform 13. Unlucky for those on the platform waiting for a normal train who were politely evicted – but lucky for the rest of us!" [blog][& 24 photos]
• Darryl visited."The train’s in immaculate condition – its red paintwork gleams and its wooden floors evoke a different age. The springy seats have a healthy bounce in them, and when the train gets up to speed you’re grateful for it. A jumble of vintage ads show the effort the London Transport Museum team put into this train – funded by fares from trips such as this." [blog & 6 videos][& 47 photos]
• Martin visited."It was quite a contrast seeing our 70-year-old train rumbling through space age concrete and glass stations built 10 years ago, and the presence of our train clearly caught some commuters by surprise. Most looked perplexed, or jealous - but one man’s jaw physically dropped as we went by." [blog][& 30 photos]
You call this tea? It was very kind of you to offer, and it was very kind of you to go and make it, and it was very kind of you to bring it back to my desk so that I could carry on working uninterrupted. But really, you shouldn't.
You call this tea? You weren't away for long enough, surely. It's been barely a minute since you took my mug away, and yet here you are back again with a mug of steaming brown liquid. I say brown, but it's more like a faint shade of beige. What did you do, dip the teabag in the water for a few seconds and then throw it away? Tea takes time to brew properly, a couple of minutes at least, in order to let the flavour out. You'd know that if you were a proper tea drinker, not just an occasional coffee absentee. What you've brought me is an insipid tasteless weak tea, which isn't much better than drinking hot water straight from the kettle. I'll give it a miss, if you don't mind.
You call this tea? It looks dangerously over-stewed to me. The teabag's been squeezed to within an inch of its life, with every last dribble of brown oozed out into the muggy waters. How long did you leave it in there? I bet you stood there yapping and gossiping in the kitchen with the other officefolk for so long that you forgot to take the bag out. So it floated there, and it floated there, and it seriously outstayed its welcome. Way past the optimum moment of infusion, well into the over-absorbed zone - a potentially perfect cuppa spoiled and wasted. It tastes more like swallowing a cardboard box than proper tea, and it's all your fault. I think I'll leave it to go cold, thanks.
You call this tea? I call it milk. There may have been some tea in there once, but you've completely drowned it in a sea of cow juice. What was the problem? Did you not know when to stop, pouring and pouring until there was more milk in the mug than in the bottle? Did your hand slip, or was this lactose inundation deliberate? That's not the way to make a decent brew. Tea should be brown, or even black, never white. I know that's the way you like it, all milked up to within an inch of its life, but most of us aren't as extreme as you. Never assume that your tea preferences are shared with others, because I certainly don't drink it your way. Personally I prefer tea, not milk.
You call this tea? There's a big brown drip all around the bottom of the mug, plus a suspicious number of stains dotted all along the rim. What were you doing with that teabag? Did you dangle it on its little string repeatedly in and out of the mug, causing droplets of brown to splatter everywhere? Did you overfill with milk so that the liquid cascaded over the edge and gathered in little puddles on the work surface? Or did you just wobble slightly on the walk back from the kitchen and make a bit of a mess in mid-air. Whatever, you've just plonked down your tea on my desk and left a big circular wet patch all over that really important document I'm working on. Thanks for that. Next time perhaps you could bring a tissue.
You call this tea? I'd have done a much better job myself. I'd have made tea for the right length of time, with the right amount of milk, with the right amount of care and attention. I'd have made the right strength brew with a taste I actually like, and not some imperfect drink that I'll merely tolerate rather than enjoy. I was looking forward to my morning cuppa, but I'm afraid I'm not going to enjoy the brew you've concocted at all. So maybe this afternoon I'll get my own back by offering to make you a mug of tea. It'll be just how I like it - not too weak, not too strong, not too milky - which means I bet you'll absolutely hate it. I call that tea.
I was out walking beside a particularly long lake at the weekend (bet you're not surprised), and I noticed a heck of a lot of people out fishing. Every few yards another chair, another rod and another sprawled-out display of angling paraphernalia. And I thought two things. Why do people fish? And why are they all male?
I have never quite understood the appeal of fishing. You sit beside water, which is nice. You get to interact with nature, which is nice. But you also spend ages hanging around while nothing much happens, occasionally standing up and flinging your line back into the water, waiting for a bite, waiting a bit longer for a bite, fiddling with maggots, the view's not changed has it, very occasionally feeling a distant tug, reeling it in and discovering a tiny fish on the end of the line maybe, maybe not, despairing of its miniature size, throwing it back in, waiting some more, waiting a lot more, wasting the day away in silent contemplation, then stopping off at the fish and chip shop on the way home. Or maybe it's not quite like that, I don't know, I've never understood the appeal.
But the really strange bit is how almost every fisherperson is a fisherman. I walked past young blokes, older blokes, dads with sons, track-suited blokes, blokes in shorts, solitary blokes, paired-up matey blokes, every last one of them a bloke. Actually I tell a lie, the very last reedy inlet I passed had two chairs, the first filled by a bloke, the second filled by a female. He was staring intently at the water, rod poised, engrossed in all things piscatorial. And she was most definitely not fishing, not dangling any lines into the water, not interested in anything other than being with her bloke. She had her mobile out and was tapping away on the buttons, maybe texting, maybe surfing, anything to keep herself entertained during the long hours while her other half was awaiting fish. An overflowing handbag was by her side, and a thermos and a couple of pink cups, but it looked like she was fighting a losing battle. My lakeside straw poll had confirmed 100% fishermen, plus one female hanger-on. And I wondered why.
What is it about fishing that makes it such a male-dominated pastime? It's not like there's any physical reason. You don't need huge muscles to fish, neither is brute strength important. You could argue that stamina is required, or maybe it's a battle between man and beast, but quite frankly there's nothing in angling which outlaws members of the opposite sex. Anyone can hold a rod, it's just that females choose not to. Is it perhaps that they're more sociable creatures and rarely choose to waste their time in self-imposed solitary confinement? Is it that men are much better at sitting doing nothing, while females prefer to avoid pointless non-productive activities? Do women have better things to do than get excited about some bloke on the front cover of a fishing magazine holding a giant chub? Or are these all appalling generalisations? I'm not sure.
I'm not saying that most men like fishing, nor am I saying that no women ever fish. But I am saying that there's an innate gender divide here, for some mysterious reason, and that almost everyone who goes out fishing is male. Can anyone explain?
Walking the Lea Valley 1: HATTERS-LEA Leagrave → Luton(4 miles)
The official source of the River Lea is at the foot of a notorious housing estate - Marsh Farm, on the outskirts of Luton [photo]. Rainwater gathers beneath the tower blocks (it used to be a "marsh farm", what do you expect?) and flows out of a pipe beneath a flat-topped concrete portal [photo]. There's not much of a view before the trickle disappears into the trees (it's much better observedin winter), but clamber down the bank and it's possible to peer properly through the grille into the official Lea outfall [photo]. It had been raining heavily prior to my visit but even so the water was barely an inch deep, flowing gently past a broken bollard hurled from the path above. Most rivers undoubtedly start somewhere lovelier than this.
Waulud's Bank: To be fair, the source of the Lea is also located within the boundaries of a D-shaped Neolithic monument, which is far more interesting. Waulud'sBank is a 5000-year-old raised earthwork enclosing nearly 20 acres, with the river forming the western edge, and may once have housed an Iron Age farmstead. These days it's more likely a spot for dog-walking, or for nipping off with your teenage mates for a crafty smoke.
It comes as a bit of a surprise, a couple of minutes walk from the river's source, to discover that the Lea is already ten metres across. That's because it's almost immediately joined by the tributary I described yesterday, the one that runs in from Houghton Regis (and also because the water's very shallow). I spotted my first rat here nipping across the footbridge, and also my first heron taking flight from a watery runway. A most unusual sculpture lurked in the bullrushes [photo] - a selection of hats on stalks as a reminder of Luton's past glories in the manufacture of millinery. Esther Rantzen wasn't completely barking when she wore a straw boater to launch her bid to become a Luton MP, merely tipping the nod to a local tradition.
The fledgling Lea then took a sinuous route away from Leagravestation into the surrounding suburbs. It was narrower again now, but bold enough to repel housing from the surrounding flood plain [photo]. Footbridges led off across the reeds to neighbouring streets, while concrete culverts fed the stream from gushing storm-drains. The occasional road was crossed, and also the occasional long-distance Celtic trackway. It was a relief, even if only briefly, to discover that Luton has some relatively upmarket quarters. Turning south I followed a secluded wooded path to a grassy marsh and fresh-mown park, just me and a whole load of rabbits. But the town was never very far away.
Wardown Park Museum: Luton's mainmuseum is housed in a Victorian mansion in an Edwardian park. And there's plenty of history to see. Bedfordshire's famous for lace-making, so there's a room downstairs full of that, and I also enjoyed the room full of hats [photo] even though there's no way I'd wear a single one of them. Upstairs is a full history of the area (so, more hats, and the Vauxhall car industry, and the big Electrolux factory, and the football club, then right up to date with the airport and Easyjet). I also discovered that I'd arrived on the 90th anniversary of the Luton Peace Riots (and that's not a contradiction in terms). The town's population were so upset by the council's extravagant celebrations at the end of WW1 that they ended up storming the town hall and burning it to the ground. But that's Luton for you - down to earth and brutally honest.
Wardown Park's delightful too, or at least I assume it is when the weather's a little better. There was nobody availing themselves of the Lea-filled boating lake, just a few random strollers on the footbridge and an Eastern European couple allowing their daughter to chuck bread at some ducks. The Lea took an unusual route to the south of the park, flowing in two parallel channels along either side of the New Bedford Road, so each house required a tiny bridge across the stream to link it to the pavement. And then, just before the town centre, both rivulets disappeared beneath the ground - one into twin pipes, and the other down a flight of steps [photo]. To see what happens next requires waders and a torch (or you could check out this web forum used by civilly disobedient adventure seekers).
The Lea reappeared briefly in Mill Street (spot the clue there) then plunges back beneath the Arndale. I know Luton's shopping centre well, having lived several years slightly further up the A6, and very little had changed in the last 10 years. There were a few more closed-down shops, plus a big outdoor space with walk-through fountains to keep the kids quiet. I also noticed that a high proportion of the Arndale's shoppers had taken to writing the name of their next of kin in fancy gothic script on their upper arm, presumably in case they ever get lost. But at least nobody's burnt the Town Hall down recently [photo], and for that Luton can be thankful.
• Yes, if you missed my earlier announcement, I'm following the entire River Lea during August. • Never fear, the journey won't all be about Luton, we'll get to the London end eventually. • And don't worry, I'm restricting it to weekends and the odd Monday. Back to 'normal' tomorrow.
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.
Another cycleway, another estate [photo]. Painted onto a nearby garage was the scrawled instruction NO PARING, with a K hastily squeezed into the second word as a dyslexic afterthought. Two fur-hooded parka mums pushed their offspring alongside the culverted brook, with an avenue of trees protecting us all from yet more rain. A teenager in a hoodie with a mobile on a bike brought a cliché to life, and his glowering stare encouraged me to move on faster. Eventually the stream disappeared to cross beneath the Midland mainline, with strips of torn paper and plastic bag dangling from the barred grille outflow on the opposite side. Leagrave Park, with its adventure playground and very amateur cricketers, came as a welcome respite. And over there in the trees, the official source of the River Lea. The last two miles had been technically unnecessary, a mere prelude, no part of the official Lea Valley Walk. There's no logic in geography, it seems.
Local History Month 2009 WALKING THE LEA VALLEY Leagrave → Leamouth
London's greatest river is, of course, the Thames. But river number two, the largest of all the tributaries flowing in from suburbia, is undoubtedly the Lea. It's a river of great contrasts, flowing from the cornfields of Bedfordshire to the industrial estates of East London. Much of its upper course is unspoilt Green Belt, while the lower valley will be completely reshaped as part of London's 2012 Olympic bid. The river begins beneath a cricket pavilion and ends beside a lighthouse. On its downhill journey it negotiates motorways, castles, reservoirs and stately homes. And it's more than 40 miles long, which means that walking the Lea is going to take me quite a while. Not a problem - I've got a month to complete the lot.
Before we go any further, let's clear up the controversy surrounding the river's name. Is it the river Lea, or is it the river Lee? Ancient Britons didn't care, because both names sound exactly the same when spoken. Alternative spellings have also included Lygan, Luye, Leye and Lay, so perhaps we're fortunate that only two simple possibilities remain. The confusion can probably be traced back to an act of Parliament in the 1760s, in which the original waterway was decreed to be the River Lea while the man-made channel constructed alongside was named the Lee Navigation. This distinction between natural (Lea) and artificial (Lee) is still adhered to today... most of the time, roughly speaking, pretty much. That's why the Olympics will take place in the Lower Lea Valley, but the linear greenspace between Hertford and the Thames is the Lee Valley Park. Whichever is actually correct, I'm going to stick with the Lea all the way down.
The River Lea rises on the outskirts of Luton, a lot further west than you might expect for East London's biggest river. But it doesn't take the most direct route to the Thames, instead trickling gently southeast-ish towards Ware before plummeting fairly directly south. The source of the river is generally taken to be in Leagrave (which makes sense, given the name), although one particular tributary snakes in an extra two miles from Houghton Regis which is where I'll be beginning my journey tomorrow. The first part of the Lea is surprisingly built-up, before the river escapes from Luton beneath the end of the airport runway and emerges into a green valley beyond. If anyone had suggested building an Olympic Stadium in the Upper Lea Valley, they'd most likely have been javelinned.
The character of the Lea changes somewhat after Hertford, becoming broader and gaining a navigable twin. Here the Lee Valley Park begins, created in the 1960s as Britain's first regional park, and blessed with watery spaces, dragonflies and abandoned supermarket trolleys. The valley spreads out across marshy floodplains, edged first by farms and later by light industry. A ribbon of settlements tracks the river through Hoddesdon and Broxbourne, with the Lea (approximately) forming the boundary between Hertfordshire and Essex. There's often a choice of walking routes - do you stick to the river proper or choose to follow one of the many parallel flood channels?
Beyond the M25 London slowly closes in, with the river (and adjacent reservoirs) forming a little-crossed barrier impeding communication from east to west. The Lea is wider here, and used to be tidal as far north as Hackney Wick (creating havoc for at least one passing medieval monarch). A just-completed lock near Three Mills has further restricted tidal flow, enabling the upstream Olympic Park to plan for an appealing waterside legacy. At the Bow flyover the 40-mile cycle path finally expires, and the Lea retreats behind a curtain of desolation for its final wiggle to the Thames. There are plans to open up this last section before 2012, but for now the river's last hurrah goes almost unnoticed at Leamouth - opposite the Dome.
I hope to give you a flavour of the entire Lea Valley over the next month, from the trickly top to the tidal mouth. I won't be giving detailed instructions about which footpaths to take, but I will be reporting back on what I've seen and I'll also be stopping off at some of the more interesting attractions nearby. If you want to follow in my footsteps, your essential companion is a £10 book - The Lea Valley Walk by Leigh Hatts. It's full of useful maps and photos and information, and the author even maintains a blog where he updates readers on temporary path closures and snippets of Lea-related news. Or you could get on your bike - almost all of the valley is cyclable, and it's a much quicker way to get from one end to the other. From Leagrave to Leamouth. I'll see you at the source tomorrow.
The essential Lea • Book:The Lea Valley WalkLeigh Hatts[recently updated] [I haven't got lost yet] • Photographs:London's second river[100s of evocative photos, old and new, from Peter Marshall] [fab] • Walk:The Lea Valley Walk[downloadable info and maps for the London section] • Park:Lee Valley Park[26 miles of open spaces and sporting places] • Geography:The River Lea[a rather nicely-done aimed-at-kids resource] • Other walkers:Stephen Dawson; Bertuchi
• My entire Lea Valley August walk on one page:here
Echo is completely unlike the ancient static textbox provided by Haloscan. Echo is evolutionary, Echo is dynamic, and Echo is fully integrated. "Publishers can quickly embed Echo on any site and turn their static pages into a real-time stream of diggs, tweets, comments, ratings and more." Yes, it's that different (see here for a flavour of the difference).
i) The Big One: It's the ride for which Blackpool is famous - no longer the world's tallest rollercoaster but still holder of the European record. The Big One's first drop's more than 200 metres down, inclined at 65 degrees, tipping riders over the top at 3½g. Obviously only a thrill-seeking nutter would choose to perch precariously in the sky on a steel frame for kicks. I queued up and took my chances. The line wiggled round the giant Pepsi can at the start of the ride, giving us a good view of the ascent, then entered the slightly damp-smelling embarkation chamber. Where to sit? At the back, obviously, where the over-the-top yank effect is at its greatest. And then the dawning realisation, as the coaster trundled round to begin its 45 second climb, that there was no backing out now. The rest of the park was laid out below as we teetered up to the top and ohmigod ohmigod that's fast how steep ohmiohmigod a twist this is so steep i'm plummeting down hey nearly there cor whoosh that was fun woohoo climbing back up again up up i know what's neeeeeext ohmigod wheee urrrrr how fast are we going round this curve hell i hope we stay on we did and dooooooown again hey hey this is great ooh oh hell hehehe fab etc etc. I had a very dry mouth when I got off, but sadly nobody was selling Diet Cokes near the exit. [video]
Louis Tussaud's Waxworks: For another quintessential Blackpool experience, nothing's quite so entertaining as a collection of not quite convincing waxworks. The Del Boy and Rodney in the ticket hall provide a pretty good idea of what lies ahead, but they're nothing compared to some of the sights inside. The celebrity foyer is a real pick'n'mix of credibility. Posh beats Becks, for example, and (in a rare outcome) Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen completely thrashes both Tom Hanks and Tom Cruise. As for Elton John, I thought he looked more like my eldest cousin, and Whoopi Goldberg's realism was mainly down to a well-selected wimple. Upstairs is an adventurous zone (the Titanic and Leo are equally wooden), followed by a sporting cavalcade where ten dummies (including a second Becks) are spaced out to try to fill a room. If you're a Corrie fan you'll love the replica Rover's Return, complete with Ena out front and hotpots served from the cafe behind, although I ranked their Bet Lynch the second least convincing waxwork in the entire show. There's a room full of top musical stars (for a change, Michael Jackson was more realistic then the real thing), then a sad room where all the cast-offs from earlier seasons go to die (Enoch Powell's on the shelf, as are Larry Hagman and the Duchess of York). The Royal Room's a hoot, from a tentative Obama round to a smiling Diana. Slip on the cape provided and you can even have your photo taken with the Queen (I watched a granny place the crown over her baseball cap, for that very special look). Thatcher, Blair and Major are on display ("Mummy, who's John Major?" asked a passing 12 year-old) but, tellingly, there's no sign of Gordon Brown. A few final Hollywood moments (including the most ghastly Spock - that's my bottom of the barrel), then down into a really quite extensive Chamber of Horrors. I had the atmospheric basement all to myself - just me, some movie demons and the world's nastiest serial killers. OK, so the whole building was full of horrors, but I wouldn't have missed it.
Brilliance: And finally, the latest weapon in Blackpool's entertainment arsenal, which I stumbled upon in the town centre on Saturday evening whilst hunting for a cashpoint. There were lights and music blaring from an unassuming street, and when I turned the corner the entire road was ablaze with flashing pink and pounding tunes. Blackpool town council have installed six giant silver arches along the middle of the street, each with twirling projectors attached, and the plan is to put on a show every evening during the Illuminations to lure pedestrians into the town. Goodness knows why they chose to site 'Brilliance' in Birley Street - its nightlife appeared to be nil - but maybe there'll be more life here at six in October rather than half past nine in August. For several glorious minutes a Pet Shop Boys medley exploded over my head, and I stood in mute amazement at the volume, cheek and bravado. The lightshow switched from green lights to pink beams to purple shimmers, and the music segued seamlessly from West End Girls to Being Boring to Go West. I adored the emptiness - it was like arriving early at a club as the DJ cranks up the speakers before the crowds appear. I think unseen engineers were testing the system (oh boy, it worked), but I hope Brilliance attracts an audience larger than ten in the autumn.
The Tower: There's a lot more to Blackpool Tower than just the Tower. They don't sell tickets for a quick ride to the top and back oh no, you have to negotiate your way through the entire complex, at £12 a time, before you find the 6th floor lift. First the ground floor aquarium, which is the oldest part of the complex and quite frankly looks it. Far more impressive is the legendary Tower Ballroom, home to many a Come Dancing final, which fair takes the breath away as you first step inside. It's a huge space with ornate ceiling and scalloped balconies, below which clusters of tables are arranged around a central dancefloor. The on-stage organist holds court, announcing each rumba and quickstep to entice the surrounding couples up for a twirl. They don't need much of an excuse. Up they come to display their talents, gliding as a simultaneous whole before slipping back to their tables for a welcome cup of tea and slice of cake. For many, this is retirement heaven.
The Piers: Blackpool's the only seaside resort in Britain with three piers. The South Pier used to be the posh one, but the burnt-out Royal Pavilion has been replaced by a white knuckle ride and the Regal Theatre is now an amusement arcade. Central Pier is a cast iron affair with a Ferris Wheel at the centre and a funfair at the end. But the oldest, and most elegant, is the North Pier which dates back to the summer of 1863. Still the perfect spot for a leisurely promenade, there's a theatre and carousel at the far end and a mass of rusting legs underneath.
Walking the Lea Valley
Back in 1953 a local conservation group sprang up with the avowed intent to maintain Harpenden's Lea-side open space as a "green lung" for the town. Volunteers cleared derelict land, planted trees and reconstructed a series of weirs, transforming half a mile of riverside in the process. They were the Upper Lea Valley Group, and they also inaugurated the ULV Walk from Luton downwards. If engaging in active manual tasks isn't your thing, you can always enjoy the fruits of the group's labours. A series of stepping stones cross the braided river at various points [photo], but step carefully otherwise you'll slip into the raging torrent and look a bit of an idiot. I teetered perhaps rather too carefully beneath the weir, only to be followed across by a nimble pensioner and his unflustered dog.
Wheathampstead next - a quaint cottagy Hertfordshire town with several acres of more modern housing estates attached. St Helen's church is particularly fine, its 13th century tower topped off with a twin-tapered Victorian spire [photo]. The Lea Valley Walk crossed the churchyard (busy with communion-goers and grave-tenders as I passed), then descended the High Street to the river. A small weir diverted water down a gushing sidestream, while the main flow sped beneath the mill (now home to arty workshops and boutiques) to emerge in a broad pool beside The Bull public house [photo]. Below the bridge was a small concealed quayside, recently added by the town council to allow weary souls (or more likely can-swilling alcoholics) to stop and admire the river's reeds and ripples.
Nomansland: A mile south of Wheathampstead, in the Harpenden Dry Valley, there's an elevated patch of infertile ground stripped by post-glacial meltwater. No farmer would claim it, so it's been grazed as common land since medieval times. Part of it is forest, part is open heathland, and one corner's a cricket pitch. The pub by the crossroads is called the Wicked Lady in memory of a masked 17th century highwaywoman, and it's easy to imagine her on horseback stalking the remote lanes across the common.
Walking the Lea Valley
Someries Castle: A short uphill diversion at this point allows Lea Valley Walkers to visit one of the oldest brick buildings in the country. Someries Castle isn't especially well named - it was really a fortified manor house - and dates back to the 14th century. But a fair-sized amount of the original lodge and chapel walls remain, and it's impressive to see such large chunks of medieval brickwork still standing [photo]. Even more impressive, given that there are regular flights taking off and landing less than half a mile away. The remains now stand within the grounds of Someries Farm and are supposed to be fully accessible along a public footpath. I wasn't so lucky. I'd arrived at feeding time, and entered the field facing three cows' backsides nibbling in a nearby trough. Before I'd gone too many steps further I noticed the rest of the herd approaching for a feed, and also spotted that I'd misjudged the animals' gender. My choice was simple. Explore a fascinating medieval ruin close-up, or retreat through the kissing-gate before any of the dozen bulls came too close. When one of the ambling beasts broke off to stare at me intently, his angry eyes burning into mine as I backed slowly away, I knew that I'd made the correct decision. Back to the 21st century, and a plane-spotting descent down the golden hillside.
Instead the walk hugged a mile of Midland Mainline, with almost as many trains careering by as there had been planes overhead earlier. This section's part of a very-nearly-complete cyclepath between Luton and Harpenden, created by Sustrans as part of National Route 6 but also for the benefit of local leisure pedallers. The freshly laid loose tarmac was great for two-wheelers, but a bit tedious for those of us on two feet.
16 digit credit card number:
In common with many London bloggers, I took a ride on the Jubilee line yesterday afternoon. A ride on specially-preserved 20th century stock. A journey in the company of fellow London Underground enthusiasts. A trip from the old half of the line to the new, at a price, in a train without air-conditioning. There were crowds on the platform waiting expectantly to see the train as it arrived into the station. They gaped open-mouthed at the number of passengers in each carriage. And then the train was gone, diving into the tunnel ahead like an unexpected ghost. It was a memorable journey, and no mistake.
Never mind. Plenty of other online Londonfolk went along instead, so I can experience this journey back in time through their eyes, ears and cameras. I mean, it's nothing special to visit the disused Charing Cross station, is it? We've all been there, ten years ago, before the Jubilee diverted to Stratford, so what's to be gained in pining for a 21st century re-visit? Really, I adored riding nose-to-armpit in a sea of London Lites, because that's the genuine Jubilee experience, innit?
But the really strange bit is how almost every fisherperson is a fisherman. I walked past young blokes, older blokes, dads with sons, track-suited blokes, blokes in shorts, solitary blokes, paired-up matey blokes, every last one of them a bloke. Actually I tell a lie, the very last reedy inlet I passed had two chairs, the first filled by a bloke, the second filled by a female. He was staring intently at the water, rod poised, engrossed in all things piscatorial. And she was most definitely not fishing, not dangling any lines into the water, not interested in anything other than being with her bloke. She had her mobile out and was tapping away on the buttons, maybe texting, maybe surfing, anything to keep herself entertained during the long hours while her other half was awaiting fish. An overflowing handbag was by her side, and a thermos and a couple of pink cups, but it looked like she was fighting a losing battle. My lakeside straw poll had confirmed 100% fishermen, plus one female hanger-on. And I wondered why.
Walking the Lea Valley
The official source of the River Lea is at the foot of a notorious housing estate - Marsh Farm, on the outskirts of Luton [photo]. Rainwater gathers beneath the tower blocks (it used to be a "marsh farm", what do you expect?) and flows out of a pipe beneath a flat-topped concrete portal [photo]. There's not much of a view before the trickle disappears into the trees (it's much better observed in winter), but clamber down the bank and it's possible to peer properly through the grille into the official Lea outfall [photo]. It had been raining heavily prior to my visit but even so the water was barely an inch deep, flowing gently past a broken bollard hurled from the path above. Most rivers undoubtedly start somewhere lovelier than this.
It comes as a bit of a surprise, a couple of minutes walk from the river's source, to discover that the Lea is already ten metres across. That's because it's almost immediately joined by the tributary I described yesterday, the one that runs in from Houghton Regis (and also because the water's very shallow). I spotted my first rat here nipping across the footbridge, and also my first heron taking flight from a watery runway. A most unusual sculpture lurked in the bullrushes [photo] - a selection of hats on stalks as a reminder of Luton's past glories in the manufacture of millinery. Esther Rantzen wasn't completely barking when she wore a straw boater to launch her bid to become a Luton MP, merely tipping the nod to a local tradition.
Wardown Park Museum: Luton's main museum is housed in a Victorian mansion in an Edwardian park. And there's plenty of history to see. Bedfordshire's famous for lace-making, so there's a room downstairs full of that, and I also enjoyed the room full of hats [photo] even though there's no way I'd wear a single one of them. Upstairs is a full history of the area (so, more hats, and the Vauxhall car industry, and the big Electrolux factory, and the football club, then right up to date with the airport and Easyjet). I also discovered that I'd arrived on the 90th anniversary of the Luton Peace Riots (and that's not a contradiction in terms). The town's population were so upset by the council's extravagant celebrations at the end of WW1 that they ended up storming the town hall and burning it to the ground. But that's Luton for you - down to earth and brutally honest.
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.
Local History Month 2009
The River Lea rises on the outskirts of Luton, a lot further west than you might expect for East London's biggest river. But it doesn't take the most direct route to the Thames, instead trickling gently southeast-ish towards Ware before plummeting fairly directly south. The source of the river is generally taken to be in Leagrave (which makes sense, given the name), although one particular tributary snakes in an extra two miles from Houghton Regis which is where I'll be beginning my journey tomorrow. The first part of the Lea is surprisingly built-up, before the river escapes from Luton beneath the end of the airport runway and emerges into a green valley beyond. If anyone had suggested building an Olympic Stadium in the Upper Lea Valley, they'd most likely have been javelinned.
The essential Lea
