THE UNLOST RIVERS OF LONDON The Ravensbourne Gidea Park → Hornchurch → Elm Park (3½ miles)
[Ravensbourne → Beam → Thames]
Don't get your hopes up. This is the Ravensbourne in Havering, not the long and important river of the same name in southeast London. It flows south between Romford and Hornchurch, missing both. It goes pretty much nowhere the average Londoner has heard of, too far east to be on the capital's radar. Unless you've lived or worked locally, my description of its route will bear absolutely no relevance to your life. But if you're still with me, let's go. [Google map][1921 OS map][1975 map]
The Ravensbourne used to rise at Gallows Corner, once a place of gibbetry, now a five-arm roundabout with flyover and KFC drive-thru. Don't go looking for the source here, it's long vanished beneath the tarmac. But what's great about this particular river is that downstream very little has been buried, so it only takes two streets for the fledgling brook to appear. It pops up on Ferguson Avenue, south side only, emerging from a culvert into a deep concrete ravine between two houses.
Initially there's only a shallow trickle, barely enough to cover the bed, but what do you expect after a month with virtually no rainfall? This upper section of the Ravensbourne once formed the boundary between the Municipal Borough of Romford and Hornchurch Urban District, so the bungalows on the west bank are older than the semis on the east. A tiny footbridge links the two parallel avenues a little further down, and then the river hits a railway cutting and has to duck deep underneath.
The obstruction is the Great Eastern mainline, otherwise known as the line out of Liverpool Street, and soon to be cast in purple. A locked gate leads down to the Gidea Park Traincrew Depot, a substantial set of sidings where several Crossrail trains will be stashed, though full of less sparkly stock at present. On the other side of the tracks are the remains of the Romford Factory, one of the very first locomotive works, which thrived briefly in the 1840s and was then turned over to making tarpaulins to cover goods trucks instead. Some of Havering's few tower blocks now cover part of the site, while the South Range, Sheet Drying Shed and Grease Factory and Sponge Cloth Laundry have been incorporated into a much more modern development. [pdf history]
The river flows on into Haynes Park, the largest greenspace in Squirrel's Heath, preserved for recreational purposes in 1937. The Ravensbourne forms part of the conservation area down the western side, edging a delightful meadow, if bleached-yellow and tinder-dry at present. I was amazed to have the entire northern half of the park to myself, a good eight acres, despite it being mid-afternoon on a glorious summer's day. Maybe nobody plays football on World Cup days, or maybe the lack of an entrance at the northern end of the park discourages visitors, but with this level of indifference on display I fear it may be only a couple of decades before suburbia's unloved parks get churned up for housing.
Northumberland Avenue has some lovely detached homes, the best on the walk, indeed the entire area's much more pleasant than you'll think it is if you've never been. Gidea Park might well be my top tip for Crossrail living, with more suburban bang for your zone 6 buck. The bus shelters in Slewins Lane currently feature a poster for a missing cat wearing a studded diamante collar. Brooklands Gardens boasts spacious semis with topiary orbs hanging out front. Only one St George's flag in Lewis Road has 'the Sun' printed in the corner. The dip of the Ravensbourne is plainly evident in Hillview Avenue, even if the tiny balustrade above the culvert is hard to spot. Somewhere behind the bungalows' back gardens, the Ravensbourne's first tributary feeds in.
Our next railway obstruction is the runtiest stretch of the Overground - the line between Romford and Upminster. To cross it requires a serious detour to find the alleyway round the back of the garages, then retracing to the rear of Courage Close. Here we find one of London's handful of pedestrian level crossings, a brief trot across a gated single track, with Emerson Park station just visible in the distance. This is why you've never been. It takes a few more minutes to hike back to the line of the river, here concealed behind the line of Lyndhurst Drive. This is quintessential 1940s Havering, and boasts more than its fair share of black cabs, plus some allotments and a salon called Hairport. The houses in this particular street, I can confirm, currently have a 5% take-up rate of flapping England flags.
Next we reach Ravens Bridge, a once-rural crossing point on the road from Romford to Hornchurch, and only a short walk from the latter. It's possible to walk alongside the river for the majority of its final mile, because this is where we enter Harrow Lodge Park, slipping down a shady path alongside the cricket ground. The stream still barely fills its broad channel, until it joins with a brief piped-in tributary and flows down a weir into something deeper that a fish could conceivably live in. The occasional discarded trolley and broken paving slab intrude, but the mown riverside path is a particular pleasure after all that pavement-bashing.
Hornchurch Sports Centre is the dominant feature at the top end of the park, then a trio of blocks of flats, and then the enormous artificial lake. The Ravensbourne was dammed in the mid-50s, and creates an impressive centrepiece, with one half for boating and the other for pedalo-free waterfowl. The Lakeview Palace cafe is a big draw, where former EastEnders can sit out front with a proper cooked breakfast and check the racing in folded tabloids, while tattooed parents take their angels out in swan-shaped paddle boats. Beyond the dividing footbridge a windpump keeps the real swans' lair properly aerated. The grass alongside is covered with downy feathers, and more unspeakable deposits, hence the wise picknicker sprawls further upslope.
And that's it for surface water, because beyond the dam the Ravensbourne returns to pipes beneath the park for its last few hundred yards. But you can still tell where it used to go, through an undulating patch of oak woodland with dips and climbs, and hidden paths few visitors follow (because the playground to the south is a much bigger draw). The river only pops up again unseen round the back of the Maylands Health Centre and Parkview Dental Practice, crossing overgrown scrubland to join the River Rom, which from this point on is known as the Beam River. And even though that's worth a walk, I've blogged it already, so just the Ravensbourne will do.
In a heatwave week, I've been out drinking every day.
Monday
It's time for one of my infrequent meetings with BestMateFromWork. He started in the job earlier than I did, and is somehow still there, to his mixed delight and sorrow. We plump for a geranium-fronted pub in Marylebone, thankfully just as they turn off the big-screen World Cup match and switch the audio to Africa by Toto. The pub does not sell Becks. We find a seat in the empty alcove beside the bar, only to be joined shortly afterwards by a gentleman whose usual hideaway this is. There is much to discuss, including the moving of house, the construction of shed, and the impending of marriage. Discussing the minutiae of work is generally off the menu, plus he's now working from home so there isn't as much gossip as there would have been previously. BMFW drinks fast, always has, but I'm pleased to be keeping up by matching pints with bottles. As 7pm ticks round the football is turned back on, and our neighbouring cider drinker switches into excitable mode, offering unwanted tactical advice and cursing the referee's less convincing decisions. He has no off switch. Through the window I spot a well-known BBC weatherman, post-shift, in shorts and purple trainers, supping sequential beers at the adjacent outside table. My surprise is compounded when I spot that his drinking partner is a former BBC weatherman, whose name I can't initially remember. I bet they're discussing all things meteorological, and more, but a pane of glass safeguards their conversation from us, and ours from them. Two packets of freakishly flavoured crisps sustain us. My hiccups begin during the fifth bottle, so that's where we wrap things up, walking out of the pub just before the twin screen footballing drama climaxes. Cheers, thanks, until next time. I spend the entire journey home trying, and mostly failing, to keep my diaphragm from involuntarily contracting.
Tuesday
It's time for this week's trip round to BestMate's for dinner. It's good to catch up, plus he finds it a good excuse to stop talking to America on the computer for work. At this time of year I enjoy my walk down the Greenway to get there, and tonight's blue skies are cracking, but it is the first time I've been stopped by two badged Mormons along the way. They get short shrift. I arrive within one minute of the allotted time, politely late rather than early, and hike up to the flat. Dinner is in the pan, and partly chopped in bowls to one side. Life is good, indeed BestMate had a bit of an unexpected triumph at the embassy last week, so tonight's beverage option has been upped. Normally a bottle of wine comes out of the fridge, or cupboard, depending, but this time a bottle of the fizzy stuff emerges. We still drink the stuff out of crappy tumblers, of course, all the decent glasses having been unaccountably smashed. There is much to discuss, including the de-greying of beards, the taking of holiday and the Ubering of cheese. Easily his best anecdote is how he ended up going bowling on Sunday night with a random former member of the cast of EastEnders. Eventually the spaghetti gets added, and a fine meal is delivered by tray to the sofa. We end up watching some tacky repackaged drama on a high-numbered satellite channel, then something newer but no more highbrow on a former terrestrial. I don't usually get the chance, so every commercial break is spent slagging off the adverts to an audience. A dish of profiteroles emerges for afters, confirming the specialness of the day. And when the full moon has risen high above the rooftops, and the Uber with the box of cheese finally arrives, I take my leave. My journey home requires public transport, rather than the Greenway at dusk, and is thankfully entirely hiccup-free.
Wednesday
I had been planning to go out for a meal with my Dad. Instead it turns out that, if you live in a Norfolk village and are over a certain age, a communal lunch of decent size is served up every Wednesday, after which there is no need to partake of a serious meal for several hours. We head instead to the supermarket to buy food appropriate for later, and just for a change I nudge a bottle of Becks into the trolley. The East Anglian countryside looks dazzling under a bright blue sky, the dry fields more golden than green, and with a welcoming breeze to take the edge off. Once back at home I locate my favourite mug on the shelf and fill it with tea. The cleaning lady has left me a note asking if I wouldn't mind climbing up onto the worktop to clean the upper half of the kitchen windows. The tomatoes need watering. There is much to discuss, including the mending of printers, the whiteness of shirts and the precise whereabouts of a physiotherapist. The afternoon passes. The hosepipe needs moving. Broad beans are shucked. Only when the requirements of a radio producer's email have been dealt with can a start be made on dinner, which involves fish and crinkle-cut oven chips, plus veg. My bottle of Becks can only be opened with the aid of the family's ancient bottle opener, which was also once used to pierce tins of evaporated milk, and which I eventually manage to locate in the rear section of the cutlery drawer. From the local news we learn that the Royal Norfolk Show has been a big success, and that Danny Boyle is filming crowd scenes in Gorleston. Sufficient crockery has been dirtied for the dishwasher to be fired up, for a change, and a Magnum awaits in the freezer for later.
Thursday
My uncle's funeral has been an unexpectedly moving affair, the chief surprise being his coffin's arrival to the strains of Bat Out of Hell by Meatloaf. For the wake we reconvene to the village pub, just up the road from the nuclear power station. The downstairs function room is ours for the afternoon, and somewhat rammed, making it hard for the bar staff to emerge with plates of sandwiches, crisps and sausage rolls. An evocative selection of photos is on display, including one showing my uncle grinning outside a 60s holiday chalet, and a family group dressed in fashions that can only be from 1988 (plus or minus twelve months). A vase of flowers topples and has to be mopped up. Drinks are served, mostly in pints or teacups. The throng splits into family and former work colleagues, the latter being the larger group, which seems highly appropriate in the circumstances. I get the opportunity to talk to family members I haven't seen since the last funeral, or in four cases have never met at all, despite being relatively close. There is much to discuss, including Tottenham's new stadium, what the green bits in the sausage rolls were, and that lovely singing by the granddaughter. The two youngest attendees dash off to hang from the climbing equipment rather than have to keep talking to the adults. A veil of cloud rolls over. My aunt is taking everything in her stride, having put down the box of tissues she was clutching earlier, and everyone agrees we really ought to meet up sooner rather than waiting for some other unspoken event to occur.
Friday
If my two other aunts are reading, see you down the pub for lunch.
