ACROSS LONDON BY BUS(v) Route 331: Uxbridge - New Denham Length of journey: ½ mile, 5 minutes
Four buses have taken me so far across London from east to west, but they haven't quite taken me all the way. There's still half a mile to go, which would be easy enough to walk, but a nagging voice tells me I really ought to ride. Only one London bus exits the capital anywhere between Watford and Heathrow, and that's the 331. This runs in a giant horseshoe from Uxbridge round to Ruislip, only three miles direct, but 14 miles on the bus. I only need to go two stops, but that means a very different trip to those I've made earlier today. The 331 is my first single-decker, and on a Saturday afternoon a damned busy one. A long queue is mustering in the bus station, and it's already obvious that I'm not going to get a seat. Our driver has stern words with a teenage girl whose Oystercard isn't valid, but lets her on anyway. She dashes to sit with her pink-clad cabal, muttering, but earns brownie points later when she's the only person to stand for a wobbly pensioner. Our final attempted passenger is a very elderly man who appears completely and utterly confused. He stumbles aboard, mumbles something to the driver, then turns to the entire bus and exclaims "I don't know what I'm doing!" He has the look of a startled deer caught in headlamps, alas probably permanently. Some kindly soul near the door lends an arm and helps him off, deducing that he really wants the U1 instead, and attempts reassurance. It's quite the saddest thing I've seen all day...and we're off.
We stop in the High Street to allow even more departing shoppers aboard. As social and ethnic mixes go, the passengers aboard this 331 are almost the direct opposite of my 53 experience down the Old Kent Road, but that's nearly-Buckinghamshire for you. A charming old lady asks if she can squeeze into the wheelchair space alongside me, because that's better than standing in the doorway with the college kids. The bus heads north out of town, past several boxy office blocks towards the bridge over the canal. The 17th century SwanandBottle pub is London's last hurrah, before we're across the River Colne and beyond the capital's border. I'm the only person to alight at the next stop, and I get stares from the other passengers thinking "why the hell did he bother?" But I bothered because I wanted to cross London by bus to gain an appreciation of this fine city. And after five long hours I now have, and I think I deserve a tube home.
ACROSS LONDON BY BUS(iv) Route 607: White City - Uxbridge Length of journey: 13 miles, 75 minutes
This is an unusual one. London has very few buses in the 600s, at least those that aren't run for schoolchildren. The number 607 is a throwback to thetrolleybus that used to run the same route until the 1960s. And it's an express, deliberately missing out approximately 80% of the stops it passes on the long journey out to Uxbridge. Had Ken once had his way the entire route might have been replaced by now with moderntrams, had this not been entirely impractical along some of the narrower roads en route and shouted down by aloudchorus of local disapproval. So, the express bus it remains, with overlapping 207 and 427 for those who prefer it slower. And this time, the top front seat is mine all the way...
Blimey, don't they pour on at Shepherd's Bush? Umpteen folk with shopping bags and even suitcases are waiting, and then, as the Overground unloads alongside, on come umpteen more. So steady is the stream of potential boarders that I fear we're never going to get away. Our driver waits as an old man hobbles towards us, and again as a gym-fresh lad leaps on, until finally shutting the door to the displeasure of a Mum and two kids, left fuming and waving by the kerbside. I'm joined on my front seat by a gentleman who sits sideways and spends the next ten minutes softly chanting to himself, which is mildly disconcerting. From behind comes the babble of a dozen earnest conversations, only one of which appears to be in English. It's a melting pot, is west London, or at least the dozen miles we're about to pass through.
I was expecting our 607 express to be expressier, but in traffic it's often impractical to overtake anything. From Acton all the way to Ealing, a cyclist in team-branded lycra whips our non-express performance. Even though we're not stopping often it's often enough for her to comfortably leapfrog us, then get caught up again, until eventually she zooms ahead never to be seen again. On Ealing Broadway my latest top seat companion spots a friend down on the street, shopping, and gives them a call. I'm struggling to share the space with her two Morrisons bags-for-life, packed with what looks like meat in Tupperware, until she shuffles across to the seat opposite and hogs that. Outside it's shops almost all the way, downgrading from chain stores to takeaways as Hanwell approaches. A car with a mattress rammed in its boot blocks our path, reversing awkwardly into a sideroad, then pulling out and driving off somewhat suspiciously. I'm not surprised when, a few minutes later, we spot a police car following it through the central reservation.
From Ealing Hospital onwards we hit dual carriageway, and our driver relishes the opportunity to skip past bus stops in the outside lane. Outside Southall he even ignores a bus lane with dedicated traffic lights, so confident is he that the main road is faster. It's a long haul between Southall's two stops - one outside a Lidl in an old cinema, the other in front of Cravings Dessert Parlour (with their special "Winter Warmer" offer - a scoop of ice cream for 99p). I spot less than a dozen white faces along The Broadway, one of them an elderly bus spotter jotting us down with his red pen in a red notebook. I'm surprised how few 207s we've overtaken during the last nine miles, but at the Hayes Bypass we make up for it by passing six, all parked up in a lay-by by the roundabout. These brand new double deckers are waiting to turn round and go back to the Bush, whereas we've still got four miles, that's six stops, still to go.
The out-of-town retail park near The Grapes is rammed, in a way that high streets in Ealing and Southall conspicuously weren't. From here the road's pretty straight, though hardly pretty, lined by what sometimes seems to be a never-ending parade of shops. The streets leading off are all Drives, Gardens and Avenues, now my journey's back in the proper suburbs, plus there's the occasional park, orchard and memorial gardens alongside. But the 607's progress still feels disjointly arterial, as if we're speeding up the fast lane along the edge of somewhere nicer. A new tram would have been a perfectly decent option out here in Hillingdon, it seems, assuming anyone could have crossed to the central reservation to catch it.
The Morrison's bag-lady finally exits at Hayes End - she's been getting her moneysworth from this lengthy cross-borough ride. The top deck remains a cacophony of jabbering and sniffles, and not a word of English can be heard. That's completely different to the ambience outside where there are ivyclad cottages, and even the fish and chip shops are half-timbered Tudorbethan. An Eastern European family are my last companions in the front seat, the two children sat on their parent's laps, and father feeding chips to his smiling baby daughter. A sign by the roadside announces our entrance into Uxbridge, where more than a thousand homes are due to spring up on the site of a former Battle of Britain base. We turn off into the town centre, where scores of passengers are itching to get off, but are summarily dumped away from the bus station not quite near enough to the shops. The western edge of London is less than half a mile away, within easy walking distance, but my express cross-city journey ends here. 331>>
ACROSS LONDON BY BUS(iii) Route 148: Westminster - White City Length of journey: 6 miles, 40 minutes
For my third bus journey across London, I'm starting somewhere instantly recognisable. So world famous in fact that everyone around me is a tourist. My bus stop is halfway between the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, so simply by waiting here I'm impeding the general flow of humanity. A lady with a bag full of gospel leaflets stands nearby, arm outstretched, silently pleading with passers-by to swipe her tract. Most ignore her, but the occasional hit brings a broader grin, then a dig in the bag, and a replacement leaflet springs into place. When my 148 finally arrives it's mostly full and I have to grab one of the last double seats at the back of the top deck. A group of German tourists boarding at the next stop are less fortunate and have to split five ways, each sitting next to a different lone traveller, then all turning round and taking photos of each other.
The road to Victoria starts with a variety of government departments and ends with big shops. Here's where civil servants come for lunch - most likely a snatched sandwich to take back to their desk, and maybe something useful from the chemist. Here too is my second cathedral of the day, a Neo-Byzantine colossus set back from the roadway... one quick gawp and it's gone. Outside Victoria station one of the bus stops is "out of use", replaced by a temporary stop no more than two metres up the road, which presumably made sense to the rule-following pedant who installed it. I'm more interested in trying to peer through the trees into the Queen's back garden - only possible at this time of year, although alas this isn't the season to spot royals playing tennis.
There's a certain touristi-ness to this section of the bus route, most likely because everyone in neighbouring Belgravia has their own car and wouldn't be seen dead in anything lower than a taxi. We pick up more tourists at HydeParkCorner, and lose a few along ParkLane, presumably back to their hotels for a rest, refreshment or packing. A post-retirement couple settle in behind me, relatively quietly until his phone goes off, and the next five minutes are spent relating their travel plans (via Croydon) in tedious detail. The older gentleman in front seems keener to cough up the contents of his lungs, repeatedly, although thankfully it doesn't sound contagious.
At Marble Arch, now home to a family of jelly babies, we turn left. The 148 runs along the entire top edge of Hyde Park, between white stucco terraces and glorious grassland. We appear to be following the slowest cyclist in London, resplendent in poncho, scarf and grey woolly hat, whose demeanour wrongly suggests she's cycling uphill into a fierce headwind. Every time we stop she sneaks slightly ahead, then we catch up and are stuck behind again, unable to overtake, and repeat. The front seat empties, and a small child drags his father up from behind to claim the best view. Dad points out things of interest, even takes a few SLR photos of some, while the youngster holds tight to the handrail in fearful excitement.
The 148's front seat nursery gains new customers at Notting Hill Gate, this time a face-painted boy returning from a birthday party with his mother. He's carrying a red helium balloon with a 6 on it, while she's scrutinising his bulging party bag to ensure that the contents are appropriate. I can't quite tell whether the green smear on the boy's face is supposed to be an off-colour tiger or a curly lettuce leaf, but the artist has achieved a remarkable resemblance if it's the latter. "Why do buses not have seatbelts?" asks Ollie, intelligently, then blows it by asking why they do have windows. Mum replies with an impromptu physics lesson, some two-way learning takes place, and then both troop off politely down the stairs. As I watch them walking away towards the grand terraces of Holland Park, I reassess the couple as au pair and child, and maybe real Mum will ask Ollie about his salad-face later.
The illusion of wealth fades fast at the Holland Park Roundabout, beyond which lies Shepherd's Bush and all points west. The bus all but empties opposite the station, where shoppers alight for the long walk to Westfield. We'll be driving a lot closer shortly, but most of those aboard can't wait that long. Slow progress around Shepherd's Bush Green encourages an unseen passenger to engage in angry repeated buzzing, but our driver's having none of it and the doors stay firmly closed until the next stop. A final ride up Wood Lane, for the few of us still on board, ends with a ridiculously convoluted spiral into the White City bus station. Three hours ago I left the largest retail centre in Kent, and here I am at the largest in West London. What is it about buses and shopping malls? 607>>
White City bus station: When Westfield opened its doors to excitable shoppers back in 2008, a important part of the construction was the bus station to the north. Numerous routes would converge here, either diverted or extended, creating the need for a new on-site bus depot. Two grade II listed Victorian brick buildings were duly restored and repurposed for the storage of vehicles. Originally used as generating stations for the forerunner of the Central Line, they'd later become machine tool shops for a construction company called Dimco. Their survival adds greatly to the ambience hereabouts, but also forces buses to drive a round-about route to pass by. What with traffic lights and filter lanes and one-way bendy curves, getting in or out of here is never fast. And maybe that's why this bus station appears to be woefully underused. Ten different bus routes start or finish here, and yet in ten minutes on Saturday afternoon there were never more than ten people waiting for a service to arrive, usually far less. The seating areas are nigh empty, even during peak shopping hours, and the member of staff sitting patiently in the information booth at the far end must have one of the most undisturbed jobs in the area. So where is everybody? Walking straight past to get to the tube, that's where, or more likely exiting Westfield via the Shepherd's Bush entrance and queueing like crazy for buses there. White City's a fine bus station, all canopiedand modern, but sometimes it seems you build and nobody comes.
ACROSS LONDON BY BUS(ii) Route 53: Woolwich - Whitehall Length of journey: 10 miles, 60 minutes
If you want the front seat on the top deck, best board the bus at the very first stop, not wait for a mid-Woolwich bundle. My 53's already picked up round the back of Plumstead Common, and the streetsmart brothers occupying the prime seats have no intention of surrendering their advantage. I sit a little further back for the architecturally disjoint journey up Wellington Street, passing boarded-up pubs and a gleaming new library. We pass close-ish to the first of threeOlympicvenues along this bus's route, this the shooting range at the Royal Artillery Barracks, but not close enough to see. The ensuing streets on the approach to Charlton are pleasantly residential, with a surfeit of local parkland. We pause to let a single decker nip in from a sideroad, then back out again, but our 53 only ever drives forward along the hillside. There are occasional fine views down perpendicular terraces, to the Thames estuary below and far beyond. Given that we can see the red-coiled Orbit observation tower from here, presumably future visitors there may be able to spy the distant heights of Charlton.
Blackheath creeps up upon us, heralded by the triangular green at the Royal Standard. We wait long enough outside Gambardella's cafe (High Class... Refreshments) for a privileged overview of late breakfast, retro decor and assembled condiments. Another culinary legend awaits on Blackheath proper - the TeaHut near the Ranger's House. Our 53 takes a deliberate diversion through the middle of this historic greenspace, seemingly only so that passengers can alight for a bacon roll and a mug of tea, but nobody does. The villas around the distant edge of the heath add class to what might otherwise be a plain common, while over the old brick wall is Greenwich Park, site of our journey's second Olympic event. And that's quite enough loveliness for the time being.
The descent from outer to inner London takes quarter of a mile, down Blackheath Hill. It's a different world from Deptford Bridge onwards, across the Ravensbourne, where we properly enter the borough of Lewisham. The area is a hotchpotch of boarded-up brick and shiny newbuild - not the loveliest combination in any era. The 453 begins here, the 53's parallel twin, no longer bendy, not since September. Their top decks are empty, but ours has now reached half-load with nigh every double seat singly occupied. The bloke in front of me has a woolly hat and a toothless grin, while my view through the front window is blocked by the man in front of him reading an oversized Chinese newspaper. We twist through New Cross, past Goldsmiths, past various music venues, past Uncle Wrinkle's Chinese Takeaway. You don't get this level of visual stimuli on a train.
There's a proper hint of Central London ahead as we catch sight of the Gherkin and the Shard. We're now at the furthest extremity of the Monopoly board, at the far end of the Old Kent Road. There are no hotels anywhere along here, or at least none than I saw, and there aren't that many houses either. This is a two mile run of mostly shops and businesses, from Aldi at one end to Lidl at the other. Halfway up is Burgess Park, the entrance to which is currently a pile of landscaped mud, opposite a fully functioning fire station with firemen practising up their ladders. From the back of the bus comes the depressing sound of micro drumbeats, as an inconsiderate soul decides we all want to listen to some R&B. Their broadcast songs merge into one another - some bloke rapping, some girls singing, and repeat, and bloody repeat again. When most of the passengers troop off at Elephant & Castle I watch to see which of the many possible miscreants it could be, and realise I've assumed triply wrong when it turns out to be the only twenty-something white female on board.
Maybe it's the edge of the Underground network that attracts them off the bus, but we're only lightly loaded for the final run into town. St George's is my first cathedral of the day (with one more to follow), and the Imperial War is my first museum. I could alight here to catch my next bus, but decide against because I want to see my 53 through to its almost-end. That's not far off now, we're on Westminster Bridge Road already, nipping beneath the railway arches supporting the lines out of Waterloo. The hotels here range from cheapo shoeboxes to grandswirlycylinders, the latter rising from the heart of a formerly gruesome roundabout. And then a glorious finale across Westminster Bridge, the Thames lapping below (high tide, I reckon), and Big Ben standing proud directly ahead. As we pull into Parliament Square it's striking noon, and a phalanx of tourists have whipped out their phones and cameras to record the dozen-bong spectacle. South London complete, North London ahead. 148>>
Parliament Square: There's been a peace camp opposite the Houses of Parliament for over a decade now, ever since Brian Haw set up his one-man tented crusade against Iraqi sanctions. Brian's sadly no longer with us, he died of cancer last summer, but his protesting legacy lives on. The camp's been bigger, and noisier, but is now reduced to however many tents can fit along a perimeter of pavement. Police have tried many tactics to move everybody on, including more than one set of not entirely rigorous legislation. Their latest wheeze is to fence off the centre of the square with crowd control barriers, meaning noisy protestors can't get inside, but creating an additional unnecessary eyesore of their own. The Met are also keenly watching for tents left unattended, according to a laminated sign hanging from the railings. These are deemed "a security risk" and may be removed, then later sold or destroyed unless you ring 020 7161 9637 to claim them back. One of the structures facing Parliament looks more Tardis than tent ("to end war the people must go on strike"). The remainder of the camp looks more like a sale at Milletts than an angry citzens army, to be frank, as if the current incumbents aren't really trying. But Brian Haw's radical legacy lives on, to challenge Westminster in a way the politicians really wish it wouldn't, and I for one am pleased by that.
One of the best ways to experience London, I thought, would be to take a red bus journey from one side of London to the other. It can't be done on one bus, not all thirty miles across, but judicious selection of routes reduces the number to a mere handful. I kicked off beyond Bexley in the far east, then headed via the centre of town to the far west. Please join me for a top deck parade through the capital... because it'll save you from ever wasting a Saturday trying the same.
ACROSS LONDON BY BUS(i) Route 96: Bluewater - Woolwich Length of journey: 13 miles, 70 minutes
Not content with crossing London, I'm actually starting several miles beyond the border, beyond Dartford, at a bus station beside a shopping mall in a chalk quarry. Bluewater is a melting pot for various bus companies - some serving inner Kent, others outer London, and one even crossing the Thames from Lakeside. Three red buses head for Bexley, all of them Oyster-friendly, including my chosen 96. Not all of the Kentish locals are familiar with swipe and go, and we wait for a minute while a father struggles to find £2.30 in coins from deep in his pocket. An elderly couple ascend the stairs to the top deck, just in time for the driver to hurl us around a bend outside Marks and Spencers. They consider the front seat, but the legroom's much too narrow for grandpa's legs so they retire behind. Our bus climbs through a gap in the white cliffs, Thank You For Visiting Bluewater, Please Come Again.
The 96 runs non-stop to Dartford, speeding past a dozen bus stops where local residents must wait for lesser services. Patronage is not brisk. From my top deck vantage point, beyond a hilltop field of grazing horses, the Queen Elizabeth Bridge is unmistakeable. We pause outside the Rumpy Cafe in MarketStreet to take on fresh passengers, and then the driver announces something unintelligible about the bus being on diversion. An extensive tour of the south Dartford suburbs ensues, out to the ring road and back again, before returning to a straight course along what used to be Watling Street. It takes a total of twenty minutes to reach the second stop of the journey, which (without jams) must be some sort of record.
At last, at a mini-roundabout on the edge of Crayford, the 96 finally enters London. The difference is entirely imperceptible, architecturally speaking, bar the sign beside the road welcoming us to Bexley. A seven-year-old boy in trackies and red wellingtons leads his mother up the stairs and points excitedly at the empty front seat. "Can we sit here?" he asks. "Do we have to?" replies Mum, but she knows the battle is already lost. Her son has as yet no control over his inner monologue, which pours forth unabated for the next fifteen minutes. "A giant would be way taller than we are!" "That white van in Sainsbury's car park looks just like Dad's!" "Why do they have toilets on coaches?" Mum answers patiently and informatively, then spots an advert for Alvin and the Chipmunks on the side of a passing bus and promises Junior a trip to the cinema midweek.
The road up to Bexleyheath is probably the most desirable residential street on my entire journey across London, at least for anyone who likes a big house with a garden. The shops in the town centre aren't bad either, relatively speaking. Our 96 pulls up by the clocktower, near the spinning cups kiddie ride, for a flush-out and refresh of the passengers on board. Those with staying power are continuing up the extended high street (think bathroom centres and dry cleaners, not kebaberies and tat) past the entrance to Danson Park. We pull up briefly outside Welling United's home ground, which has grandstands on only two sides so provides a top-deck-perfect view of the pitch. If only it were 3pm we could have watched a few seconds of the home team's five one thrashing of Truro City. Instead we trundle on to Welling Corner, home to the Giggling Sausage and a whopping new under-flats Tesco, and turn right.
If you watch carefully on a cross-London journey such as this, you can observe how the type of passenger changes subtly to reflect the area the bus is driving through. Up until Bexleyheath it was all a bit outer-London-white, but now a more diverse clientele is aboard, until by the end of the journey a complete demographic transformation will have taken place. Upper Wickham Lane is noticeably more ordinary than than roads past travelled, until it suddenly descends into Royal Greenwich past some distinctly middle class stables. The terraces beneath Bostall Heath are rather fine, but estate agents must have more difficulty disposing of properties the further up Plumstead High Street we progress. Flats here are conveniently situated for Tee's Afro Euro Cosmetics, the Ghandi Tandoori and the cells at the local police station.
In the 96's final mile it becomes just another shuttle on the Plumstead to Woolwich arterial road. The proximity of a major bus garage helps to explain the frequency, plus this is an escape route that many residents are keen to embrace. On our right, nearing town, the Woolwich Arsenal site continues to undergo major transformation. New flats are slowly appearing, of a less heritage style than the old magazines nearer the Thames, but probably a better match to the Crossrail station that has yet to rise. On board, our first foreign language mobile-shouted rant begins, thankfully brief, because the end of the route is nigh. As punters start to pour off the bus, either by the old Market Hall or outside the DLR entrance, the contrast to far distant Bluewater could hardly be greater. 53>>
Woolwich, General Gordon Square: It used to be an unloved expanse, somewhere to shuffle through or more likely avoid, in the centre of downtown Woolwich. Not even the hand and pawprints of Simon Groom and Goldie could save the place, so a few million pounds were spent and the entire piazza was upgraded. This is my first visit post-re-opening, and I was expecting to be more impressed. One of the BBC's Big Screens looms near the station - weatherproof, sturdy and vandal resistant - screening a series of news reports, weather updates and community videos. The remainder of the square, much like your living room at home, has been arranged in total deference to the TV in the corner. The ground slopes screenward in a series of grassy terraces with stone edging. It's ideal for those rare occasions when the entire square will be full of citizens watching an event, such as for the Olympics in the summer, but there are few reasons to pause here otherwise. Local councillors areaghast that the skateboarding community have adopted the steps and gradients for their own, scraping away the surface and supposedly frightening away other users. Their own fault for building such a wheel-friendly slope in the first place, I'd say, and for assuming that a single screen could somehow fill the empty space.
ACROSS LONDON BY BUS (v)
Four buses have taken me so far across London from east to west, but they haven't quite taken me all the way. There's still half a mile to go, which would be easy enough to walk, but a nagging voice tells me I really ought to ride. Only one London bus exits the capital anywhere between Watford and Heathrow, and that's the 331. This runs in a giant horseshoe from Uxbridge round to Ruislip, only three miles direct, but 14 miles on the bus. I only need to go two stops, but that means a very different trip to those I've made earlier today. The 331 is my first single-decker, and on a Saturday afternoon a damned busy one. A long queue is mustering in the bus station, and it's already obvious that I'm not going to get a seat. Our driver has stern words with a teenage girl whose Oystercard isn't valid, but lets her on anyway. She dashes to sit with her pink-clad cabal, muttering, but earns brownie points later when she's the only person to stand for a wobbly pensioner. Our final attempted passenger is a very elderly man who appears completely and utterly confused. He stumbles aboard, mumbles something to the driver, then turns to the entire bus and exclaims "I don't know what I'm doing!" He has the look of a startled deer caught in headlamps, alas probably permanently. Some kindly soul near the door lends an arm and helps him off, deducing that he really wants the U1 instead, and attempts reassurance. It's quite the saddest thing I've seen all day...and we're off.
This is an unusual one. London has very few buses in the 600s, at least those that aren't run for schoolchildren. The number 607 is a throwback to the trolleybus that used to run the same route until the 1960s. And it's an express, deliberately missing out approximately 80% of the stops it passes on the long journey out to Uxbridge. Had Ken once had his way the entire route might have been replaced by now with modern trams, had this not been entirely impractical along some of the narrower roads en route and shouted down by a loud chorus of local disapproval. So, the express bus it remains, with overlapping 207 and 427 for those who prefer it slower. And this time, the top front seat is mine all the way...
The Morrison's bag-lady finally exits at Hayes End - she's been getting her moneysworth from this lengthy cross-borough ride. The top deck remains a cacophony of jabbering and sniffles, and not a word of English can be heard. That's completely different to the ambience outside where there are ivyclad cottages, and even the fish and chip shops are half-timbered Tudorbethan. An Eastern European family are my last companions in the front seat, the two children sat on their parent's laps, and father feeding chips to his smiling baby daughter. A sign by the roadside announces our entrance into Uxbridge, where more than a thousand homes are due to spring up on the site of a former Battle of Britain base. We turn off into the town centre, where scores of passengers are itching to get off, but are summarily dumped away from the bus station not quite near enough to the shops. The western edge of London is less than half a mile away, within easy walking distance, but my express cross-city journey ends here. 331>>
For my third bus journey across London, I'm starting somewhere instantly recognisable. So world famous in fact that everyone around me is a tourist. My bus stop is halfway between the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, so simply by waiting here I'm impeding the general flow of humanity. A lady with a bag full of gospel leaflets stands nearby, arm outstretched, silently pleading with passers-by to swipe her tract. Most ignore her, but the occasional hit brings a broader grin, then a dig in the bag, and a replacement leaflet springs into place. When my 148 finally arrives it's mostly full and I have to grab one of the last double seats at the back of the top deck. A group of German tourists boarding at the next stop are less fortunate and have to split five ways, each sitting next to a different lone traveller, then all turning round and taking photos of each other.
White City bus station: When Westfield opened its doors to excitable shoppers back in 2008, a important part of the construction was the bus station to the north. Numerous routes would converge here, either diverted or extended, creating the need for a new on-site bus depot. Two grade II listed Victorian brick buildings were duly restored and repurposed for the storage of vehicles. Originally used as generating stations for the forerunner of the Central Line, they'd later become machine tool shops for a construction company called Dimco. Their survival adds greatly to the ambience hereabouts, but also forces buses to drive a round-about route to pass by. What with traffic lights and filter lanes and one-way bendy curves, getting in or out of here is never fast. And maybe that's why this bus station appears to be woefully underused. Ten different bus routes start or finish here, and yet in ten minutes on Saturday afternoon there were never more than ten people waiting for a service to arrive, usually far less. The seating areas are nigh empty, even during peak shopping hours, and the member of staff sitting patiently in the information booth at the far end must have one of the most undisturbed jobs in the area. So where is everybody? Walking straight past to get to the tube, that's where, or more likely exiting Westfield via the Shepherd's Bush entrance and queueing like crazy for buses there. White City's a fine bus station, all canopied and modern, but sometimes it seems you build and nobody comes.
If you want the front seat on the top deck, best board the bus at the very first stop, not wait for a mid-Woolwich bundle. My 53's already picked up round the back of Plumstead Common, and the streetsmart brothers occupying the prime seats have no intention of surrendering their advantage. I sit a little further back for the architecturally disjoint journey up Wellington Street, passing boarded-up pubs and a gleaming new library. We pass close-ish to the first of three Olympic venues along this bus's route, this the shooting range at the Royal Artillery Barracks, but not close enough to see. The ensuing streets on the approach to Charlton are pleasantly residential, with a surfeit of local parkland. We pause to let a single decker nip in from a sideroad, then back out again, but our 53 only ever drives forward along the hillside. There are occasional fine views down perpendicular terraces, to the Thames estuary below and far beyond. Given that we can see the red-coiled Orbit observation tower from here, presumably future visitors there may be able to spy the distant heights of Charlton.
Parliament Square: There's been a peace camp opposite the Houses of Parliament for over a decade now, ever since Brian Haw set up his one-man tented crusade against Iraqi sanctions. Brian's sadly no longer with us, he died of cancer last summer, but his protesting legacy lives on. The camp's been bigger, and noisier, but is now reduced to however many tents can fit along a perimeter of pavement. Police have tried many tactics to move everybody on, including more than one set of not entirely rigorous legislation. Their latest wheeze is to fence off the centre of the square with crowd control barriers, meaning noisy protestors can't get inside, but creating an additional unnecessary eyesore of their own. The Met are also keenly watching for tents left unattended, according to a laminated sign hanging from the railings. These are deemed "a security risk" and may be removed, then later sold or destroyed unless you ring 020 7161 9637 to claim them back. One of the structures facing Parliament looks more Tardis than tent ("to end war the people must go on strike"). The remainder of the camp looks more like a sale at Milletts than an angry citzens army, to be frank, as if the current incumbents aren't really trying. But Brian Haw's radical legacy lives on, to challenge Westminster in a way the politicians really wish it wouldn't, and I for one am pleased by that.
Not content with crossing London, I'm actually starting several miles beyond the border, beyond Dartford, at a bus station beside a shopping mall in a chalk quarry. Bluewater is a melting pot for various bus companies - some serving inner Kent, others outer London, and one even crossing the Thames from Lakeside. Three red buses head for Bexley, all of them Oyster-friendly, including my chosen 96. Not all of the Kentish locals are familiar with swipe and go, and we wait for a minute while a father struggles to find £2.30 in coins from deep in his pocket. An elderly couple ascend the stairs to the top deck, just in time for the driver to hurl us around a bend outside Marks and Spencers. They consider the front seat, but the legroom's much too narrow for grandpa's legs so they retire behind. Our bus climbs through a gap in the white cliffs, Thank You For Visiting Bluewater, Please Come Again.
Woolwich, General Gordon Square: It used to be an unloved expanse, somewhere to shuffle through or more likely avoid, in the centre of downtown Woolwich. Not even the hand and pawprints of Simon Groom and Goldie could save the place, so a few million pounds were spent and the entire piazza was upgraded. This is my first visit post-re-opening, and I was expecting to be more impressed. One of the BBC's Big Screens looms near the station - weatherproof, sturdy and vandal resistant - screening a series of news reports, weather updates and community videos. The remainder of the square, much like your living room at home, has been arranged in total deference to the TV in the corner. The ground slopes screenward in a series of grassy terraces with stone edging. It's ideal for those rare occasions when the entire square will be full of citizens watching an event, such as for the Olympics in the summer, but there are few reasons to pause here otherwise. Local councillors are aghast that the skateboarding community have adopted the steps and gradients for their own, scraping away the surface and supposedly frightening away other users. Their own fault for building such a wheel-friendly slope in the first place, I'd say, and for assuming that a single screen could somehow fill the empty space.
