Somewhere sporty: Barnet FC It's been a rags to not-quite riches story for the lads of Barnet FC. Once non-league stalwarts, the Bees managed to climb into the 'proper' divisions 20 years ago, and have mostly stayed there ever since. But they've never climbed higher than Division Three, back when there was a Division Three, and are currently languishing a few places above non-league oblivion. The club's based at Underhill, which (not surprisingly) is at the bottom of a hill south of Barnet town centre. Surrounded on three sides by an estate and the fourth by a park, the pitch slopes noticeably from one goal to the other (which is what you get when you build a ground in a river valley). There are immediate plans to move elsewhere, exacerbated by the ground's freehold having been sold by the council in 2002 for a knock-down price. One possible escape would be to Copthall Stadium, an athletics track in far flung Mill Hill, but that's also being eyed up by rugby giants Saracens. Alternatively the club could redevelop its training ground in Canons Park, called "The Hive", but building league-worthy facilities there won't happen any time soon. With the council being typically obstructive and the club keen to escape, this season could be Barnet's Underhillswansong.
Normally when I visit a football stadium for my random borough visit, it being a Saturday, there is at least some activity going on. Not so at Underhill. With the team off thrashing far-flung Accrington Stanley, there was absolutely nothing doing, not even action from Barnet's high-flying ladies. The roadside end of the stadium is for away supporters, and that was gated and shuttered. Access for everything else is down Priory Grove (still flyposted for "Christopher & Cassandra's 21st"), past a pitch-long corrugated iron wall (and the local Scout HQ). All was dead here too, every last gate, window and door. No service at The Bacon Butty, which I assume does good porcine business on match days [photo]. And not a soul in the locked shop, which is a portakabin in the corner of the car park, filled with such goodies as Bee Army flags, "Mister Bumble" t-shirts and a variety of tangerine clothing. There's a fair amount of orange paint across the main building, and the abbreviation B.F.C. built into the brickwork near the main entrances. Stand beside the main gate and you can see past the fire escape to the pitch - a far better view than most clubs allow you to get for free [photo]. But, emotion aside, there's little here of architectural worth were the whole place to be bulldozed and replaced with flats, which I fear is what thecouncil ultimately have in mind. by tube: High Barnet by bus: 34, 84, 107, 234, 263, 307, 326, 384, 389
Somewhere random: Spike Milligan's house Should you ever attempt a pilgrimage to the many homes of Spike Milligan you'll have to start in India. Then it'll be off to Honor Oak, which is where the Milligan family moved in the 1930s after Spike's Dad's discharge from the army. And thence to Finchley in 1955. Spike had already found fame in the Goon Show, and this move would have been a financial step up in the world. He took up residence at 127 Holden Road, a double-fronted Edwardian house with garden stretching down to the Dollis Brook, and here he wrote more Goon Shows, his 'Q' comedy series and books of children's poetry. He stayed for nearly twenty years, long enough to bring up a family, and a blue plaque on the wall records his presence.
An intriguing place to visit, I thought, as I stepped off the tube at Woodside Park station. And there were indeed a few Milliganesque Edwardian villas on the even numbered side of the road, but none on the odd. That was lined with flats, in a variety of styles, and there was nothing I could possibly imagine Spike having lived in. I tried to locate 127, only to find the blue plaque on the end wall of a not terribly inspiring row of white-boarded houses [photo]. Surely Spike hadn't lived in one of these regular suburban residences... and by their age I realised not. 127 and its neighbours are long gone, long replaced, with several new homes crammed in where the Milligans' back garden would once have been. In the words of youngest daughter Jane, "Somewhere in the soil under these flats are the bones of our family hamsters, rabbits, fish, air rifle pellets and unread letters to the pixies and fairies." I walked down the frosty passageway past their front doors, to a large car parking area beside a steaming litter bin, and then to the banks of the Dollis Brook. I'd never have got this far while Spike was here, and by the overgrown look of the shallow channel I wouldn't have missed much.
Plans are afoot to remember Spike's stay in Finchley with a statue, if funds can be raised. The Finchley Society are on the case, with a bronze Spike sitting on a bench and turning as if to speak to an imaginary person beside him. It's already designed, and now awaits family approval, and casting, and final installation in the grounds of Avenue House, Church End. You can contribute here, should you so desire. And as for where Spike moved next, that was Monken Hadley, but I hadn't properly researched this before setting out so never found it. Here he lived in a rambling Victorian pile called 'Monkenhurst' overlooking the common, with a Gothic tower, and stained glass staircase window. That sounds much more Spike, and resold ten years ago for £1¾m. But by that time he'd already moved on from his beloved Barnet, to the village of Udimore near Winchelsea, where his body was later buried. If you're attempting a Milligan pilgrimage, expect a long journey. by tube: Woodside Park by bus: 326, 383
Somewhere pretty: Mill Hill How have I never been up here before? A road along a ridge, once plied by coaching traffic leaving London, now an affluent residential location blessed by a jumbled collection of great buildings. It's called Mill Hill for fairly obvious reasons, although there's no sign today of any mill except for the twee iron signs at either end of the village. Mill Hill's heritage has survived by the fortunate chance of its elevation. When the railways passed through they took the valleys, hence the urban sprawl round Mill Hill Broadway and central Finchley. But up here wasn't so commuter friendly, unless you count the spur line to Mill Hill East at the foot of Bittacy Hill, so remained mostly untouched. I nipped off the bus at the top of Highwood Hill, then walked down the edge of rolling fields to the Folly Brook valley and immediately back up twisting Holcombe Hill. I'm not used to such compact contours in north London, but Barnet's an atypically hilly borough.
The Ridgeway, as Mill Hill's main road is named, is broad and grassy. You can never quite be sure what structure will be up next, but "private school" is a pretty good bet. I passed through at Saturday kicking-out time, which seemed to be 1pm). Girls from The Mount waited for parents and boyfriends to drive them home, while non-boarder boys from esteemed Mill Hill School waited patiently for a bus. Even the playgroup at St Paul's Church was emptying into 4×4s, from a building far less impressive than William Wilberforce's 4×spired church up the road. Every religious denomination appears to have been catered for in Mill Hill, including an African church by the pond on the village green [photo]. Close by is a Quaker meeting house, and a closed-down convent whose grounds are being swallowed by a gated residential development. Best not mention the National Institute for Medical Research, an X-shaped brick fortress which you might recognise from Batman Begins. But the village also boasts its own farm, several quaint almshouses and a variety of higgledy cottages [photo]. There is a High Street (at 100m, the shortest in London) but there are no shops anywhere (although there is a huge Waitrose a mile down the hill, so that's OK). If you live up on Mill Hill, lucky you. And if you don't, I wonder if you know what you're missing. by bus: 240, 251
Barnet's big. In terms of population it's the biggest borough in London, and in terms of area, top five. You'll find it beyond Camden, strung out along the two northern branches of the Northern line. Closer in it's quite built up, very suburban, but further out it's hilly and rural, possibly the closest proper countryside to central London. It may be a tightwadborough, well known for slashing spending and cutting services, but that doesn't make Barnet a joyless place. Lots to see, much to do...
Somewhere to begin: Barnet Museum There's been a museum in Wood Street, Barnet, since the 1930s. Back then the town was in Hertfordshire, on a peculiar spur of the Home Counties poking into the heart of Middlesex. The town's more properly known as Chipping Barnet, to distinguish it from all the other Barnets such as East and Friern, and might still be called that had not the tube station been called High. The station was built on the site of the famous annual Barnet Fair, once known for its livestock and horse racing, but now better as rhyming slang for hair. You'll find information about all of this, and lots more besides, inside an early Georgian house just opposite St John's church.
While some local museums are bland, some archaic and others over-modern, Barnet Museum is a veritable hotbed of history. Three floors of rooms are packed with "stuff", more likely unlabelled than not, in a way that genuinely conjures up the way life used to be round these parts. On the ground floor there's an old hearth plus various kitcheny bits in the front room, and full details of the Battle of Barnet in the rear. Downstairs is very girly, all Victorian costumes, lacy hats and samplers. The real meat's upstairs, with a series of thematic displays based around topics such as "light", "truncheons" and "the local bowls club". One cabinet's devoted to the Watson Barnet microscope, another to the Barnet ventilator (a portable "iron lung" which once saved the life of borough-born actor Elizabeth Taylor). Someone here takes collecting royal crockery very seriously, including a century of commemorative cups and mugs, even a 1977 Silver Jubilee paper plate. There's a complete Victorian salon in the room over the stairs, because that's what gets schoolchildren visiting, plus a rather lovely collection of vintage High Street receipts.
The special atmosphere at the museum is primarily due to the number of volunteers bustling about. They're in the entrance hall to welcome you, and maybe sell you a book or postcard from the extremely well-stocked local stash. They're lurking in the office out the back, doing the filing, occasionally popping out with tea. And they're even sitting amongst you, doing real historical work like cataloguing old parish magazines. Budgetary concerns mean there's still a fight ahead to keep the place open. Poor old Church Farmhouse Museum was closed by the council last year, and the building and surrounding gardens are currently up for grabs to the highest bidder ("Grade II* Listed Building For Disposal Freehold/Leasehold"). Barnet Museum survives, for now, because there's some doubt over who precisely owns the lease. But councillors would surely be glad to be rid of the place, because Barnet councillors prefer ready money to heritage, and they probably can't see the point of a collection of old gloves, school registers and tins of powdered egg. But when it's gone, it's gone. And at the moment, up Wood Street, it's decidedly still there. by tube: High Barnet by bus: 107, 184, 263, 307
Somewhere historic: Monken Hadley You can add Monken Hadley to your list of Great London Place Names. The toppermost settlement in Barnet is a delightful village, medieval in origin, with more than its fair share of historic importance. There are winding lanes and duckponds [photo], and a rolling common surrounded by grand houses, but most of all there's a battlefield. One of the most decisive battles of the Wars of the Roses was the Battle of Barnet, fought here on Easter Sunday 1471, which helped to secure the throne for Edward IV. Leading the Lancastrian army was the Earl of Warwick, Richard Neville, erstwhile known as the Kingmaker. He set up camp near Monken Hadley on the Saturday, with Yorkist Edward arriving alongside under cover of darkness. Battle lines were drawn in the early morning, amid fog which made targets uncertain, and the resulting chaos meant the entire conflict was over before breakfast. The Lancastrians lost heavily, and in the ensuing retreat the Earl of Warwick was captured, stabbed and his body mutilated. With opposition crushed, here and at the later Battle of Tewkesbury, Edward would rule England for the next twelve years.
An obelisk to commemorate the Battle of Barnet stands on the main road through Monken Hadley, on a triangular green at Hadley Highstone. It was erected in 1740, and is supposed to mark the spot where Warwick died. Fat chance. It was originally placed 200 metres to the south, but later moved to a convenient space between two rows of cottages, and that was more wishful thinking than fact [photo]. An Ordnance Survey map shows the battle site on private land beyond Dury Road, but even that turns out to be the subject of some conjecture. The true battle was rather more spread out, and current thinking puts the main action a few hundred yards further north... which is just beyond the London border in Hertfordshire. Sssh, let's ignore that awkward possibility, else my random borough visit was entirely unfounded.
But I loved thevillage, even if I didn't stay long. The church is almost as old as the battle, in the perpendicular style, with a reputed "Armada beacon" at the top of the tower [photo]. A gate in the road leads through to Monken Hadley Common - long and thin, and apparently the only surviving remnant of the ancient woodland of Enfield Chase. On Saturday morning the grass was part-covered with frost, most poignantly the bench where My Dearest Bob's wife left a potted bouquet back on Christmas Day [photo]. The pond at the top end of the common, one of the sources of the Pymmes Brook, was swimming with fragments of ice, while a few dogs and joggers braved the cold amongst the occasional patch of sandy gorse. I didn't have time to fully inspect the Georgian mansions hereabouts, at one time home to David Livingstone, Kingsley Amis and Anthony Trollope's mother Fanny. But I reckon this place deserves a summer return visit, and London Loop section 16 looks like a pretty good excuse. by bus: 84, 399
I hate to go on about buses again, quite so soon after my trans-capital epic, but Monken Hadley's two services deserve a mention. On my way there I caught the 84, which is that special bus north to St Albans, the one where you can use Oyster as far as Potters Bar. Except you can't any more. As of two weeks ago the 84 no longer accepts TfL tickets, it's had its Local Service Agreement withdrawn, so I had to stump up hard cash. As a special offer to Oyster holders the fare is only £1.35, although as a Travelcard holder I'd previously paid nothing. So on the way back from Monken Hadley I caught the TfL service instead, the elusive 399, which is one of the most infrequent bus routes in London. Only six buses a day run this way, none before ten and none after three, so I was damned lucky to spot one. I flagged it down by the church (it's Hail & Ride), then rode a handful of stops to The Spires shopping mall... where the driver flipped the blind to become a 389. And that's an even less frequent bus, part of a daily off-peak switcheroo, which I could have caught to one of tomorrow's reports...
» For those fascinated by Barnet, Paul Baker runs historic walks round the town and the surrounding area. Today's guided walk is all about The Battle of Barnet, highly appropriately, and starts at 11am up near Monken Hadley. If you miss it, Paul repeats approximately monthly, or maybe try his ghost walk or Dickensian walk instead.
To be honest it's no longer much of a choice, more like flipping a coin. From a jamjar bulging with names, I'm now down to two final options, which are Barnet and Barking & Dagenham. This pair have remained unselected for almost eight years, but one of them's got to emerge today. Will I be off northwest to the hills of Barnet, before they withdraw funding from any more attractions I might want to visit? Or do I finally draw Barking & Dagenham, which feels like it's been hanging around as the booby prize since day one, but is possibly quite interesting? A neat touch is that my final two are the first two on an alphabetical list of London boroughs, which is precisely the kind of apparent coincidence that occurs when you pick things at random.
Once I've researched my randomly-chosen borough online I'll then head off and visit some of its most interesting places (assuming it has any). As usual I hope to visit somewhere famous, somewhere historic, somewhere pretty, somewhere retail, somewhere sporty and somewhere random. I might even take lots of photographs while I'm at it, if the borough's photogenic enough. Then after I've made my grand tour I'll come back tomorrow and tell you all about it. Let's see which of the two's up next... (and, by default, fix which of the two I'll be visiting last)
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.
Bluewater: A decade before Westfield Stratford City came along, the largest shopping centre in Europe could be found in a quarry in Kent. Bluewater opened in 1999, buried in a chalkydip near the A2, and millions of punters duly drove in. The site's mostly car park, with a few scenic lakes around the circumference and a huge curved triangular mall in the centre. Ideal for walking an entire three-part circuit with an armful of shopping, then changing level and all the way round again. Throw in a meal somewhere, maybe a film, maybe a round of 18-hole pirate-themed adventure golf, and that's an entire day consumed.
Only on a Saturday does Bluewater dare to open as early as nine. The buses are nigh empty as they pull in, and the car park's mostly empty apart from staff. On the ground floor of the Rose Gallery, youngsters drafted in to run the trolley concessions are unwrapping the spa treatments, pricing up the the handbags and rearranging the cuddly monkeys. Nobody's interested yet, but give them time. Many shops haven't even bothered to raise the shutters, but a few are open, lights blazing, awaiting custom. Even the restaurants are ready, tables laid, happy to serve up a coffee or breakfast to earlybird couples and the occasional family. Entire sub-galleries echo to a single set of passing footsteps. Won't be long now.
Downstairs in ThamesWalk, loud junior screaming can be heard. To blame are a handful of six year-olds at the Build-A-Bear Workshop, being whipped into a frenzy by an employee before they all run into the store to stuff a teddy. Upstairs, in a quieter corner, the Past Times Christmas gift store closes on Monday. There's 50% off gift books and Union Jack cushions, but no takers. In M&S the mannequins outnumber the shoppers, spread out among criss-crossing racks of primary coloured blouses and knitwear. Slowly the day's customers arrive, emerging from the multi-storey with eager smiles and loaded cards. They spread out and head clockwise or anti-clockwise - twice round should do it - hunting bargains and early caffeine. The bus to London leaves in five minutes, so I leave them to it. 96>>
A new leaflet is starting to appear in racks at Underground stations. It's purple, it's 8 pages long and it's called Every Journey Matters. The leaflet sets out to summarise how Tfl are improving London's transport network, which is something TfL are perfectly entitled to shout about. There's also a microsite at tfl.gov.uk/improving with much the same information, and a related series of purple posters on station walls.
But something about the campaign, and its appearance four months before a Mayoral election, makes me wonder if there's an ulterior motive. This is a compilation of twelve transport improvements with the Boris seal of approval. A list of improvements, according to the microsite, specifically restricted to the years 2009-2012. And the leaflet comes with an introduction that's written and signed by TfL boss Boris himself...
I know every journey you make is important. It's important to me too. That's why London is undergoing a neo-Victorian era of investment in its public transport, and it's great that many Londoners are already enjoying a better, more reliable system.
It's never specifically stated, but the dozen selected schemes are all transport projects that Boris might seek to take credit for. First in the leaflet is the sponsored cablecar, obviously, while second comes the New Bus For London. There's then a big plug for Barclays Cycle Hire, but there's no mention anywhere of Cycle Superhighways (presumably because they're inadequate and kill people). Also on the celebratory shortlist are the DLR extension to Stratford International, smoothing traffic flow, Congestion Charge Auto Pay, the tube upgrade, live bus arrivals, etc... some of which Boris initiated, others he merely didn't cancel.
As I say, TfL have every right to crow about all the improvements they're making on our behalf. But why release a convenient potted summary now, reminding us how great the last three years have been, and how many more great things are due in the first half of 2012? With TfL's Chairman's up for re-election at the ballot box in May, I have to say, this campaign smacks of using public money for covert electioneering.
Mark Twain was very impressed. "I have never seen any place that was so satisfactorily situated, with its noble trees and stretch of country, and everything that went to make life delightful, and all within a biscuit's throw of the metropolis of the world." Indeed, some would say over-impressed. "Dollis Hill comes nearer to being a paradise than any other home I ever occupied." It's hard to imagine today that a hilltop near Neasden could inspire such praise, but many came to Dollis Hill House for rest, hospitality and a grand panorama over London. The view, at least, remains. But the house's days are numbered, possibly even in single figures. The bulldozers arrived last week, on the orders of Brent council, and demolition is underway.
Dollis Hill House - a brief history 200 years ago: The Dollis Hill Estate is used for dairy farming and haymaking. 1825: The Finch family build a new farmhouse on Dollis Hill. The house is square, of two storeys, in yellow stock brick with a stuccoed porch and a verandah on the south side. 1861: Money problems force the Finches to rent the house to Sir Dudley Coutts Marjoribanks (Liberal MP, and creator of the golden retriever) 1881: Lord Aberdeen moves in. Regular house guests include Prime Minister William Gladstone, who often stays for a recuperative weekend. 1897: Lord Aberdeen moves out, replaced by newspaper proprietor Hugh Gilzean-Reid... who, in summer 1900, invites Mark Twain to stay. 1901: 96 acres south of Dollis Hill Lane are bought up by Willesden Borough Council and opened to the public as Gladstone Park, named after the recently-deceased PM. 1915: The house becomes a wartime convalescent and open-air hospital, funded by local people. 1941: Churchill's War Cabinet meets at the house (rather than underground at nearby Paddock) 1974: Dollis Hill House is used for training courses for catering students. 1989: The catering college closes, and the building is left vacant. 1989: The Dollis Hill House Trust is set up to try to find a way to save the building.
Over the last few years, Dollis Hill House has slipped from abandoned to derelict. Two bouts of arson in the mid 1990s didn't help, and the building spent much of its time propped up by increasingly-important scaffolding. The stables nextdoor were opened as an art gallery, with a walled flower garden behind, but the main house slowly became a historic eyesore. Several rescue packages were proposed, the largest a £1.2m matchedfunding grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund. But the funding was never matched, and a further arson attempt last year sealed the building's fate. Brent Council lost interest (if they won't save their libraries, what chance a crumbling Grade II listed building), and the government duly approveddemolition.
Head to Gladstone Park today and the view is as good as ever [photo]. Mark Twain wouldn't recognise Wembley Stadium, perched not so far across the Brent Valley, nor the distant towers of the City of London. But the slopes are still high enough for a broad panorama, and the perfect spot for a dogwalk or taking the kids for a push. At the top of the hill is a curved ornamental pond, rippling with waterfowl and with an unlikely statue plonked in the centre. And then there's Dollis Hill House, or at least what's left of it, crumbling silently behind a green barrier [photo]. The wall facing down the hill has already fallen, opening the interior to the elements. An archway off the landing on the first floor can be seen, and the remains of walls which might have been Mr Gladstone's guest bedroom. For now the only residents are pigeons and the occasional seagull, perched on top of whatever remnants of upper masonry they can find [photo]. The northern side of the house is rather more intact, as derelict buildings go, although nothing substantial enough to keep the rain out. A large digger stands guard behind the fence, waiting to return to demolition duty on Monday morning. [photo]
Before long, definitely by the end of February, Dollis Hill House will have been fully levelled. Once cleared, the council aims to create an open-air legacy project on the site, which essentially means the floor plan of the original building being picked out in stone. Visitors to Gladstone Park will be able to walk from front door to hallway to dining room, maybe sit on a bench in the old front parlour, maybe have a picnic in the former kitchen. One brick window surround is being kept, but that's as three dimensional as the replacement memorial will get. There are also associated plans for "a community open air performance space", plus inclusion of seating and additional greenery to "ensure visitors can relax and unwind as they soak up the atmosphere".
It's a depressingly understated end for Dollis Hill House, which has had the misfortune to require funding at the precise moment that nobody in government is willing to afford it. If only local arsonists hadn't felt the need to practise within, perhaps this historic building might have survived in more useful communal form for a smaller outlay. As it is, the favourite spot of Gladstone and Twain will soon exist only as an imprint on the ground, and as a cherished memory.
Bow Road is losing its guardrail. That's the metal railings installed at various points along the road to stop pedestrians running into the traffic, and the traffic running into pedestrians. Almost all of it's going, all the way from the Bow Flyover to Whitechapel, and going soon.
Laminated notices appeared on all the affected guardrail during the week before Christmas. Don't leave your bike here, the notices warned, although giving three weeks notice did seem somewhat premature. The scheduled date for rail removal is "on or after week beginning 9th January 2012", which could be next week (or could be rather later). Perversely, the laminated notices give a telephone number to ring if you return to find your bike gone... except the guardrail and the telephone number will also have disappeared should that happen.
TfL's war on guardrail began under Mayor Ken in 2007, when they "adopted a policy presumption against the use of pedestrian guardrail except where there is a proven safety requirement". Mayor Boris then sped up the process, doubling the length of guardrail due to be removed, with the express intention of "enhancing London's streetscape". To aid sustainability, rest assured that all materials removed will be suitable for recycling. Rest assured also that a Guardrail Risk Assessment Form is completed before any particular section of guardrail is removed. Subject to these checks, the major beneficiaries should be walkers and cyclists, for whom the metal barriers can act as a discouraging barrier to movement. Well that's the plan anyway.
All the guardrail outside the entrance to St Mary's, Bow Church, is going. Not the original railings round the Victorian subterranean lavatories, you'll be pleased to hear, but all the other bits that stop us running out into the traffic. All the guardrail along the middle of the road between the church and Fairfield Road is going. That's a hundred metre stretch we pedestrians have been barred from crossing for years, but will suddenly be able to traverse. The guardrail at the pedestrian crossing outside Bow Police Station, close to the Magistrates Court, is going. This metal chicane was installed only last year, but someone's now decreed it all needs removing. And the guardrail immediately outside Bow Church DLR... ah, that isn't going. It's the only guardrail for two miles I've seen being preserved, presumably because the temptation to walk out into the road on leaving the station is too great. But all the rest, every last bobble-topped pole, is going.
The biggest effect will be at pedestrian crossings, and Bow Road has loads of them. They're all two-parters, where we cross to the middle, sidestep along to the other lights and then cross again. Previously: an enforced two-stage journey with central delay. From next week: maybe the entire traverse in one go if the traffic's running right. Think of the time saved, the freedom, the joy! Except it's not all fantastic. Nobody's moving the crossing lights, which will continue to be positioned not-opposite each other. If you need to press the button you're still going to have to zigzag, or walk diagonally, to get safely across. In most cases it'll become much more tempting to carry on straight, through the traffic instead of in front of it, which is not how any of the crossings were designed.
The big losers here are probably drivers, who can expect additional interruptions from jaywalkers as they drive along. No longer constrained to cross where it's safest, locals will be hotstepping across the road wherever it takes their fancy, even where that's not entirely sensible. There'll be a huge amount more freedom at the top of Stepney Green, and ditto by the Blind Beggar in Whitechapel where dozens of diagonal sub-crossings now become possible. One other potential downside, for cyclists, will be fewer places along two miles of roadway to lock up their bikes. And there'll be nowhere to tie bouquets, should this sadly become necessary. All this additional freedom for pedestrians along the A11 corridor should be great, don't get me wrong, but someone'll probably pay the price.
As stations go, Kensington Olympia has some strangely timetabled trains. Seven District line departures each weekday - five ridiculously early, plus two outliers mid-evening. An Overground service interlaced with hourly trains to Milton Keynes. But that's nothing compared to the unlikely service that pulls out once each weekday morning on the way to nowhere useful. The 10:02 to Wandsworth Road. The parliamentary train that Southern has to run, but they'd rather nobody caught. I caught it, braved the lies, and lived to tell the tale.
Should you ever be standing on the southbound platform at Kensington Olympia just before ten o'clock in the morning, there are absolutely no clues whatsoever that a train is due. No 10:02 service is displayed on the departure board. There's an 09:56 to Clapham Junction, and a 10:11 to Clapham Junction, but nothing's indicated inbetween. They don't want you to board this train, so they don't announce its arrival.
At one minute past, as a four carriage green train appears in the distance, the display on the next train indicator changes. "Please stand clear. This train is not for public use" it reads. This is a lie. There's then an almost identical public announcement. "Please stand away from the train of platform 3. This train is not in use." This too is a lie, as it turns out. But they don't want you to board this train, so they pretend it isn't stopping.
At two minutes past, the train arrives. Destination "Wandsworth Road", according to the scrolling display on the front, which baffles a few potential passengers because they don't know where Wandsworth Road is. A guard steps from the door in carriage number three and emerges onto the platform in town crier mode. He booms out a list of stations, slightly too fast, which confuses those on the platform still further. A group of lost-looking foreign tourists ask if the train is going to their chosen destination and receive a somewhat patronising "What did I say?" response. The guard doesn't want you to board this train, that's obvious, but he's not allowed to say so directly.
As the guard steps back on board, a handful of optimistic souls follow him. Some are railway buffs and know exactly what they're doing. The 10:02 to Wandsworth Road, how uniquely exciting. Others drift on because they don't know any better, and it's a train, and it's bound to be going their way isn't it? Damn, thinks the guard, my ghost train has passengers. But not many. According to the scrolling display above the half-empty carriage, "The next station is Wandsworth Road". This too is a blatant lie, as we are about to discover.
The train soon pulls into West Brompton station (where the next train indicator says "Passing service. Please stand back behind the yellow line") and stops. The doors open, and one passenger nips out to catch the District line train pulling in alongside. He clearly knew what he was doing. The guard acts swiftly to stop anybody else climbing aboard. "Ladies and gentlemen, please listen carefully. This train is for Imperial Wharf and Wandsworth Road only. If you haven't heard the destination you require, you're on the wrong train." Nobody moves. Three Japanese tourists with suitcases walk aboard, and we're off again.
The train pauses again at Imperial Wharf, which is the second station the scrolling display hasn't suggested we'd stop at. The three Japanese tourists alight, which is fortunate for them because they'd not want to go where we're heading next. Our train is about to use not one but two curves of track that no other daily service touches, and all to keep those two curves of track officially open. Ssh, don't tell anybody.
Once across the Thames we take the left fork, then another left fork, then right at Latchmere No 3 Junction, along the line that doesn't go to Clapham or Waterloo. Instead we dip beneath the mainline, negotiating our way through a maze of twisting tracks past a variety of warehouses and a wall of buddleia. This is no scenic rail tour, at least not yet, but the view out of the window is a rare sight. Beneath the line from Victoria, then beneath it again, this is one convoluted curve we're following.
Past Nero Roasting, where your coffee comes from, past Video Europe and past Westminster Transfer. A series of carriages rumble past in the near distance, at all levels, on all sides. We pause on the viaduct for five minutes to let all the proper train services go by, affording a lengthy view of the adjacent factory roof. That's Battersea Power Station over there, and Queenstown Road bus garage down below, and Stewart's Lane train depot we've crossed... and I have this entire carriage all to myself.
Come the end of this year there'll be proper trains on this particular bend, once the Overground overtakes the South London Line. They'll come this way to reach Clapham Junction, taking a subtly different route through this railway version of Spaghetti Junction. For now, however, there's just one forgotten train a day in each direction, and the driver's not rushing. At last the signal changes and the train moves forward onto the main track. A disembodied voice chimes "We are now approaching Wandsworth Road", which is the first scrap of truth we've heard out of her.
Our terminating station is a short distance ahead, where this peculiar service terminates on the lonely southbound platform. It's not a lovely place to be abandoned, with the feel of a bypassed halt, and a set of dodgy steps down to the street. The guard pokes his head out to ensure that all his unwanted passengers have properly alighted, then the train swiftly departs, its legal duty complete.
There is, so far as I can tell, no earthly reason why anyone would need to make this particular journey, especially when the single return trip isn't for another six hours. But for anyone who's interested, and can see through the train company's pantomime of lies, the ghost train to Wandsworth Road runs daily until December.
Normally when I visit a football stadium for my random borough visit, it being a Saturday, there is at least some activity going on. Not so at Underhill. With the team off thrashing far-flung Accrington Stanley, there was absolutely nothing doing, not even action from Barnet's high-flying ladies. The roadside end of the stadium is for away supporters, and that was gated and shuttered. Access for everything else is down Priory Grove (still flyposted for "Christopher & Cassandra's 21st"), past a pitch-long corrugated iron wall (and the local Scout HQ). All was dead here too, every last gate, window and door. No service at The Bacon Butty, which I assume does good porcine business on match days [photo]. And not a soul in the locked shop, which is a portakabin in the corner of the car park, filled with such goodies as Bee Army flags, "Mister Bumble" t-shirts and a variety of tangerine clothing. There's a fair amount of orange paint across the main building, and the abbreviation B.F.C. built into the brickwork near the main entrances. Stand beside the main gate and you can see past the fire escape to the pitch - a far better view than most clubs allow you to get for free [photo]. But, emotion aside, there's little here of architectural worth were the whole place to be bulldozed and replaced with flats, which I fear is what the council ultimately have in mind.
An intriguing place to visit, I thought, as I stepped off the tube at Woodside Park station. And there were indeed a few Milliganesque Edwardian villas on the even numbered side of the road, but none on the odd. That was lined with flats, in a variety of styles, and there was nothing I could possibly imagine Spike having lived in. I tried to locate 127, only to find the blue plaque on the end wall of a not terribly inspiring row of white-boarded houses [photo]. Surely Spike hadn't lived in one of these regular suburban residences... and by their age I realised not. 127 and its neighbours are long gone, long replaced, with several new homes crammed in where the Milligans' back garden would once have been. In the words of youngest daughter Jane, "Somewhere in the soil under these flats are the bones of our family hamsters, rabbits, fish, air rifle pellets and unread letters to the pixies and fairies." I walked down the frosty passageway past their front doors, to a large car parking area beside a steaming litter bin, and then to the banks of the Dollis Brook. I'd never have got this far while Spike was here, and by the overgrown look of the shallow channel I wouldn't have missed much.
How have I never been up here before? A road along a ridge, once plied by coaching traffic leaving London, now an affluent residential location blessed by a jumbled collection of great buildings. It's called Mill Hill for fairly obvious reasons, although there's no sign today of any mill except for the twee iron signs at either end of the village. Mill Hill's heritage has survived by the fortunate chance of its elevation. When the railways passed through they took the valleys, hence the urban sprawl round Mill Hill Broadway and central Finchley. But up here wasn't so commuter friendly, unless you count the spur line to Mill Hill East at the foot of Bittacy Hill, so remained mostly untouched. I nipped off the bus at the top of Highwood Hill, then walked down the edge of rolling fields to the Folly Brook valley and immediately back up twisting Holcombe Hill. I'm not used to such compact contours in north London, but Barnet's an atypically hilly borough.
There's been a museum in Wood Street, Barnet, since the 1930s. Back then the town was in Hertfordshire, on a peculiar spur of the Home Counties poking into the heart of Middlesex. The town's more properly known as Chipping Barnet, to distinguish it from all the other Barnets such as East and Friern, and might still be called that had not the tube station been called High. The station was built on the site of the famous annual Barnet Fair, once known for its livestock and horse racing, but now better as rhyming slang for hair. You'll find information about all of this, and lots more besides, inside an early Georgian house just opposite St John's church.
The special atmosphere at the museum is primarily due to the number of volunteers bustling about. They're in the entrance hall to welcome you, and maybe sell you a book or postcard from the extremely well-stocked local stash. They're lurking in the office out the back, doing the filing, occasionally popping out with tea. And they're even sitting amongst you, doing real historical work like cataloguing old parish magazines. Budgetary concerns mean there's still a fight ahead to keep the place open. Poor old Church Farmhouse Museum was closed by the council last year, and the building and surrounding gardens are currently up for grabs to the highest bidder ("Grade II* Listed Building For Disposal Freehold/Leasehold"). Barnet Museum survives, for now, because there's some doubt over who precisely owns the lease. But councillors would surely be glad to be rid of the place, because Barnet councillors prefer ready money to heritage, and they probably can't see the point of a collection of old gloves, school registers and tins of powdered egg. But when it's gone, it's gone. And at the moment, up Wood Street, it's decidedly still there.
You can add Monken Hadley to your list of Great London Place Names. The toppermost settlement in Barnet is a delightful village, medieval in origin, with more than its fair share of historic importance. There are winding lanes and duckponds [photo], and a rolling common surrounded by grand houses, but most of all there's a battlefield. One of the most decisive battles of the Wars of the Roses was the Battle of Barnet, fought here on Easter Sunday 1471, which helped to secure the throne for Edward IV. Leading the Lancastrian army was the Earl of Warwick, Richard Neville, erstwhile known as the Kingmaker. He set up camp near Monken Hadley on the Saturday, with Yorkist Edward arriving alongside under cover of darkness. Battle lines were drawn in the early morning, amid fog which made targets uncertain, and the resulting chaos meant the entire conflict was over before breakfast. The Lancastrians lost heavily, and in the ensuing retreat the Earl of Warwick was captured, stabbed and his body mutilated. With opposition crushed, here and at the later Battle of Tewkesbury, Edward would rule England for the next twelve years.
But I loved the village, even if I didn't stay long. The church is almost as old as the battle, in the perpendicular style, with a reputed "Armada beacon" at the top of the tower [photo]. A gate in the road leads through to Monken Hadley Common - long and thin, and apparently the only surviving remnant of the ancient woodland of Enfield Chase. On Saturday morning the grass was part-covered with frost, most poignantly the bench where My Dearest Bob's wife left a potted bouquet back on Christmas Day [photo]. The pond at the top end of the common, one of the sources of the Pymmes Brook, was swimming with fragments of ice, while a few dogs and joggers braved the cold amongst the occasional patch of sandy gorse. I didn't have time to fully inspect the Georgian mansions hereabouts, at one time home to David Livingstone, Kingsley Amis and Anthony Trollope's mother Fanny. But I reckon this place deserves a summer return visit, and London Loop section 16 looks like a pretty good excuse.
Random borough (32): Time for me to take yet another random trip to one of London's 33 boroughs. As I write I have no idea which one of the two remaining borough names will be revealed when I unfold the slip of paper I'm about to pick from my nearly-empty "special jamjar". I just know it won't be Merton, Islington, Enfield, Sutton, Lewisham, Southwark, Kensington & Chelsea, Hackney, Hillingdon, the City, Bromley, Lambeth, Tower Hamlets, Haringey, Hounslow, Brent, Redbridge, Ealing, Harrow, Croydon, Waltham Forest, Wandsworth, Greenwich, Richmond, Kingston, Westminster, Newham, Camden, Bexley, Havering or Hammersmith & Fulham, because they're the thirty-one (dark grey) boroughs I've picked out already.
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.
Bluewater: A decade before Westfield Stratford City came along, the largest shopping centre in Europe could be found in a quarry in Kent. Bluewater opened in 1999, buried in a chalky dip near the A2, and millions of punters duly drove in. The site's mostly car park, with a few scenic lakes around the circumference and a huge curved triangular mall in the centre. Ideal for walking an entire three-part circuit with an armful of shopping, then changing level and all the way round again. Throw in a meal somewhere, maybe a film, maybe a round of 18-hole pirate-themed adventure golf, and that's an entire day consumed.
Mark Twain was very impressed. "I have never seen any place that was so satisfactorily situated, with its noble trees and stretch of country, and everything that went to make life delightful, and all within a biscuit's throw of the metropolis of the world." Indeed, some would say over-impressed. "Dollis Hill comes nearer to being a paradise than any other home I ever occupied." It's hard to imagine today that a hilltop near Neasden could inspire such praise, but many came to Dollis Hill House for rest, hospitality and a grand panorama over London. The view, at least, remains. But the house's days are numbered, possibly even in single figures. The bulldozers arrived last week, on the orders of Brent council, and demolition is underway.
Dollis Hill House - a brief historyHead to Gladstone Park today and the view is as good as ever [photo]. Mark Twain wouldn't recognise Wembley Stadium, perched not so far across the Brent Valley, nor the distant towers of the City of London. But the slopes are still high enough for a broad panorama, and the perfect spot for a dogwalk or taking the kids for a push. At the top of the hill is a curved ornamental pond, rippling with waterfowl and with an unlikely statue plonked in the centre. And then there's Dollis Hill House, or at least what's left of it, crumbling silently behind a green barrier [photo]. The wall facing down the hill has already fallen, opening the interior to the elements. An archway off the landing on the first floor can be seen, and the remains of walls which might have been Mr Gladstone's guest bedroom. For now the only residents are pigeons and the occasional seagull, perched on top of whatever remnants of upper masonry they can find [photo]. The northern side of the house is rather more intact, as derelict buildings go, although nothing substantial enough to keep the rain out. A large digger stands guard behind the fence, waiting to return to demolition duty on Monday morning. [photo]
Bow Road is losing its guardrail. That's the metal railings installed at various points along the road to stop pedestrians running into the traffic, and the traffic running into pedestrians. Almost all of it's going, all the way from the Bow Flyover to Whitechapel, and going soon.
The biggest effect will be at pedestrian crossings, and Bow Road has loads of them. They're all two-parters, where we cross to the middle, sidestep along to the other lights and then cross again. Previously: an enforced two-stage journey with central delay. From next week: maybe the entire traverse in one go if the traffic's running right. Think of the time saved, the freedom, the joy! Except it's not all fantastic. Nobody's moving the crossing lights, which will continue to be positioned not-opposite each other. If you need to press the button you're still going to have to zigzag, or walk diagonally, to get safely across. In most cases it'll become much more tempting to carry on straight, through the traffic instead of in front of it, which is not how any of the crossings were designed.
Should you ever be standing on the southbound platform at Kensington Olympia just before ten o'clock in the morning, there are absolutely no clues whatsoever that a train is due. No 10:02 service is displayed on the departure board. There's an 09:56 to Clapham Junction, and a 10:11 to Clapham Junction, but nothing's indicated inbetween. They don't want you to board this train, so they don't announce its arrival.
At two minutes past, the train arrives. Destination "Wandsworth Road", according to the scrolling display on the front, which baffles a few potential passengers because they don't know where Wandsworth Road is. A guard steps from the door in carriage number three and emerges onto the platform in town crier mode. He booms out a list of stations, slightly too fast, which confuses those on the platform still further. A group of lost-looking foreign tourists ask if the train is going to their chosen destination and receive a somewhat patronising "What did I say?" response. The guard doesn't want you to board this train, that's obvious, but he's not allowed to say so directly.
Past Nero Roasting, where your coffee comes from, past Video Europe and past Westminster Transfer. A series of carriages rumble past in the near distance, at all levels, on all sides. We pause on the viaduct for five minutes to let all the proper train services go by, affording a lengthy view of the adjacent factory roof. That's Battersea Power Station over there, and Queenstown Road bus garage down below, and Stewart's Lane train depot we've crossed... and I have this entire carriage all to myself.
