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Updated: Oct 24, 2020

14 October 2020


Tower Bridge to the left, Canary Wharf to the right, I'm stuck in the middle with you

For today’s Covid-era walk we decide to stay south of the river, rather than venture foolishly into the pox-ridden north. But this means our travels involve several trains, giving us an opportunity to observe current levels of face-mask compliance (100% on Southeastern but only around 50% on the DLR, which is concerning).

Iconic but deserted

We are once again connecting two different Stephen Millar walks, this time taking us from London Bridge to Greenwich via Rotherhithe and sections of the Thames Path. The weather is unusually kind to us, with only a gentle breeze coming off the Thames today instead of the normal storm-force blast straight from Siberia. We pass the rather sad-looking offices at More London, devoid of their workers once more and pondering - at least metaphorically - their purpose and future, as well as City Hall, where Britain’s worst ever prime minister (no names) cut his political teeth as London mayor, not obviously learning anything useful during his eight year tenure about the principles of leadership, integrity or truth. Yet it’s a bit early in the day for a rant about the state of our nation, so we continue calmly on past Tower Bridge and into the converted warehouses of Shad Thames. There’s an encouraging buzz of activity in the restaurants along the river - it’s almost as if they're expecting some actual customers to come and mingle on their terraces for lunch.

The Neckinger - not German at all

We join the first of today’s walks already halfway along its trajectory at New Concordia Wharf, saving the delights of Bermondsey Street and its surrounds for another day - ideally, when the pubs are open and free from restriction. Crossing the bridge over the River Neckinger towards St. Saviour’s Dock, we wonder why this tributary has a German-sounding name but Millar puts us right: it’s actually a derivative of “devil’s neckcloth”, a euphemism for the hangman’s noose in centuries gone by. This gives an insight into the less than edifying history of this area, a notorious slum formerly known as Jacob’s Island. This refuge for criminals and down-and-outs, consisting mainly of mudflats and disused warehouses, formed the backdrop for Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, most notably Bill Sykes’ last escape and eventual demise - all brought so vividly to life in Carol Reed’s iconic musical film. (I was just thinking that Carol, as a female film director in the sixties, was ahead of her time - but that was before I found out she was a man.)

Historic houseboats, laid to lawn

Such degradation is almost unthinkable as we admire the luxury apartments standing on this spot today. Yet only a little further, we come across a throwback to the past: the massed ranks of barges and houseboats with the rooftop gardens at an early 19th century mooring point. We’re interested to read that the Johnny-come-lately local residents, in cahoots with the council, tried hard to evict the houseboats as recently as 2003, but were rebuffed by a public campaign which included support from Star Trek actor Patrick Stewart.

Ada Salter - local hero

Shortly before The Angel public house, we come across an information board telling the story of Dr Alfred and Ada Salter. Surprisingly ignored by Millar’s normally comprehensive guide, the couple played a vital role in furthering the health of the local community in the early 20th century, setting up a free medical practice for the poor people of Bermondsey a full half-century before the introduction of the National Health Service. Dr Alfred Salter later served as a Labour MP, campaigning tirelessly to improve living conditions in the docklands. The achievements of his wife Ada were perhaps even greater, as she became the first female mayor of a London borough (and the first female Labour mayor in the country). Their story is tinged with sadness though, as not even Alfred’s medical training at Guy’s Hospital could prevent their only child, Joyce, dying from scarlet fever at the age of ten - a reminder of the much higher mortality rates of barely one hundred years ago. The statues of the Salter family beside the river in Cherry Garden, opposite the site of a 14th century manor house, provide a touching tribute to their lives of philanthropy and activism for the greater good.

A famous ship sailed from here

Continuing along the Thames Path, we reach Rotherhithe Street, which starts as a narrow backstreet before, rather implausibly, stretching a further two miles round the curve of the docklands peninsula to earn its status as the longest street in London. This first stretch was home to a thriving bohemian community in the mid 20th century, including the society photographer Tony Armstrong-Jones, later Lord Snowdon following his marriage to Princess Margaret. It was also here that the Mayflower set off on the first stage of its epic sailing to America, captained by local Rotherhithe lad Christopher Jones. This momentous event, shortly before picking up en route the group of religious nonconformists who would become known as the Pilgrim Fathers, is commemorated by a blue plaque and, equally predictably, by a fine-looking pub of the same name (it’s still too early though, even for a swift one).

Watching over the charity school at St Mary Rotherhithe

We press on past Brunel’s Engine House, commemorating the world’s first attempt to build a tunnel under a navigable river. Unfortunately this proved problematic for even the greatest engineering family of the age and took nineteen years to complete, including a fatal accident in which Isambard Brunel nearly drowned. The tunnel was only accessible by foot before being taken over by the railways in 1865. The modern Rotherhithe Tunnel, used by motor vehicles, is not far away but opened much later in 1908. Further memories of the area’s seafaring history are provided by St Mary Rotherhithe church and the nearby Free School of the same name. Millar tells a great story of how another local ship, the Antelope, transported a prince named Lee Boo all the way from the Palau islands in the Pacific at the request of his father, the king, who desired that his son receive a western education. Unfortunately for Lee Boo, he only enjoyed six months of the best a Rotherhithe education could bring before succumbing, aged twenty, to smallpox. He is buried in St Mary’s churchyard.

Less historic houseboats at Greenland Dock

Soon after, we reach the crossover point of today’s double-header: Canada Water, which is today best known, at least to me, as an underground station, but under its former identity of Canada Dock was one of many working dockyards within the massive acreage of the Surrey Commercial Docks, their names denoting the provenance of their wares. Today its more sedate quays are lined by a mix of new-build apartments and retail outlets. But we soon realise that the size of Canada Water is relatively modest when we set eyes on the real docklands daddy: Greenland Dock. Covering an impressive 22.5 acres, today it’s used mainly for watersports and is home to many species of birds and fish - and another impressive collection of houseboats (if you like the thought of spending each night rocking gently up and down and without access to modern bathroom facilities). Most of the other docks were filled in (nearby Russia Dock has been reclaimed as woodland) but Greenland Dock survives in memory of former glories before the more efficient, modern container port at Tilbury hastened the closure of London’s inner city docks in 1970. It also provides access to South Dock, London’s largest yacht marina.

Kent started where Rotherhithe ended

Our route via Greenland Dock cuts off a huge chunk of peninsula and - as if by magic - we find ourselves back on the Thames but much further downstream. Nearby we cross the old boundary between Surrey and Kent, which was in operation until 1899. It’s a shame for us that the Kent boundary is located so much further south these days, as it would be very convenient to avoid the “Tier 2” Covid status about to be imposed on all regions of London, even those (such as ours) with low levels of new infections. As it is, we live in a strange twilight zone that is neither one thing nor t’other - our postal address and postcode say we live in Kent but we pay our dues to the London Borough of Bromley, part of the Greater London conurbation that is home to nine million citizens. For these purposes (and those of the government’s new Covid tiers), the Kent border is inconveniently drawn several miles south of our house.

Upstream to The Shard and Tower Bridge

The old border stone on the river also marks the parish boundary between Rotherhithe and Deptford. Much like the rest of Docklands, Deptford’s best times remain stubbornly rooted in the past - the 16th century, to be specific, when Henry VIII (yes, him again) established a naval storehouse here and later a dockyard. The name Deptford meant “deep ford” - in this case, not of the mighty Thames, which would have been an impossible task, but of the less imposing Ravensbourne. This river rises eleven miles away in Keston (which looks as if it’s far enough south to be in Kent, but isn’t) and flows through Bromley, Catford and Lewisham before meeting up with the Thames at Deptford Creek. Henry was fond of Deptford as it was not only close to his “favourite palace” at Greenwich but, more strategically, much nearer to his London royal armouries than Portsmouth, where the Navy’s dockyards were previously based. In other words, it was a naval no brainer. So it was that for over 350 years Deptford was an important shipbuilding and naval supplies (“victualling”) town surrounded by pleasant Kent countryside.

Next time, Sir Francis, use larger writing please

Many a famous voyage was launched from here: Sir Francis Drake’s famous ship, the Golden Hinde, was berthed in Deptford Creek in 1651 as a monument to his circumnavigation of the world (the book says “permanently” but the original ship fell apart a hundred years later, with its replica now located in Brixham, Devon) and James Cook’s Endeavour was refitted here in 1768 before his voyage of discovery to Australia. Cook was from Yorkshire, by the way - this goes out to my legion of fans from God's own county (you know who you are). Sadly, by the late 19th century, Deptford’s decline had become inevitable when its waterways began to silt up, becoming too shallow for naval vessels, meaning the once-thriving town progressively lost its status to upwardly-mobile Greenwich.

Evelyn's life lesson: Don't let Russians rent your house

Strolling down the stretch of river known as Deptford Strand, we fail to spot the inferred beach but are entertained by Millar’s splendid yarns about Christopher Marlowe, Samuel Pepys and Peter the Great of Russia - all of whom spent time here in Deptford’s halcyon days:

  • Marlowe, by the tender age of 29, had already penned classics such as Doctor Faustus, which proved to be just as well when he was arrested on charges of atheism, at the time punishable by the small inconvenience of a stake-burning. After being released on bail, he met a violent end in his lodgings near Deptford Strand, accounts of which vary between a dispute over a bar bill and an assassination by one of the Crown’s spies. I dare say we will never know what really happened on that night in 1593, as it's a while ago now.

  • Unsurprisingly, Pepys' diaries document his frequent visits to Deptford. As in Covent Garden (see our previous walk), his outings aimed mainly to indulge his sexual dalliances, which included an innovative deal struck with a dockyard carpenter to further the man’s career in return for after-hours access to his wife. Today, his name lives on in the sprawling Pepys housing estate built on the site of the old shipyards and victualling warehouses, as well as Lower Pepys Park, today used for dogging activities in memory of the lower Pepys.

  • The tale of St Peter the Great is a tall one indeed, mainly because the Tsar of Russia measured six foot seven inches in height. During a reconnaissance mission across Europe in 1698, he rented a fine Deptford manor owned by John Evelyn, a contemporary diarist colleague of Pepys, with the goal of learning the trade of shipbuilding in the nearby yards. In the space of just three months, his penchant for holding wild parties with his Russian friends succeeded in wrecking the house and much of the garden, Evelyn’s pride and joy.

Thanks, I'm now reminded of the inevitability of death

Turning inland towards central Deptford, we pass St. Nicholas Church, where Marlowe is buried, with its hotchpotch of period features, the repaired main building following damage in the Blitz contrasting starkly with the original 14th century tower. The lurid skull and cross-bone carvings on the front gates, “designed to remind the congregation of the inevitability of death”, date from the 17th century. From here it’s only a short walk to Deptford High Street, one of the hidden delights of the area - at least to me, as it’s the first time I’ve ever set foot here. This is despite driving past many hundreds of times on the two main roads at either end - the main A2 towards Central London and the only marginally less main Lower Road from Greenwich to Southwark. The High Street is splendid - full of quirky boutiques, cafés and 18th century period houses. Here we also encounter my cricket clubmate Tom, who is out getting some fresh air between Zoom meetings and confides he’s a massive fan of this blog (at least I think that’s what he said, it was very noisy). In any case, our new-found enthusiasm for Deptford High Street has meant we have now gone too far and missed the turning into Albury Street, a fine 16th century street which was the home of ships’ captains and, allegedly, the mistress of Lord Nelson.

It's raining quite heavily now

The final, now very wet stretch of today’s walk takes us past the Trinity Laban conservatoire of music and dance, alma mater of an old friend who is now Australia’s leading dance artist working with babies and young children (Sally, you did say the cheque’s in the post?). Just over the bridge at Deptford Creek, we turn into another new housing development before emerging back on the Thames Path next to the Greenwich foot-tunnel, built in 1902 and still in use today as a short-cut across to the Isle of Dogs. Here the familiar tourist attractions of the Cutty Sark and the Royal Naval College loom into view.

Greenwich: socially climbing through the ages

After three and a half hours walking and almost 20,000 steps behind us, we feel we’ve earned our lunch at the Sail Loft. A Fullers “gastro-pub”, this is a well-designed and spacious new-build over two storeys, offering sweeping river views in both directions. It’s at this moment I sense a second career as an estate agent is there for the taking. The lunch doesn’t disappoint: our caesar salads, served with whole anchovies and a choice of chicken or halloumi, are delicious at only £10.50 a pop. It’s early in the week so Jayne wisely declines anything alcoholic but I have no such qualms and down two pints of Dark Star Hophead, convincing myself that, at a mere 3.8% proof and accompanied by salad, it’s almost healthy. From there it’s a short walk to the DLR for some involuntary virus exposure, then home.



Acknowledgements: Jayne and Richard were following the “Bermondsey & Rotherhithe Walk” from Volume 2 (pp348-375) and the “East Rotherhithe Walk” from Volume 1 (pp266-291) of “London’s Hidden Walks” by Stephen Millar, published by Metro Publications, 2014. Additional information was sourced from “The London Thames Path” by David Fathers, published by Frances Lincoln/Quatro, 2015. Photography by Jayne Burton.



28 September 2020


Covent Garden market - not its busiest day ever

Following our trials and tribulations in the countryside, we are convinced that a walk in Central London will see us back on familiar ground. It might even cheer us up in the face of a worrying resurgence of Covid and after dropping our daughter at her university digs, an emotionally draining experience for us all. Unbelievably, this will be the first time we have walked in town for over six months. It's also likely to be the last fine, sunny day for a while, given reports that Noah is struggling to finish his ark in time for the approaching monsoons.


Yet today’s walk just makes us more sad. London’s West End - normally so vibrant, so alive, so crowded - is now so bereft of people that its very lifeblood seems to have drained away, leaving a pale, emaciated corpse in its stead. It was Samuel Johnson who said “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford”. In 2020, this most pestilent of years, it appears that life has tired of London and fled for warmer, more hospitable climes.

The piazza with its person

Maybe it doesn’t help matters that our trail starts at Covent Garden. Normally brimming with traders and tourists, jugglers and jongleurs, its famous piazza is completely deserted. Only a handful of market traders have deemed it worthwhile to set up their stalls, while shopkeepers in the covered arcade must be hoping against hope that today’s meagre takings will cover the rent. The one upside of absent humanity is that we notice things we’ve never noticed before, even though we must have been here hundreds of times. Today the portico of St. Paul’s church, so often obscured by an acrobat atop his ladder or a burst of fire emerging unfeasibly from a showman’s mouth, stands unopposed in its Tuscan splendour.

Beryl's bench at St. Paul's church

For the first time ever, we enter the church gardens at the side and find that its main entrance is at the back - apparently the Bishop of London had insisted at its consecration in 1638 that the altar should be at its eastern side, as tradition required. This explains why the entrance facing the piazza is sealed off, which may also be the reason many visitors overlook the church’s presence. Known nowadays as the “actors’ church”, St Paul’s was built - on a tight budget - by renowned 17th century architect Inigo Jones. Its gardens are home today to rows of benches bequeathed in memory of late actors. In busier times, this magnificent garden in the middle of London would surely be described as “an oasis of calm”, but today there are more visitors in here than on the swathes of spare piazza outside.

London's theatreland - gagged and forgotten

We pass a regular post-work haunt of the mid-nineties, the Punch and Judy pub, reading in Stephen Millar’s excellent guide that diarist Samuel Pepys recorded the first such puppet show at this very spot in 1662. This at least provided more cheerful subject matter for him than the subsequent London events of 1665 (Great Plague) and 1666 (Great Fire). Traumatised by what he had seen, by 1667 Pepys was seeking solace by “frigging with Doll Lane, one of his many lovers” in nearby Russell Street, notorious for its dens of iniquity. One of the surprising aspects of today’s “double-header” walk is that it was originally the area around Covent Garden, rather than Soho, that formed the epicentre of London’s sex trade. Drury Lane - now synonymous with its Theatre Royal, which opened its doors in 1663 and is the oldest theatre in London - had amassed 107 brothels by 1725. There was even a guidebook published, Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies (or a Man of Pleasure’s Kalendar), which sold a quarter of a million copies and detailed each prostitute’s appearance and “specialities” - a sort of early Michelin guide to muck. Even Casanova was lured from his native Venice to spend time here, only to land himself in trouble at nearby Bow Street magistrates court and catch a nasty dose of syphilis to boot.

The Royal Opera House - but no singing allowed

The Theatre Royal is undergoing major renovation, good timing perhaps as the doors of London’s theatreland remain sadly shuttered to the paying public - one of the true tragedies of the pandemic playing out in front of our eyes. So many talented people - including the legions of staff behind the scenes - currently consigned to the scrap-heap of joblessness, with no obvious end in sight or prospect of adequate financial support beyond the next month. It’s very possible that, in common with many other businesses, some venues may never open their doors again. London will be much the poorer if so. But at least some workers appear to be enjoying boom times, as it’s not only the Theatre Royal that is a building site but most of the West End. The din is at times unbearable, made more extreme by the absence of competing hubbub that these streets generate in normal times. We dodge men in orange jackets as they hurry hither and thither, their wheel-barrows piled high. For a while we feel like unwanted visitors to a parallel universe ruled by some malevolent King of Construction.

Dodo day at Neal's Yard

Fleeing the noise, we reach the neighbourhood of St. Giles via pretty Neal’s Yard, usually buzzing with activity but today as dead as the proverbial dodo, even as we approach lunchtime. St. Giles has always been Covent Garden’s poorer cousin, housing the main public execution site in the Middle Ages (before this moved west to Marble Arch) and, later, a hospital for lepers. And wherever there were slums, the ever-present Charles Dickens was sure to follow with some bons mots, describing St. Giles as “a convenient asylum for the off-scourings of the night world”. It also formed the backdrop of Hogarth’s iconic Gin Lane engraving, depicting the ravages caused by widespread availability of cheap liquor (see more at: https://www.burtonsblog.com/post/getting-to-the-bottom-of-botanicals). The look and feel of the architecture has not been markedly improved by some multi-coloured office buildings, an earlier and less successful effort by the Shard’s architect Renzo Piano - perhaps he was just practising. The even more unsightly Centre Point building at Tottenham Court Road also looms large, a carbuncle-like monument to the high-rise design of the late sixties.

Regent Sounds - 1960's hit factory

We stumble from here into Denmark Street, London’s very own “Tin Pan Alley” - this is more like it! Still home to numerous music shops, with their arty but faded and shabby exteriors, Denmark Street was as much of a fulcrum for London’s sixties music scene as Carnaby Street was for fashion. Many of the legendary bands and artists of the era, including the Rolling Stones, The Kinks, Jimi Hendrix and Manfred Mann, recorded their hits at the Regent Sounds Studio, while music magazines Melody Maker and New Musical Express also had offices on the street. Then unknowns Reg Dwight (Elton John) and David Jones (David Bowie) worked or simply hung around here on their route to global stardom, although another employee of Denmark Street, Dennis Nilsen, took an altogether more macabre path - as the infamous serial killer of the recent TV series Des. Some great nostalgia here, courtesy of Mr Millar's guide!

Soho Square

It's here we depart from custom by abandoning our Covent Garden walk before its scheduled end, foregoing some further Dickensian haunts and accompanying prose. This is so that we can join another Millar walk around Soho, which should be enough to guarantee us over 16,000 steps across three and a half hours. Soho, which used to be farmland used for hunting by Henry VIII and is thought to be named after the ancient hunting cry of “so-ho!”, is busier than Covent Garden but we can still walk around virtually unimpeded by humankind. There’s also less construction work, which is a relief to the ears. Millar regales us with the history of the Greeks and the French Huguenots who settled in the area, but there are few remnants of such occupation left aside from some street names and the occasional pub (notably the French House, where Charles de Gaulle convened strategy meetings of the Free French during World War II and, just as famously, Dylan Thomas left behind the sole manuscript of his classic Under Milk Wood while on a pub crawl).


Of more modern interest are the Soho cafés and bars frequented by an eclectic mix of famous politicians, bohemians, actors and iconoclasts:

The legendary Ronnie Scott's
  • Labour left-wingers such as Tony Benn, Michael Foot and Roy Hattersley (and allegedly some Soviet spies) hung out at the Guy Hussar restaurant on Greek Street, which closed its doors in 2018 but has been reincarnated just two weeks ago as Noble Rot Soho;

  • The Establishment bar, now renamed Zebrano, was founded on the same street (and named in typically ironical style) by Peter Cook, as a base for the emerging satirical comedy of the sixties. The office of satirical magazine Private Eye is also nearby - though the darkness inside indicates its contributors must be heeding government advice (surely a betrayal of their purpose in life) and working from home;

  • Still on Greek Street, the acting fraternity (and I use that term deliberately as not one single actress is mentioned by Millar) frequented the Coaches and Horses pub, whose “notoriously rude” landlord, Norman Balon, became a celebrity in his own right and published an autobiography called You’re Barred, You Bastards: Memoirs of a Soho Publican, a better name than most;

  • Wheelers restaurant on Old Compton Street was the location for the Duke of Edinburgh’s “Thursday Club” stag events in the 1950's, again with many actors (and the Soviet spy, Kim Philby) in attendance. As dramatised memorably in the Netflix TV series The Crown, the Queen soon put a stop to his fun;

  • In Dean Street, the former Colony Room Club found favour with actors, artists, painters and musicians alike - in short, the bohemians who gave rise to the area’s alternative name of “Boho”. Even Princess Margaret visited once (well, I say “even”, she seems to have visited more drinking dens in her day than most of us have had hot dinners);

  • A bit further away on Kingly Street, the Bag O’ Nails club was another sixties meeting place for musicians, including The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who and Jimi Hendrix, and the 2i’s Coffee Shop bar on Old Compton Street was credited as the birthplace of UK rock ’n’ roll a decade earlier. Even the clean-living Cliff Richard may have been partial to the odd tipple there back in the day, the old devil.

  • And I mustn't forget the famous Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club on Frith Street, which hosted the inaugural performance of The Who’s rock musical, Tommy, as well as what turned out to be Jimi Hendrix’s final live performance before his tragic overdose.

So much modern cultural history packed into such a small area of London! Not only that, but the streets and shops of Soho have been - and continue to be - hugely influential in setting trends in areas such as gay culture and alternative fashion. It's simply the place to be - at any time of day or night - if you're looking to be someone, or meet someone, in the world of the creative arts.

Alternative fashion in Soho

But it doesn’t stop there. The walk takes us past the former residences of many other important historical figures. Karl Marx lived in poverty on Greek Street, latterly in a dingy upstairs flat where the Quo Vadis restaurant now stands, while he was working on seminal works such as Das Kapital - until his wife came into a fortuitous inheritance, at which point Karl rapidly abandoned his communist principles by relocating west to a nicer part of town. This reminds me that I once studied Marx and Engel’s Communist Manifesto as part of my German degree. As the UK government now wants to ban the teaching of any “non-capitalist” systems, does this mean my course would have been illegal today? As you can tell, teaching of this type was indeed highly dangerous, making me think twice (or maybe even three times) before working at a Big 4 accounting firm for 33 years.

Nothing to do with John Logie Baird at all

There’s also an amusing story about inventor John Logie Baird, who moved to a flat on Frith Street above what is now Bar Italia, after his experiments caused an explosion in his previous accommodation. After being forced to bribe an office boy to take part in what became the first televised broadcast ever, Logie was interrupted by the complaints of some local prostitutes (who thought he was spying on them with his camera). I realise this sounds implausible, but a similar thing happened to me once on a street corner at the Reeperbahn in Hamburg, when, by chance, I encountered one of my clients (yes, really!) and started introducing her to Jayne and our visiting friends. (Just to clarify, I don’t mean I re-invented television at that moment, but that the professional ladies of the locality complained - very forcibly - that I was disturbing their nightly custom).

Dr Snow's water pump

Fortunately, and because this walk is at risk of outstaying its welcome, I have no amusing stories about other erstwhile residents of Soho, which included composers Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (as a child prodigy) and Richard Wagner, painter John Constable, literary critic and diarist William Hazlitt (who gave his name to Hazlitts, a famously discreet hotel on Frith Street) and poet and artist William Blake (on the site of whose birthplace the hideous William Blake tower block now stands - what a legacy!). In these times of Covid, however, the story of Dr John Snow and the Great Plague is worth re-telling. Snow was the foremost doctor of his day - indeed Millar tells us, as recently as 2003, he was voted “greatest doctor of all time” by a Hospital Doctor magazine poll. His place in Hippocratic legend was assured as he became the first to make the connection between infected water supplies and cholera, a disease believed to have accounted for the deaths of over 50,000 Londoners in the 19th century. A key point - also well covered in the most recent TV series of Victoria - is that he had to battle hard against established medical opinion that cholera was an airborne disease - much like coronavirus - but eventually persuaded the authorities to disconnect the handle of a communal water pump in Broadwick Street, Soho. The cases of sickness decreased straight away. Today, his work in saving thousands more lives is commemorated by a replica of the pump (inaugurated in 2018) and, in more time-honoured fashion, by a popular pub bearing his name.

David Bowie's plaque at Trident Studios, Soho

With that edifying tale, our walk soon comes to its end. Eschewing the many Soho haunts of the rich and famous, we repair to Bill’s Restaurant & Bar on Brewer Street. Like many eateries on our route, they have decided to extend the “eat out to help out” initiative into September off their own bat. This means we enjoy a delicious two-course lunch with two Harvey’s lagers and a glass of Pinot Grigio for a touch under £50, including service. Not surprisingly, this results in us feeling considerably less melancholy than when we started out earlier this morning. It’s also pleasing to see a decent number of people going about their daily business in this part of town - in marked contrast to the scene of desolation we witnessed earlier at Covent Garden. It may not be much but, at this moment in history, we are happy to take any normality we can get.


Acknowledgements: Jayne and Richard were following the “Covent Garden & St Giles Walk” from Volume 2 and “Soho Walk” from Volume 1 of “London’s Hidden Walks” by Stephen Millar, published by Metro Publications, 2014. Photography by Jayne Burton.


  • Writer: Richard
    Richard
  • Sep 17, 2020
  • 8 min read

Updated: Sep 18, 2020

15 September 2020



After the elementary errors that blighted last week’s trip to the country, we decide to have another go. It’s the same principle as riding a bike (or is it something more dangerous like a horse?). If you fall off the first time, you need to get back in the saddle straight away and see if you’ve learned from the experience.


Very light clothing for a warm day? Check. Plenty of water this time? Check. Route map copied and placed safely in same rucksack as plentiful water? Check. Route more or less memorised just in case? Sort of. What could possibly go wrong? Ah, it soon turns into the hottest sunny day known to man in mid-September. Perfect conditions for a three hour walk without any shade or protective headgear? No, not really.

Sandwich in the sun

Walking is also meant to be one of the more environmentally friendly pursuits. Not today, as the prospect of a sea view persuades us that a 160 mile round trip by car is a sensible idea. Our destination is Sandwich on the Kent coast, one of the original Cinque Ports but now situated a couple of miles inland and only accessible to boats via the River Stour. Formed over a thousand years ago, the Cinque Ports confederation (or “Cradle of the Navy”, as it likes to be called) has its own website these days, which informs me there are 14 towns that are members. This is linguistically implausible, but it seems various modern pretenders have been added to the original five ports over the years. And the correct pronunciation is “sink” rather than “sank”. Why? Because the British way of saying it, probably in a loud voice so foreigners can understand better, is clearly superior to the French. The Kent Coast isn’t called Brexit-on-Sea for nothing. In addition to Sandwich, the original ports are Dover, Hastings, Hythe and New Romney, with other ancient towns like Rye and so-called “limbs” such as Ramsgate and Folkestone being co-opted into the club much later.

Stonar no more

We park at the Quay and set off southwards along the banks of the Stour. Although Sandwich only boasts around 5,000 inhabitants today, its port ensured it was a prosperous and strategic town in Anglo-Saxon and Norman times, earning its first historical mention in the year 851. Its name means, quite simply, a market town in a sandy place. We read of the strange fate of its neighbour, Stonar, then an even larger town on the other side of the Stour, which “disappeared without trace” in the 14th century, never to reappear. Looking northwards across the Stour we search for any clue to this mystery, but see only the Pfizer office park in the distance, a major employer in this area for over 50 years until it made two thousand jobs disappear without trace, most likely never to reappear. With usual corporate sensitivity, they probably called this “Project Stonar”. To be fair, Pfizer eventually pulled back from its plan for total closure of the site in favour of one that maintains an important research presence of around 500 people. This is, after all, where Viagra was originally developed and it’s surprising that there’s no durable erection in Sandwich, such as a statue or obelisk, to commemorate this scientific feat (ok, I admit I may have had something to drink).

Sound advice

A major plus point of our walk today is that there is no height gain at all. Crossing parched dry and completely flat terrain, we soon reach the pathway between the two golf courses for which Sandwich is most famous today. To our right is Royal St. George’s, which hosts The British Open Championship every ten years and would have done so again this summer but for coronavirus. Its time will come again soon, we hope, in 2021.

Scene of many a golfing triumph, just not mine

To the left is Princes, also an international standard course, which last staged The Open in 1932 and is today a venue for its final qualifying rounds. Princes remains the only major course where I have played golf, if you exclude Seaford pitch 'n' putt. Now, I’m not a golfer at all but I did manage to score a par on the final hole as a packed clubhouse balcony looked on and cheered. Sadly the cheering can only have been ironic, as this just sealed the deal on my round of 100 over par. Though almost 40 years ago, I’m sure I went out to play just after lunch and it was starting to get dark as I finished. Maybe it was the lunch that was to blame, being substantially liquid, rather than my chronic lack of golfing ability. The first hole certainly set the scene nicely, as I already collected four shots in gaining just 30 yards (three air shots and a topped drive that just about persuaded the ball to topple off the tee on the fourth swing). No, I’m firmly in the Mark Twain camp on this one: “golf is a good walk spoiled”.

Not Mark Twain's walk of choice

Ignorant of this backstory, a client at work decided a few years ago to entrust me with a project involving a golfing equipment brand. Sensibly, given my lack of knowledge or much interest in the topic, I selected my colleague Jack (not his real name) to run the project for me. Jack comes from a golfing family and nearly turned professional himself, only veering towards accountancy at the last minute for the thrills and excitement. A modest and self-effacing type, Jack was duly introduced to the client as a keen golfer but without revealing the true extent of his credentials. The first project call went something like this:


Client: So the first thing we need to do is form a view on how the market works. Like, how often can the company bring out a new set of clubs that is technically superior to the previous one? Our investment thesis is: every 12-18 months.


Jack: That’ll be very difficult.


Client: We think it should be doable. We’ve seen in other industries that you can continuously improve the technology of any product.


Jack: I would normally agree, but golf is different.


Client: You’re being very negative here, Jack, this is not helpful. What makes you say that?


Jack: The technology behind golf clubs developed so quickly in a short space of time that rules have been put in place to limit future changes. All proposals by the equipment makers are now subject to intense scrutiny and approval. In practice, this makes it very hard to make any real changes to what we have now.


Client: That’s… interesting. How do you know this?


Jack: I sit on the committee that sets the equipment rules for golf globally.


Client: Ah…. [Silence]


Client: Maybe put your pens down for now, while we have another think about this deal.


Client: [Tumbleweed]

La côte du sandwich (au jambon)

That’s enough golf for now. Beyond the car parks we reach the beach at Sandwich Bay, which, contrary to any logic, is pebbled. Maybe its 9th century equivalent, two miles further inland, had been a little sandier when the town’s name was coined. But it’s pleasant enough as the coastline glistens in the bright September sun, throwing off a panorama of colour that wouldn’t look out of place on the Côte d’Azur, yet flatters to deceive in autumnal Kent. We stroll languidly along the mile-long stretch of coast, deserted except for the occasional camper van, its side awning extended to cast shadow over matching deckchairs. Comforted by the slight sea breeze, we fail to register the rising temperature until we turn inland again to join the public footpath back across the Royal St. George’s course.


We spot a bench placed temptingly on a hillock between two cavernous bunkers, which offers panoramic views of any golfing action (not much) while we pause for a much-needed water break. As we see the next group heading for a nearby tee, we clamber down again and rejoin the path. This is just as well, as we overhear the advice of one of the caddies, resplendent in his club issue long socks and shorts: “If you try and aim your drive a couple of feet over that bench, that’ll be just perfect”. Oh, you mean right where our heads were half a minute ago?

Oops, sorry, we're looking for the bird observatory

Caught up in the stress of this near miss, we take the wrong path (surprise!) but only realise ten minutes later when we find ourselves about to walk up a fairway in the direction of the clubhouse. Also, a young man in a buggy is making a beeline for us. Under the circumstances, he’s very polite about the fact we’re now trespassing deep in private land and assures us of safe passage through the clubhouse - without the need to fork out for a year’s membership fee - if we just explain that we're incompetent at reading maps. Or, in case Jayne reads this, that the incompetence is all mine. (Actually, I think he is secretly impressed by my explanation that we’re trying to find the bird observatory, a phrase I never expected to utter in my lifetime). In the event, we retrace our steps to find out how and where we stumbled off the public right of way, during which time we are inspected at close quarters by two more club buggies on intruder reconnaissance missions. We finally locate the right path, which turns out to have been very clearly signposted, even for the navigationally-challenged.

No shade here, oh dear

But no matter, it’s only 28⁰C by now and the cooling breeze of the beach already a distant memory. We decide not to dither, after all, at the Sandwich Bay Bird Observatory, even though it was inaugurated by Bill Oddie. Or at least, only long enough to ensure golf-buggy man is not checking out my cunning alibi. We embark on the final stretch of our walk, which turns out to be longer and much hotter than we were anticipating. Aside from the occasional bramble-lined trail, this mainly involves gravel paths through recently harvested farmland and an absence of shade.



Ugh, such bad taste in street names

By the time we reach Sandwich town centre, almost three hours after setting off, Jayne’s face has turned a similar shade to when she gets back from the gym. Lunch - and a large cold coke - become urgent and we take up residence on the front terrace of the Quayside pub. The drinks and starters (olives and homemade crab pâté) arrive straight away and are delicious, so we think the immediate crisis has passed. Then comes the pièce de résistance of the lunch experience: a sandwich in Sandwich - in this case the fish finger variety, always a touch of decadence compared to run-of-the-mill ham or cheese.

A Sandwich sandwich - it had to be done

Unfortunately, it’s at this moment that the lack of shade takes its toll on Jayne and she looks distinctly queasy. She even passes out for a few seconds in her seat, which she hasn’t done for years but had been quite a regular occurrence back in the early years of our relationship. The trick was always to manoeuvre her feet into a position where they were above her head, then all was well again (we even managed this once on a long-haul flight while sitting in economy, which provided everyone with far better entertainment than the in-flight movies). Luckily, Jayne comes round quickly this time, sparing the good burghers of Sandwich from athletic atrocity. After that episode it's no surprise she can’t face the local signature dish, meaning I end up with double sandwich portions. So it’s not all bad news. The Fourth Earl of Sandwich, after whom this meal was named during the 18th century, would have been proud.


Jayne feels well enough to walk back to the car, in which she recovers fully during the air-conditioned ride back to Chislehurst Towers. It’s not exactly the end to our seaside trip we had in mind, but completely our fault for choosing this very hot day for a six mile trek across open countryside - while not wearing a cap. On next week's walk we may finally get it right - maybe once or twice round the garden and we'll see how we're doing.

Acknowledgements: Jayne and Richard were following Walk 8, Sandwich and Sandwich Bay, from the Ordnance Survey’s “Kent - Outstanding Circular Walks”, published by Crimson Publishing (reprinted version 2018). Photos mainly by Jayne as usual, except for a couple by me when she was indisposed.


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