Clerkenwell - cool today, a bit dodgy back then

12 November 2019

Clerkenwell - so cool, the laundrette is now a bar

Today we are again following our only true god of walking, Andrew Duncan*, and specifically his trail from the Angel to the Barbican. This fascinating area of London is called Clerkenwell, a vibrant and historical district named after - you’ve guessed it - a well that was once claimed as their own by some passing clerks. This is a modest two mile or one and a half hour walk, one that barely earns the name and is more of an excuse for some fresh air before heading to the pub for lunch. I think I’m finally getting the hang of this walking lark.

This isn’t the first time we’ve done this particular walk, but it’s the first time we’ve attempted it in the right order. A few months ago, back when I was a complete novice at this sort of thing, I foolishly tried to connect two short-ish adjacent walks from Duncan's guide into one mega-walk but failed to notice both walks start at the Angel, Islington, and then head off in opposing directions. Jayne, already a seasoned walker who would never make such a basic error, was not impressed. Undeterred, and already in the starting blocks at the Barbican, I insisted in my best mansplaining voice that all would be fine if I just read the relevant chapter backwards. This was not an experience I can recommend.

Brockway - longevity personified

So it’s a relief when we head southwards from the Angel tube into the peaceful and wide Claremont and Myddleton Sqares, which seem many miles from busy Pentonville Road but are in fact just a few steps away. The first plaque sighting proves a little disappointing - neither blue nor someone we have heard of (Fenner Brockway, early 20th century politician and anti-war campaigner) nor did he live in this particular abode for more than two years. Then we notice, despite being born in 1888, he is apparently still living, surely making him the world’s oldest person at 131 years old. (I realise this is just the London Borough of Islington deciding to spend its money on more worthy causes than updating a plaque, but Wikipedia confirms Lord Brockway was indeed known for his longevity, only passing away in 1998, a few months short of his 100th birthday).

We are fascinated by the site of the New River Head, which has its own mini-visitors’ centre off Myddleton Pass and was originally where the New River terminated. As a South Londoner (have I ever mentioned that?), I had never even heard of the New River and its importance as a primary source of fresh water to Londoners since 1613. I expect it’s compulsory for North Londoners to learn about this at school, whereas South Londoners are fed a censored diet of less important Kentish waterways (or waterways of Kent, depending on which side of the Medway River they can be found). And that, dear reader, proves my point - gags** about tributaries in Kent come naturally to me, but I wouldn’t know a North London waterway unless I fell into one.

The New River - the pride of North London

Where was I? Oh yes, the New River. The first important fact we learn about the New River is that it’s not new. The second important fact is that it’s not a river. Mmm, this just seems to reinforce my long-held suspicion that North Londoners are a bit weird. It’s an artificial watercourse that originally brought water from springs in Hertfordshire. Today it’s still an integral part of the Thames Water network, but since 1946 ends at Stoke Newington (much like life itself). We also read that it’s possible to walk the full 28 miles of the original course of the New River - from where we stand now to its source near Ware. The pictures look jolly nice too. Noticing that I appear keen, Jayne opines that this is something for another day … or possibly life. Before continuing, we note the magnificent panorama of St. Paul’s and the rest of London available from this spot - in 1752. Unfortunately it’s now 2019 and the view (of anything) is obscured by the buildings of the old New River Company, of which Sir Hugh Myddleton was the first governor, thus explaining his ubiquity in the road and school names of the area.

Exmouth Market - Barber Streisand and Bagman & Robin

Passing Sadler’s Wells theatre, we cross Rosebury Avenue and head for Exmouth Market. As I experienced last week when I (coincidentally) attended a course in this area, this is a vibrant pedestrian walkway with a mix of street-food stalls, restaurants, coffee shops and bars, where Clerkenwell’s hip community of artists, students and start-up businesses are at work and play. To me, this whole district gives off a totally different vibe to the neighbouring areas - one of energy, creativity, innovation, urban cool. Further south, we come across scores of new shared-space offices where individuals and micro-businesses can hire a workspace cheaply to dream of creating the next “unicorn”. This is like WeWork but better - and without the beer on tap (if you want that, just go to the pub) and the massive ego of its founder (if you want that, everything is sure to go Pete Tong at some point soon).

St. John's Gate - straight on for the slaughter

We pass through Spa Fields, scene of riots in 1816 when angry crowds marched on the Tower of London. This is a mere taster for the historical events awaiting us on the remainder of the walk, the highlights of which include violence, slaughter, decapitation, burning alive and a bit of flaying. It’s a shame the St. John’s Ambulance service was only founded here in 1877 as they would have found plenty of custom back in medieval times. And there’s a dash of revolution too, as the Marx Memorial Library has its home on Clerkenwell Green (not green, but pleasingly triangular) and Lenin is said to have put the finishing touches to a revolutionary text here.

Jerusalem Passage heralds our entry into St. John’s Square, where the military Knights of St. John first established a priory in the 12th century, only for Henry VIII to abolish the order in 1539. Henry VIII abolished lots of things around London he no longer liked, including several wives, but I’m sure his subjects loved him all the more for it. If Twitter had existed in those days, he would probably have claimed any dissent was a witch hunt and everyone should just “read the transcript” which he had edited himself.

Dickens' Rough Guide to 19th Century Smithfield

From St John’s Lane, we take a brief detour towards Cowcross Street (where the cows once did cross on their way to Smithfield) and come across The Rookery - now a tastefully restored boutique hotel but originally a well-known bakery from Dickensian times. Boards on the walls remind us quite how dangerous and squalid this area must have been in Victorian times, with Dickens’ own marvellous descriptions from Oliver Twist bringing to life the depredations that inspired the characters of Fagin and Bill Sykes.

Now we reach Smithfield, home of the UK’s largest meat market. The current buildings were constructed in the 19th century, but Smithfield (originally “Smooth Field”) has been the site of fairs since 1123 and an animal market since 1200, traditionally for livestock - the market for dead meat came much later. There are more tales of death and destruction as we circle West Smithfield Park towards St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, the oldest hospital in London and originally part of the eponymous priory founded in 1123. A small statue of a big man, that Henry VIII again, adorns the archway over the main gate, as if to remind us of his nefarious deeds wherever we tread. The area where the park now stands was a favoured place of execution in the Middle Ages, when, as Duncan informs us, criminals would be hanged whereas traitors and unbelievers made up a smorgasbord of agonising death (“would you like your heretic roasted, boiled or grilled, madam?”). It was also at this spot that the leader of the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, Wat Tyler, met a sticky end. Already stabbed by the Lord Mayor William Walworth, the unfortunate Tyler had all but checked into A&E at St. Bart’s when he was dragged out again by King Richard II’s soldiers and decapitated in the street. And some people dare to criticise the NHS.

The Hand & Shears - convenient for the gallows

Today’s Smithfield is surrounded by pubs and eateries that evoke the sights and sounds of the market - the Butcher’s Hook & Cleaver, the Slaughtered Lamb, the Hand & Shears, Prêt à Manger. I’m unsure of the origin of Bishop’s Finger though, one of the pubs on West Smithfield Park (and also the name of a Shepherd Neame beer served there), so I make the mistake of googling it. The clean version is that Bishop’s Finger takes its name from the finger-shaped signposts that used to guide pilgrims on their way to Canterbury. You don’t want to know the Urban Dictionary version as it might put you off your lunch.

Great name for a pub

We plump for the wonderfully evocative Butcher’s Hook & Cleaver, a Fuller’s house, as our lunch stop. Jayne doesn’t stray from the Pinot Grigio but I order a pint of Dark Star Hophead, “a golden ale with a floral aroma and elderflower notes from Cascade hops”. It doesn’t disappoint. Jayne tastes and agrees, looking keen to offload the Pinot in a sneaky swap transaction (declined). The food menu looks excellent too, going long on hand-crafted pies (and added bonus award-winning mini-pies) and short (i.e. non-existent) on rip-off cold meat platters -Trafalgar Tavern take note. In the end, we share toasted sandwiches (“Black Cab” ham, beer mustard and strong cheese, and the "four cheese" - lots of cheese then), accompanied by a small plate of crispy squid, coriander and chilli jam. All very good, albeit a bit carb-heavy, thus offsetting any health benefits we may have accrued from the walk. In particular, the chilli jam gets a big thumbs-up as the taste even rivals Jayne’s home-made variety, not praise that I dish out willingly - or indeed at all unless she releases her grip from my neck.

St. Bartholomew - "Call that a knife?"

We exit the pub and also the square of doom, pausing briefly to admire the statue of St. Bartholomew holding a knife. It’s still bad news though - history has it that he was flayed to death with said knife while on a mission to Armenia. The good news is that he gave his name to a famous hospital, whose modern day facilities sprawl outwards from here to the Barbican, the historical St. Bartholomew’s Fair (which took place for over 700 years to 1855) and not one but two parish churches (even if one, St. Bartholomew the Less, sounds a bit insulting).

The final stage of today’s walk takes us along Cloth Fair, past another old pub, Ye Olde Red Cow, and into Charterhouse Square and its Carthusian monastery. Or it would have done, had yet another building site not blocked our way. And guess what? Henry VIII was here in 1537, closed the monastery down and executed 20 monks in the process. In 1610, a more benevolent soul, Thomas Sutton, bought the land and founded an almshouse, which still stands today, and the famous Charterhouse school, which moved out to Surrey over a century ago along with multitudes of stockbrokers and bankers. Today its attractive buildings are hosting a Christmas market, which we decide not to visit for fear of reducing the average age of its patrons to an unacceptably low level. Our walk ends - more prosaically - in sight of the concrete monstrosity which is the Barbican centre and roundabout.

Charterhouse - making us feel young again

Summary: Short but sweet, this walk gives many fascinating insights into the bloody history of the capital. From the story of the New River via the hipster cool of northern Clerkenwell to imagining the vivid sights and sounds of old Smithfield, this really has something for everyone - and a wealth of cafés and pubs en route. It’s definitely among our favourites so far - and we’ve done it in both directions now, seeing so much more the second time around. We also lingered longer over some of the sights, including the odd detour, which meant we took a touch over three hours in total (including one hour for lunch). It's good for around 12,000 steps - not including the pleasant walk back to Cannon Street via St. Paul's and Watling Street.

*Acknowledgements: Richard and Jayne were following Andrew Duncan's "Walking London: Thirty Original Walks in and around London”, Clerkenwell walk, pp 130-136, 2010 edition published by New Holland Publishers (UK) Ltd. Photographs by Jayne Burton (thanks!)

**All the best gags have to be explained (said no-one ever). Anyway, legend has it that anyone born in Kent on the east side of the Medway River is known as a "Kentish man", whereas anyone born on its west side is instead a "Man of Kent". It's pedantry like this that makes Kent the place it is today - the home of Nigel Farage.

Contrasts in Kensington

30 October 2019

Kensington - we love a nice mews

Let’s start with the admission that - as a born and bred South East Londoner - I don’t really “do” West London. Or North or East London, come to think of it. This is one reason I want to walk as many parts of London as possible that are interesting, offer some nice stops for refreshment and do not expose the passer-by to a high risk of being murdered for wearing a Tommy Hilfiger gilet (though I do understand the extreme provocation which may result from this). I may claim to be a Londoner, but who can really say they know much more of the metropolis than the immediate vicinity of their home, place of work and a handful of social or sporting staples? Or maybe a lot of people can say this and it’s just my life that has been a bit dull up to this point? Mmm.

The 3rd Lord Holland (but who's counting)

Whatever the answer (and sometimes it’s best not to know), I am fairly sure I have never, ever set foot on Kensington High Street, let alone explored its leafy and prosperous environs. But that’s fine, I’m only 56 years old. Aside from business meetings, my rare trips to West London have centred mainly on football matches (rarely with a good outcome) or music concerts (better).

This time it’s a concert at the Royal Albert Hall that sows the seed. It's not the Squeeze songbook that inspires us to visit (Chris and Glenn are as South East London as I am, probably more so), but rather that we spot at South Kensington tube it’s only a couple of stops further to “High Street Ken” (as we Londoners like to call it - even those who have never actually been). As we’re staying up in town for a couple of nights while the kids are on trips, it’s a no-brainer to retrace our route the following morning.

We emerge from the Circle Line into what appears to be a high end shopping mall rather than a station. Yet this morning’s news has provided a timely reminder that the affluent Borough of Kensington and Chelsea comprises extremes of wealth and poverty which should not co-exist in this day and age. The first report into the terrible fire at Grenfell Tower, whose charred remains stand barely a mile to the north, has just been published. Like many others today we are dismayed that the Grenfell firefighters are copping so much of the flak - but maybe this is just the start of the blame game. We can’t see the tower block from the High Street but are somehow conscious of its presence - a constant reminder of an unthinkable and avoidable tragedy in our midst and on our watch.

17th century splendour in Kensington Square

Like so much of London, the buildings of Kensington High Street are undergoing major construction or renovation work. The Derry and Toms department store may boast roof gardens from the 1930s, but they don’t look much fun at the moment unless you’re partial to mojitos topped with cement dust and accompanied by a side of nuts and bolts.

We continue down Derry Street into Kensington Square - described by Andrew Duncan* as “one of the oldest and prettiest squares in London”. Jayne is initially sceptical, as there seems to be a square or street described as such in every one of Duncan’s walks, but she is soon won over by its 17th century magnificence. It’s hard to imagine that Kensington was once a village in the countryside, but in fact the original houses around the square pre-dated Kensington Palace and served as retreats for City-folk before the courtiers arrived.

The first blue plaque of the day is spotted, always an exciting moment. This commemorates a late 19th century actress named Mrs Patrick Campbell. I’m intrigued by this as I haven’t come across many women called Patrick. She was, by all accounts, a relatively emancipated woman of her era, yet still chose to act out her professional career under her husband’s name (even after his death and her own remarriage). It would be tempting - and comfortable - to conclude that women’s rights have come a long way since then, then I’m reminded that one of the great women tennis players of my school days, Christine Evert, was shown on the Wimbledon scoreboard as “Mrs J.M. Lloyd” after her marriage. And in today’s news, not only are a number of female MPs standing down due - at least in part - to the misogynistic abuse they receive each and every day, but a BBC presenter is suing her employer as she claims her pay is only 14% of that of a male presenter who commands a smaller audience. So maybe we're not so far ahead after all. Food for thought thanks to “Mrs Pat”.

Kensington New Town - a bit older than Milton Keynes

We pass into Kensington New Town, which is not new in the Milton Keynes sense but was built in the 1840s by a tobacco mogul, John Ingerwick. The houses here are pleasant and much sought after, but turn out to be modest in size compared to the Victorian apartment blocks just to the south. We linger long enough outside an estate agent to catch sight of the property prices in this area - I think this is known as a schoolboy error. Suitably chastened (if not metaphorically handed a dozen strokes of the cane on a bare bottom), we resolve not to make this mistake ever again. But it’s difficult not to overlook the power play of parked cars - I don’t think I’ve ever seen a higher ratio of Bentleys and Jags per square mile.

Schizo steets in suburbia

We wander off Duncan’s recommended trail into various mews which nestle in amongst the imposing apartment blocks. These are full of character, many with original cobbled streets dating from the horse and cart era, and act as oases of calm so close to the bustling streets outside. We are also amused by the apparently schizophrenic Allen Street, which insists it is also called Alma Terrace on one side and Inkerman Terrace on the other. I expect the postman gets used to it eventually.

All right, it's not a competition! (Oh, it is)

By now, we are picking up the twang of American accents from passers-by and see that many of the house-fronts are in the process of being decorated for Halloween. If you can imagine how an outbreak of ghoulish up-onemanship would look, you are standing next to us on the streets of Kensington. We watch as one lady, whose property is one of many providing local builders with a bumper year, battles valiantly against her scaffolding - and the odds - to keep up with the Joneses for another year. All a bit bonkers really - and I don’t really get the “police crime scene” tape that accompanies some of the more garish decorations. Or maybe one of them really was a crime scene? It was certainly realistic enough. Later, at a particularly posh address near Holland Park, we come across a team of workmen from a company specialising in Halloween decorations - I've come across some seasonal businesses in my time, but this takes the biscuit. Here they’ve erected a life-size witch in the front garden, complete with moving limbs - an impressive investment, especially if vast amounts of money are burning a hole in your pocket.

Wealth management dilemmas at The Scarsdale

Further insights into wealth management reveal themselves during a pitstop at The Scarsdale Tavern, one of two pubs on this walk mentioned by Duncan, and nestled just beyond Rassell’s Nursery, an apparently thriving garden centre which takes up a fair chunk of Pembroke Square (the other chunk is given over to a tennis court). The pub is fronted by a generous outside seating area where it’s just about mild enough to sit, the watery sun making its way low across the dappled autumn sky. My pint of Harvey’s Sussex Best hits the spot, but we’re still full from our mid-morning brunch so can’t vouch for the food menu.

Jayne is enthralled by the conversation on the next table as two men, both cradling their pet dogs, discuss their life challenges. One is booked up with “shooting” every Friday and Saturday until the end of February, but the object of these shootings remains an unspoken mystery - I think films, Jayne is for wildlife. The other seems oddly worried about the quantity of cars he owns - should he divest one of the Porsches or something a bit more upmarket like the Maserati? Poor guy. This doesn’t even qualify as a first world problem, it’s in a Kensington-land category all on its own.

Mao Wen Biao's stunning mural at Holland Park

Soon after leaving the pub, we cross Kensington High Street again on the way to Holland Park. Its centrepiece, Holland House, was largely destroyed by World War Two bombs, but for the preceding two centuries the successive Lords Holland played host to many gatherings of politicians (only Whigs though, the old name for the liberals), writers such as Byron and Dickens (who got everywhere) and other intellectuals of the day. The garden parties must have been legendary too - and are immortalised by Mao Wen Biao’s stunning mural paintings from the mid-1990s. Holland Park is well worth a visit just to see these vivid, colourful and very detailed depictions of Victorian high society at play.

From the park we exit into the Campden Hill estate. Standing atop the hill, Campden House (built by Viscount Campden who hailed from Chipping Campden) must have dominated the view for miles around when Kensington was just a socially aspirational country village. Now the Campden epithet dominates street names for miles around instead - so much so that any road, way or grove not called Campden comes as a bit of light relief. Exhausted from Campden overdose and conscious over half an hour has passed since our last refreshment, we call in at the Elephant & Castle at the corner of Gordon Street and Holland Street. It seems an odd name for a pub that's nowhere near the actual Elephant and Castle in SE1, but at this moment I’m very satisfied with its teleportation to leafy Kensington.

The geographically challenged Elephant & Castle

It's another pleasant enough local pub with decent custom for a midweek afternoon, but seating is at a premium and it must get pretty cramped on the advertised quiz night. The food menu (pies a speciality but we’re still not tempted) claims the pub is famous “for a connection with Henry VIII’s first wife”, but doesn’t go into any more detail so we’re none the wiser. Maybe quiz night has never been the same without her. I order a St. Austell Flanker & Firkin red ale, just for the hell of it. Jayne has a taste and immediately labels it inferior to the earlier Sussex Best. It’s hard to disagree with her (and she’s also right about the beer).

Now somewhat light-headed, I head off in search of the promised antique shops before turning round and going the right way towards St Mary Abbots, the parish church of Kensington. Duncan informs us a church has stood on this site since the 1100s. This historic landmark signals the end of today's walk and we are back within spitting distance of the building sites on the High Street.

St Mary Abbots - parish church of Kensington

Summary: This is a nicely constructed two hour walk stretching over almost 3 miles (in practice, we took a leisurely four hours due to our various pub stops and other detours). In common with Duncan’s other London walks there was much interesting history to be learnt and fine architecture to be admired. It was a pleasant walk in a very agreeable suburb, so yes, we had a nice time.

Yet it was impossible to shake off the feeling of being surrounded by great inherited wealth and privilege. Today this was put into the starkest possible contrast with the latest news of Grenfell Tower, but somehow it felt different to our Highgate/Hampstead walk despite the similar demographics. Kensington is definitely an area of London where the well-off have built their playground. Its history suggests t’was ever thus.

Acknowledgements: Richard and Jayne were following Andrew Duncan's "Walking London: Thirty Original Walks in and around London”, Kensington walk, pp 27-33, 2010 edition published by New Holland Publishers (UK) Ltd.

From Westminster and St. James's to infinity and beyond (well, maybe Waterloo)

16 October 2019

Millicent Fawcett - forever bringing courage to Parliament Square

Against all the odds in post-retirement-land, this week’s calendar looks full up with this and that, so we’ve more or less written off the chances of a substantial walk. Then our roofing people text to announce another delay due to “a really bad weather forecast”. We check the forecast and it looks absolutely fine, but we don’t complain because we’re British. After all, the expensive scaffolding around our house has already been standing idle for nine days, so what’s another day between friends? The reward for our patience and understanding is that we can walk after all.

As today, more than any other day in the last three and half years, looks like being THE vital day in the Brexit saga (until the next one), we decide to head for Westminster. Maybe we can influence matters by our mere presence - or if not, spot someone off the telly.

My day already starts well at London Bridge when I think I see Paul Mortimer, Charlton legend and now anti-racism campaigner. He’s fresh from his appearance on yesterday's Good Morning Britain, where he commented calmly and eloquently on the racist abuse of England’s black players in Sofia. In a parallel universe the GMB producers would have introduced Paul with a clip of his goal at Highbury - if only to wind Piers Morgan up. Back in the actual universe it remains a goal from 30 years ago remembered only by trainspotting Addicks (i.e. me). Sadly my double-take spooks him and he glides past as if he doesn’t know me (which is the case). Or maybe it was someone completely different who just happened to have a white goatee beard and resemble a footballing demi-god.

A disapproving Jan Smuts - "Yes!... No!... Sorry!"

We reach Westminster and I immediately lead us off in the wrong direction. This annoys Jayne but I double down by claiming it was a subtle Brexit metaphor that went over her head. In Parliament Square I stand both corrected and in awe of the powerful sculptures of powerful men - and pleasingly, the suffragette Millicent Fawcett. Jan Smuts, the wartime South African leader, looks down disapprovingly - clearly he’s aware of my part in an unfortunate run-out incident with Richard Durden, the actor who played Smuts in the 2017 film Churchill. (Well, he hit it straight to the fielder and ran, of course I sent him back.)

We walk past the Treasury and the Foreign Office. At shortly after 11am, it’s possibly a bit early for parliamentarians but many a civil servant type hurries by with an air of self-importance. On Whitehall we pause a while to consult our Duncan* guide, but this is long enough for a kindly old gent to enquire if we need any directions. Jayne immediately answers yes, which is disconcerting but fair given my navigational performance so far. He proceeds to outline for us the five infantry and two cavalry regiments that guard the royal palaces, before popping the dreaded “where are you from?” question. “London”, I cough. “Oh, me too” comes the answer, which I think shows admirable politeness under the circumstances.

Horse Guards Parade lives up to its name

The changing of the guard on Horse Guards Parade is as splendid as ever, taking place in a stunningly beautiful open space in the centre of our great capital. I glance left towards the walled gardens of 10 Downing Street. Am I picturing the discussions between the great and the good that have taken place behind these walls over the centuries? No, I can’t get past the mental image of a “tired and emotional” Freddie Flintoff wreaking havoc in the flower beds after England won the Ashes in 2005.

It starts to spit with rain - maybe our roofers had a point after all. We are just thankful we have selected the first day for a while when everyone in London can go about their business without hindrance from Extinction Rebellion. It turns out it’s also the last day before they decide to disrupt London’s train system as well. Lucky us.

Chatham House - the sound of silence

We cross the Mall, which seems to be undergoing serious construction at its Trafalgar Square end, pass by various imposing statues of British war heroes and approach the massed ranks of gentlemen’s clubs on Pall Mall - surely an anachronism in this day and age. The gardens of St. James’s Square should be open to the public on weekdays - but sadly we find the gates are locked, possibly to avoid “XR” pitching their tents, probably to keep out riff-raff like us. On the far side of the square, we come across an oversized blue plaque affixed to Chatham House, announcing that three prime ministers have lived there - William Pitt, the Earl of Derby and William Gladstone. Here Jayne and I engage in a lively discussion on a matter of earth-shattering importance, but unfortunately Chatham House rules prevent me from commenting further.

Danger from falling signage at Isaac's house?

Duncan’s walk then takes us along Jermyn Street, home of fine tailoring, but we also pass the former home of Sir Isaac Newton. I was about to write that he invented gravity, but I’m pretty sure it pre-dated him so that wouldn’t be quite right. We move rapidly on before his blue plaque can work itself loose and fall on us, thus proving his theory once and for all. We sweep down St. James’s Street, moving considerably faster than the traffic, where we are nearly tempted by the lunch possibilities at Berry Bros and Rudd, purveyors of fine wine to Londoners since the 1600s (actually Duncan informs us they started out as grocers, so maybe the wine came later).

We now find ourselves in serious palace territory, with St James’s Palace stretching all the way to Green Park, across which it’s just a short walk towards Buckingham Palace itself. I’m disappointed that the southern end of Green Park isn’t very green at all, the criss-crossing gravel (and sometimes mud) paths outnumbering any remaining blades of grass. There is, however, a nicely designed monument (with water features) to the one million Canadians who served alongside the Allies across two world wars, of whom some 100,000 made the ultimate sacrifice.

The tourist throngs outside the palace have not become smaller since we were last here. We can’t quite believe our ears as we hear a London bobby conversing in fluent German with a family from Münster. Hat well and truly doffed. For a moment it’s almost as if we wish to live harmoniously alongside our European neighbours, embracing their languages and cultures. Meanwhile, the Royal Standard flies at full mast over the Palace, signifying that the lady of the house is in residence - no doubt still recovering from the trauma of her Queen’s Speech two days ago, when she looked less than amused at the content proposed by her government.

Westminster Abbey - cornering the market in monarch weddings since 1066

After passing Wellington Barracks on Birdcage Walk, where the seven regiments of the Royal Palaces reside, we turn right into some enchanting side streets - Queen Anne’s Gate (“architecturally one of London’s finest streets” according to Duncan), followed by Old Queen Street (which sounds vaguely insulting). The walls of the houses here are awash with plaques - philosophers, physicians and politicians all mingling in neighbourly harmony. At the end of the street, we are suddenly thrown back into the maelstrom of Westminster, with the historical Abbey looming into view, “scene of the coronation of almost every English monarch since William the Conqueror in 1066”. And if that’s not a top stat from Mr Duncan, I don’t know what is.

As instructed, we enter Dean’s Yard, another oasis of calm right next to the seats of power. At one time the main abbey courtyard, this would be a place of extraordinary beauty, were it not for the multitudes of cars and vans parked around its centre - the price of progress, I suppose. Duncan promises we can see the Abbey cloisters and its 900 year old garden “for free”. Alas, a stern lady tells us to talk to the hand (or maybe “you need to go to the ticket office”).

Things finally looking up at Westminster?

We complete the “official” part of our walk by returning to Westminster underground via Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. This is not as picturesque as it might otherwise be, as large swathes of the historic buildings are covered up for ongoing renovation work. There's also no sign of the newscasters in their purpose-built tents - they’ve all taken themselves off to Brussels where the really important talks are happening this week. Undeterred, there’s a smattering of protestors of various denominations, though EU blue appears to be in the ascendency today. Is this an omen? Or just some mad people with too much time on their hands? Richard the Lionheart’s magnificent statue looks on with apparent disdain, so he's in the latter camp, but Oliver Cromwell seems to be sitting on the fence - a role model for Jeremy Corbyn in so many ways. We finish on a sombre note with a moment of contemplation at the stone dedicated to PC Keith Palmer, killed in the March 2017 terror attack - a true hero (and fellow Charlton fan). RIP Keith.

But haven't we missed something important? Yes - lunch! We now head off-piste across Westminster Bridge, but so many people are coming in the opposite direction this is no easy task. We eventually make it to the south side of the river and find our way to Lower Marsh, which runs parallel to the train tracks of Waterloo station. This proves to be my Geheimtip (secret tip) of the day as we immediately find ourselves in foodie heaven, with street food of multiple varieties and ethnicities on offer for the entire length of this pedestrian-only walkway. It takes all of our resolve to save ourselves for the promised pub lunch - at The Duke of Sussex on Baylis Road.

Timothy Taylor - he brews a fine ale

For various reasons this is my third visit to The Duke of Sussex in the last six weeks and I like it more every time. It’s Jayne’s first visit but she seems impressed with my taste, which is always good to reaffirm after 28 years of enduring it. We immediately receive a warm welcome and our drinks are brought directly to our table, a nice touch at lunchtime. Jayne has the school run in mind so orders a tonic water tinged with ginger, but I have no shame and go straight for the Timothy Taylor on tap. It’s fantastic (which I already knew from my previous visits, but the landlord also confirms it’s his tipple of choice).

Now for the food menu. And there it is - a sharing platter of prosciutto, salami, olives, beer sausage and cornichons, all for a mere £18. Tempting, but if the price of cold meat’n’pickle platters continues to rise by £2 a week, it’ll hit £40 a pop this side of Christmas. No sign of whitebait though, so our normal combo is definitely out. In any case, I’m determined to have the cheddar, jalapeño and red onion marmalade sandwich off the “Lunch Specials” menu, which was delicious on my first visit and comes with a surprisingly good value £6 price-tag - or £8 with fries or a side salad. We order a sharing platter as well, but today it’s the guacamole, marinated mozzarella, hummus, chilli, pomegranate and pitta bread version that takes our fancy. Cold meats no more (which I’m sure features somewhere in The Proclaimers’ A Letter from America). This expansive order is necessary because (a) it’s 2pm by now and we’re starving from our walk and (b) I’m now convinced anything served in a London pub will be miniscule rather than massive.

Bread from Kent - or the Essex/East Anglia borders?

It arrives. It’s absolutely MASSIVE. In fact, it’s so massive that neither of us will eat anything else until tomorrow. The fare is not only plentiful but tasty too - and the sandwich is every bit as good as I remembered. Meanwhile we read up about the pub itself - The Duke of Sussex is one of a small, but perfectly formed, group of 13 pubs operating under the Hippo banner. The founder, Rupert Clevely, a serial pub entrepreneur, is apparently known as “The Chief Rhinoceros”. The rest of the management team similarly favour names of wild animals, most of them dangerous. The human “Hippo” turns out to be Jamie, the food guy - this is somehow reassuring as we face up to the platefuls before us. In short, Hippo stands for fun, friendly, warm and cosy community pubs where they strive to “get the fires going”. More power to their arm, I say, as they’re clearly doing a lot of things right. We also witness the attention to detail of the team, who buzz about deciding on locations for new fixtures and fittings. We are also impressed by their dedication to sourcing local seasonal produce - even if the provenance map in the menu is geographically suspect (see picture). A lovely pub.

Duly refreshed and still with time to spare before the school run, we stride out further and accompany the railway line eastwards from Waterloo to London Bridge. Soon we find ourselves on Union Street and pass by some cool-looking pubs and restaurants, an old printworks and even a prostitutes’ graveyard - but all of this is already described far more eloquently here: https://deserter.co.uk/2019/08/streetlife-union-street-se1/. At the sight of the printworks I shudder at the memory of an “all-nighter” spent at another printing company around here, checking every last minute change before a stock exchange circular was due for release at daybreak. Those were the days. I wonder if anyone has to do that anymore (surely not?).

Turning left up Borough High Street towards London Bridge station, our end point for today, I keep a keen eye out for two of my lunchtime haunts from the 80s and 90s - The George, a medieval coaching inn so steeped in history that it’s owned by the National Trust, and The Market Porter, overlooking Borough Market, which served very decent pub grub upstairs (and probably still does). Better memories than at the damned printers, that’s for sure.

St. James's Palace - blimey, is that the time?

Summary: At three miles, Westminster/St. James’s is one of Andrew Duncan’s shorter walks. My original concept was to combine it with another nearby walk, but the voice of reason (i.e. Jayne) prevailed, suggesting we combine it with a relaxing stroll to lunch instead. Brilliant! (Why didn’t I think of that?)

The sights and sounds of the Houses of Parliament, Whitehall, Horse Guards Parade, Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace are of course iconic and unmissable; the middle section around St. James’s arguably less compelling (but pleasant enough to join up the dots). The enjoyment of today’s walk was certainly enhanced by the uncharted sections we stumbled across between Waterloo and London Bridge - this area definitely merits a return visit, if not a full-blown pub crawl. And it was another day with over 20,000 steps in the tank - what’s not to like?

Acknowledgements: Richard and Jayne were following Andrew Duncan's "Walking London: Thirty Original Walks in and around London”, Westminster and St. James's walk, pp 82-88, 2010 edition published by New Holland Publishers (UK) Ltd.