Wednesday 2 October 2019
Covering six miles and with historical delights spread over a full eight pages of Andrew Duncan’s Walking London*, this “long, hilly walk”is not for the faint-hearted.
Wisely keeping a close eye on this autumn’s unpredictable weather, we choose the only dry, sunny day promised for the foreseeable future. But that’s iPhone weather forecasts for you - if you lived your life according to Apple, you’d never set foot out of doors. No doubt this is all part of their master plan.
The walk starts at Archway tube station - in our case rather inauspiciously as we walk alongside the Whittington Hospital, where my aunt Margaret died just two years ago at the grand age of 93 - but that's a story for another day. We pause briefly to admire the statue of Lord Mayor Whittington's faithful cat. Foolishly I allow the words “Ooh, I never realised the hospital was named after Dick Whittington” to leave my mouth. This, in turn, causes a strange but scornful-sounding guffaw to leave the mouth of my beloved.
We soon reach the fences surrounding Highgate Cemetery, but the public entrance is still some way off. Instead we admire the Mock Tudor elegance of the neighbouring Holly Lodge Estate. Mr Duncan does not deem these worthy of mention in his otherwise comprehensive guide, but a quick Google search informs us that the original grounds and villa date back to 1798 and were later owned by the Coutts banking family. In the early 20th century attempts to sell the land were apparently thwarted by its long distance (four miles) from the City - astonishing when one looks at today's property prices in the windows of Highgate estate agents. Later so-called “Lady Workers’ Homes” were built on the site to accommodate single women moving to the capital for work. The estate also contains the wonderfully-named “Traitors’ Hill” where it was believed members of the gunpowder plot gathered to admire an expected firework display over distant Westminster, though this tale has - rather sadly - been debunked (and it wasn't as if the spectacle lived up to its billing).
In the meantime we have reached the entrance to the cemetery. Although Duncan’s suggested walk doesn’t include a visit within the grounds, this seems too good an opportunity to pass up. We part with £4 each for admission, plus a handy guide to the location of famous dead people. The nice lady encourages us to return the guide at the end of our visit as they are running short - presumably due to an unexpected surge in Marxist tourism. We decide later to keep it in memory of my aunt - just in case it comes in handy (actually it’s to show my father, who is interested in that sort of stuff).
We wander respectfully amongst the graves, searching the headstones from side to side. For some reason I’m reminded of The Smiths’ song Cemetery Gates, maybe because I once loved the song and recall its role in the definitive South Bank Show documentary on the band:
A dreaded sunny day
So I meet you at the cemetery gates
Keats and Yates are on your side
While Wilde is on mine
Well, Morrissey, your cemetery must have covered an area as large as Europe, as John Keats - though we will later pass his Hampstead home - is buried in Italy, while Yates, somewhat more predictably, was lain to rest in Ireland. And Oscar Wilde, famously a resident of Paris in his latter years, has his tomb at Père Lachaise, a cemetery on a par with Highgate in terms of attracting tourism - and arguably even more sprawling and macabre. Luckily for us we have a map, rather than relying on dodgy directions from an indie icon.
We feel obliged to visit the oversized memorial to Karl Marx, bringing back memories for me of studying the Communist Manifesto as part of my German degree. “Where’s his mate Engels?” I muse, this time to myself. Not here - although Engels also resided in London, his body was cremated and his ashes scattered over Beachy Head. I also find myself wondering if Marx himself would have approved of the huge memorial, given that his original grave, in a family plot elsewhere in this cemetery, was a more modest, maybe more “socialist” affair. The current monument, in situ since the 1950s, stands as a beacon for his followers, admirers and sympathisers, but also for graffiti, vandalism and even bomb attacks from opponents and fanatics - indeed the latest instances took place only this year.
We follow the main path round the rest of cemetery and suddenly an hour has gone by. It really is a fascinating, if eerie, place. Whilst the guide includes a host of notable figures from 19th century naval history, architecture, commerce and learning, I am most fascinated by the people I had heard of, even admired, as living creatures - Paul Foot, the crusading investigative journalist at Private Eye; the fine actor Sir Ralph Richardson; Douglas Adams, author of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy; comedian Max Wall; even Jeremy Beadle is there to spring a final surprise on unsuspecting passers-by. We learn that the more recently departed George Michael also rests in Highgate Cemetery, but in the smaller Western section across the road that is only accessible for guided tours.
After this detour it’s almost time for lunch, so we pick up the pace through the attractive Waterlow Park before entering the gardens of Lauderdale House, a former summer retreat of Nell Gwynn. In his walking guide, Andrew Duncan describes Nell solely as “Charles II’s mistress” while a notice on the side of the house primly details only that she was a renowned actress of the day. Hmm. We notice that a middle-aged couple have unpacked a couple of beach bats from their rucksack and are playing their own version of tennis on the terrace. This strikes us as somewhat eccentric, but we don’t get involved.
We climb the hill to Highgate High Street, which runs through the picturesque old village. This is more like it. Rather disappointingly, our guide Andrew Duncan only appears to mention pubs in passing - clearly not a drinking man. He duly notes the historical significance of the Old Gatehouse inn, located further into the village, but we simply can’t wait that long. Slaves to the rhythm of our stomachs, we decide to enter the first pub we stumble across, the Angel Inn. This seems pleasant enough as it’s not obviously part of a dreary gastropub chain and offers a promising and quirky menu. As if to correct Duncan’s omission, the Angel displays some of its own history on a blackboard. Founded in 1610, it prides itself on “upholding traditional pub values” at the centre of its community. Its patrons have included Keith Moon of The Who and Graham Chapman from Monty Python, who “drank here often and copiously”. I’m not sure if this is meant as a commendation or a health warning, possibly a bit of both. On another wall there's a framed photo of Chapman in The Life of Brian, a reminder that it's exactly 40 years since that brilliantly comedic film caused outrage and heated debates on national TV. How times change.
We are tempted by the Calabrian Meat Board sharing platter, eschewing the option of a main dish since I’m convinced the meat board, at £14, will be “massive”. It arrives. It isn’t. But the meats are very tasty and accompanied by some toasted sourdough, so we’re happy enough (while thankful we also ordered a side of devilled whitebait). Welcome to North London liberal metropolitan elite pricing - no wonder Priti Patel moved south of the river. On the drinks front, Jayne plays safe with a small white wine, but I go full “let’s try a beer I’ve never heard of” and order a pint of “Old Man”, which I deem pertinent to my recently retired status. This turns out to be worryingly dark and opaque, but tastes just fine. Its remnants later need to be shared rather urgently with a tree on Hampstead Heath, at which point I appreciate the wisdom of Jayne’s modestly sized Pinot Grigio.
Onwards we trek, not even close yet to the halfway point of Kenwood House. One particularly splendid house on The Grove boasts not one but two plaques commemorating past residents, which seems a bit greedy - in this case the authors J.B. Priestley and, much earlier, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whose magnum opus The Rime of the Ancient Mariner became the scourge of many a schoolchild, including myself. I can’t help recalling the famous line “Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink”, not to mention the unfortunate incident with the albatross, before our guide reminds us that Coleridge is also known for his “opium-inspired Kubla Khan”. Now I find myself humming Frankie Goes to Hollywood: “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a pleasure dome erect” (with the emphasis on the final word, obvs). Sorry Sam.
At last the great heath appears before us, the cue for Duncan’s guidance to become sparser and less interspersed with historical tidbits, leaving us to focus fully on the wide, open spaces around us. Impossible to overlook in the early afternoon are the hordes of professional dog walkers with their multiple charges. One passes us at the entrance, immediately releasing all (eight/nine/maybe ten) dogs off their leads to run amok on this vast expanse. I can’t imagine I’d be very good at that job, not having any particular love of dogs. Although now I think about it, an ex-girlfriend had a dog which I eventually grew to like. That was despite the rather disgusting habit of licking my feet in bed (the dog, not the ex-girlfriend - just to be clear). For one thing, I’d be terrified of mislaying some rare and invaluable cross-breed somewhere on the 800 acres of open heathland.
Similar to the cemetery earlier, Duncan’s recommended walk doesn’t include the most well-known vantage point on Hampstead Heath - Parliament Hill - although he does suggest it as a diversion for the more energetic walker. We still feel full of energy so it’s a must for us, but not before we run into trouble with his rather vague directions, such as “continue on for some way until you emerge from the trees”. Failing to spot the relevant trees from which we should eventually emerge, we conclude that Duncan’s strengths lie more as a historian than a geographer.
Once at Parliament Hill we enjoy one of the iconic views of our great city. We work out that we haven’t been here for over 25 years, when we briefly lived in West Hampstead - as a born-and-bred South Londoner, this remains my one and only flirtation with North London. A lot can change in 25 years and indeed the vista before us appears vastly altered from the early 90s. That an office building at Canary Wharf now obscures the view of the water tower on Shooters Hill, where I grew up, is a source of personal dismay, but the view on this clear day is spectacular nonetheless. Further dismay will follow later when I read that Shooters Hill is not after all the highest point in London, as I had believed since my childhood (in fact, it hasn’t even come close since the expansion of Greater London in the mid-60s to include multiple outlying boroughs with more impressive hills).
We cheat a little by skipping a section of Duncan’s itinerary for the very good reason that it lies uphill from where we exit the heath. We also have no particular desire to see where the architect Ernö Goldfinger lived, as we’ve only just this minute learnt of his existence. The aforementioned John Keats’ house is a must-see though - by an amazing coincidence, this turns out to be located in Keats Grove. We take a stroll through his gardens, which are so delightful and peaceful it’s hard to imagine he suffered from melancholy, thus inspiring his eponymous ode. Then again, mental wellbeing was not much of a thing back then, so he probably suffered in silence and was told to “man up” periodically by passing dog-walkers. Meanwhile Jayne ponders the difference between an ode and a mere poem.
We finally reach Hampstead High Street some five hours after setting off. The entire walk was billed as four and a half hours, but we have constantly added optional extras (cemeteries, views and lunch - the latter of which is not at all optional in my book). Together these have probably extended the walk by some two and a half hours. There is now little chance we will be in time to pick Simon up after his rugby match, so we might as well stop for a coffee at Roni’s Bagel Bakery and bask in the warm afternoon sun - a beautiful spot. Our coffees are excellent; we also covet the scrumptious-looking Israeli salad being served at the next table - another day maybe.
Before leaving the bagels behind, I inspect the (admittedly simplified) map of Hampstead in Andrew Duncan’s book and inform Jayne we are nearing the end of the walk. An hour later we are still criss-crossing the old backstreets of Hampstead and have by now lost all sense of direction. Of course it’s all totally splendid and we see more former homes of the prolifically talented du Maurier family than you could shake a stick at. There’s even a DIY prison block attached to one grand house that once belonged to the local magistrate. Parking is at a premium, however, and we witness an acrimonious dispute between two female neighbours (let's call them Coleen and Rebekah) that ends with a threat to involve solicitors. In error we then turn left to inspect the (alleged) highest point in London, only to read on that this was intended by Duncan purely as an “FYI” and obviously we should have turned right all along. Add another ten minutes to the now late hour. We pass the second pub of the walk, Flask Tavern, to be named after the old spa water flasks of Hampstead (the other was located in Highgate but socially aspirational), before Hampstead tube station finally looms into view, signalling the end of today’s walk. Never have I been so pleased to see a facility operated by Transport for London.
Summary: Very enjoyable but also very tiring, as we had somehow managed to extend a six mile walk to 10 miles and 25,000 steps. It was hilly too, as Mr Duncan had forewarned - so much so that my Fitbit credits me with the equivalent of 100 floors (though strangely Jayne’s has registered only half of that - maybe she took the lift without me noticing). For a while I conveniently forget that I’m going to a football match in the evening, which will further increase my day’s step total to 32,600 - a personal best this year (possibly this century).
Would we recommend this walk? Absolutely yes. This will take you through some of London’s most beautiful and historical residential areas and parklands, up high streets where local businesses thrive alongside the ubiquitous chains, down narrow winding alleys full of character - with plenty of tempting opportunities to go “off-piste” along the way. It definitely needs a full day to do it justice though.
*Acknowledgements: Richard and Jayne were following Andrew Duncan's "Walking London: Thirty Original Walks in and around London”, Highgate to Hampstead walk, pp 213-220, 2010 edition published by New Holland Publishers (UK) Ltd.
Comments