Prisons, snakes and blackberries.
Across London by bicycle.
‘let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there.’ (Guy Debord)
Where does a journey begin? Where should a planned cycle path start and finish? One can imagine the City cycle planners clutching their take away coffees in a meeting arguing over the merits of a junction start, or a station, or a park. I wonder who said, ‘a prison’. I wonder how they were persuasive enough to have the rest of the team agree to it. So a prison start it is for Quietway 2, one of the new breed of cycle ways that link quiet backroads, with parks and totally segregated cycle ways in busier areas, to form one continuous, well signposted route. They are part of the new world of London cycling, and are as good as anything an oft quoted European City might have. They make cycling in the city a whole new joyous experience. I never thought I would use those words - ‘cycling in London’ and ‘joyous experience’ - in the same sentence, but I have. Because it’s true.
On Wormwood Scrubs, behind the prison, the blackberries are full of thorns and already fat and ripe despite it being July. I gorge on the too many berries, ripe for the picking and my ride is delayed. Swirling in the air is the heady and narcotic scent of the limes, better this year than I ever recall. Perhaps I rose too early for the ride, perhaps its the blackberries and sun, but I’m overcome with an early morning stupour. The bench is comfortable, there is a nice curve for my back - and the sun on my face. I doze.
After a bit of a talking to, my pedals turn again and the wind is on my back. I ride for a kilometre or two before stopping again. So often, I just ride, often fast and in a group. To stop and look about me is a new luxury. A gift of from the Covid times, as group riding is not permitted. I ride alone, luxuriating in the slow turning of the pedals, looking about me as if this city in which I’ve lived most of my life is a new and wonderful destination.
I’ve been here so often, under the Westway flyover, a stone’s throw from Grenfell Tower, and never noticed the art. My bike is leaning against the wall and I am looking at the frowning, glaring and glow of the painting. The skill of the street-artists with their unwieldy cans. The references and illusions. The many themes which are as complex as those in Titian’s painting. Greek gods have been replaced by grunge.
Another kilometre along the well-signed Quietway, and I see that every tree is tied with a green band of ribbon. Rising above the lush green leaves of the London Plane trees, is the white plastic-wrapped tower of Grenfell; a monument to injustice. Its stark white, hard lines and scattered green hearts, contrast with the vastness of the deep and impassive summer blue sky.
It’s early and the streets around Portobello Road are still and quiet, filled with the anticipation of a new day. In Bayswater, the canyoned streets are lined with empty hotels. I wonder why so many have been named after places so far away? Pacific, Athena, Mandalay. What’s so wrong with Oxford, Devon, Bath? There are builders about, adjusting the empty hotels for new times ahead. They are unseen but heard, breaking the magic silence of a city street, so full of anticipation. Clanging scaffolding poles, and radios playing Heart FM, all a little too loud for the time of day.
I don't know what has caused this hunger, as I thought I’d had my fill of blackberries but I am decidedly peckish. Maybe its the smell of fresh roasted coffee and croissants coming out of a little shop. I find myself off the bike again, and wheeling it into a 1665 Plague Pit, now a leafy park, with coffee sloshing in one hand and a reluctant bike in the other. A croissant hangs out of my mouth. I find a bench - the second sit down in an hour - and eat another breakfast - my third. I watch the pigeons strut around seeking crumbs around the feet of an important looking woman, coffee in one hand, a phone in another. A man taps on his laptop, night workers eat out of tupperware. A sprinkler waters well labelled rose beds and tidy parterres. The Plane trees shade the heating sun. This could be Milan, or Munich, or Madrid. But it’s London.
Come on Julian, this is meant to be a ride across the Capital. Get on that bike. My cleats click a way back to the road and off we go again. In Torrington Square, a man with the briefest of briefs is sunning himself on a bench. He already has a deep Covid tan. I ride slowly through Bloomsbury because I love the houses. Austere and rather grand in an understated tall, narrow and black-bricked sort of way with sash windows the colour of cream.
The Quietway is busy with families riding out. Women in flowing summer dresses, and children with dragon-styled helmets - some clearly lockdown projects. To see these streets reclaimed by people who until this pandemic were too fearful to ride a bike - fearful of traffic, fearful of those careless men in lycra - (and they were mostly men, I’m sad to say). I slow down as a 6 year old looks around him and his bike skews to the right - he uses the whole width of the path, as children are wont to do. ‘William be careful, there’s a man behind you’, says his mum. William slams on brakes, puts a foot down, turns to look at me and gives his widest smile. We exchange a high-five before I move on.
De Beauvoir. The beautiful view. And so it is. Its streets are wide - European boulevard style, lined by gracious Victorian villas and tidy little front gardens. Its square - immaculate beds of roses, all carefully labelled in full bloom, rich in scent and colour. A woman poses amongst them in her underwear. (‘Lovely, could you walk this way, Yes, that’s lovely, great, perfect, lovely’, says the photographer).
At London Fields, there are no fields anymore, but shady park. On the cycle path a couple are so entranced with each other, kissing, holding hands and licking a dribbling ice-cream and giggling all at the same time, that they do not hear my bell. For some precious moments, their entire world consists of just themselves. I dawdle in their wake, reluctant to ping my bell again. Evenutally, the woman turns, grins, offers an apology, and a way is made for me to pass.
The final kilometres are on the Walthamstow marshes, all willow, warblers and rosebay willow-herb. There is no sound, nor sight of any city. It’s a place for drifting like the languid river Lea. Walkways and cycleways weave like the willows themselves over waters, grasslands and reedbeds. I stop again and find some grass and lie looking up at the cloudless sky. I am liking this slower form of bike-travel, away from heart rate monitors, exertions and fatigue. In time - I might have dozed and I don't wear a watch - I rose a little groggy, remounted and entered Walthamstow. The planners in their meeting decided that the Q2 should finish where Europe’s longest outdoor market begins. I again imagine their debate under the harsh light of neon in meeting room 20. ‘Of course it must finish here’.
’Why Councillor?’
‘Well, you could buy supplies from the excellent market to take back to those forbidding prison gates. I mean prisoners need feeding too you know’.
’A fine idea. Let’s do it. Q2 will finish at Walthamstow market. All agreed’?
And so it was. The London planners have excelled themselves. A nearly totally segregated route, (apart from a central stretch through Westminster), well signed throughout, across a London which few will know despite a lifetime living here. Ride slowly. Stop often. Watch out for William - and those ice-cream loving lovers.
