A Muddy Heath Hike

The early December day dawned clear when the first light broke around 8 am. I got up early to seize the day, and to join some of the dedicated walking women of the St. John’s Wood Women’s Club. Our goal was to hike around the open heathland in the north of London known as Hampstead Heath for a few hours and then repair to a pub for lunch.

We were advised to wear sturdy walking shoes, and to bring plastic bags to put over our shoes when we entered the pub in the event of muddy conditions on the heath. It had not rained for a several days so I was confident that the going would be smooth. The morning mist had risen by the time I made my way down in the clankity antique gated elevator and hit Abbey Road running. I had taken a little too much time adjusting the insoles of the walking shoes and knew I’d have to run for the number 46 bus that would take me ten minutes up the road to Hampstead. Sure enough, as I rounded the corner onto Circus Road (my new favorite “back” way to the “Hi” Street) I could see a #46 bus charging across the intersection towards the nearest stop. I put on a burst of speed, ran to the stop, and flagged down the bus as I ran. The correct way of flagging down a bus is to wave one’s little plastic card-holder that holds the electronic bus pass. I must have been quite a sight flapping down the pavement. This was the last possible bus I could catch in order to make the rendezvous point in time.

I looked around and didn’t see any other riders that might fit the description of over-forty American walker. At the next stop, however, three chatty American moms boarded and I gave them a little wave. Phew! The group waiting up at the Hampstead Underground stop would certainly have to wait for the four of us.

There was a group of women standing outside of the Underground entrance. In fact, they were thoroughly blocking the entrance AND preventing passers-by from using the sidewalk (pavement). This is a well-known American thing to do (see previous post on London City Garden tour), so I knew I was in the right place. The parade marshall ticked off our names on her list as we waited for two women across the street to get the green light so they could cross. It was the other woman with the same surname as me, and her 70-ish mother, visiting from the Boston area. One of the ladies activated her GPS so we could track mileage, and we were herded around the corner onto Flask Walk. After a brief orientation to that corner of Hampstead, off we went at a brisk pace toward one of the paths that lead into the Heath.

Family members, especially TeenE and Hubster, know that I like to walk fast. They are always asking me to slow down, and saying things like “Why do you have to walk so fast?!” Answer: Because that’s the way I walk. I blame this on having grown up in the greater New York City area, where if you don’t walk aggressively fast you will never make it through the crowds. This crowd of middle-aged women, however, went markedly faster than my usual pace. I would have been consistently left in their dust had there been any dry soil in evidence. Despite the dry weather, there were patches of mud that ranged from slightly damp to boggy muck and on to a veritable quagmire. The leather walking shoes were taking a beating. I should have worn the new boots. Oh Wellies.

We crossed and re-crossed every possible path on the Heath. Starting at Downshire Hill, we went northeast to the Vale of Heath and the swans on the pond there, back toward the center, over to the northeast again, crossed Spaniard’s road, made our way through Sandy Heath. This is a lovely wood filled with chestnut and beech trees. The wet copper-gilt leaves carpeted the undulating terrain. Steep mounds of sand left by a melting glacier eons ago are now populated with mature trees in what could be a faerie wood. Yet on we marched, driven on by our relentless leader, who seemed bent on showing us every possible pub at every possible corner of the Heath. From Sandy Heath we crossed onto the East Heath Extension and then across North End Road. I realized that I was literally around the corner from my old 1978 address at 849 Finchley Road. We paused to look at a beautiful small building that used to be a school, then back into the Heath via Hogarth Way, or Drive, or House. Every house on that street claims to have been lived in by the artist Hogarth. I’m pretty sure we retraced our steps back through Sandy Heath, then we were off past another historic building INSIDE the Heath borders, and over to The Pergola, a huge trellised garden with autumn plants of every description still in bloom despite the mid-December date. Our pace was such that if one stopped to take even one photo you would become hopelessly left behind.

The old Girl Scout hiking adage “Slowpokes in the front” as voiced ad nauseum by older sister NYSis was to no avail. They were pressing on so determinedly that the slowpokes never had a chance to GET to the front. And right up there with them was the other Mrs. H. and her Mother.

And we’re off again, this time to Kenwood House at the northern edge of the main Heath. This is a white Georgian-fronted building currently housing an art museum. Fans of “Notting Hill” may remember that Julia Robert’s character was being filmed in a costume drama in front of this very façade. Finally, we stopped so that many of the middle-aged women could use the loo. Not me. I was so parched from the pace we had been keeping that all I could think about was finding a bottle of water, but I didn’t want to get separated from the group, so I prayed that we would come in for a landing at our destination pub soon.

Our next leg was over to the Highgate side of the Heath. Coming down a hill we ran into a patch where the frost on the grass had frozen solid over four inches of rutted mud. It was a good thing that this area had not yet thawed. Soon we were where the “bathing ponds” are. At least they are identified as such on every map. I always assumed that the names of the ponds were an anachronism. My previous trips through the Heath, both in 1978 and 2006 had never revealed the pond’s real nature to me. Yes, they really are still used as “bathing” ponds. The Women’s Bathing Pond is reserved for women and children. There are other bathing ponds for men and for mixed doubles, I assume. They have changing rooms, loos, lifeguards, a diving board, etc. A sign informed us that due to the fact that there was ice on the surface of the women’s bathing pond, swimmers should use the mens’ or general facilities for today. A lifeguard came out of the office to chat with us. She said that there are some people who come for a dip every day of the year. The water temp was shown on the chalkboard to be 3 degrees centigrade. Ducks and geese floated around the far perimeter of the pond. In a tree nearby, a flock of green parakeets (just like the ones in the film The Wild Parakeets of Telegraph Hill, set in San Francisco, CA) raised a racket.

After a brief stop to inspect the diving platform, we were urged onward. This time the path took us up and over Parliament Hill, the highest spot in the greater London area, where city-dwellers have retreated in times of trouble, such as the Great London Fire of 1666. The whole expanse of the London skyline lays to the south. Scenes in “Notes on a Scandal” with Judy Dench and Kate Winslet chatting on a bench were filmed here. On we pressed, finally crossing through a hundred yards of wet, gloppy mud. Some of us had repeated scuffed through wet grass to remove the mud which had accumulated on our shoes. All of this effort was for naught as we schlepped through that last morass of moistness. Even the caked on mud got a good coating. Fortunately, no one slipped, as we had slowed our pace considerably.

We FINALLY came to a halt at the side of a busy road. The civilization was once more in sight, although we had never been further than a mile or so from it at any time on our “walk”. It was precisely 12:30, our target arrival time for lunch. We had walked 7 miles, including several stops. Those who were going to lunch repaired to The FreeMason’s Arms, where we quaffed pint of tapwater in preparation for the beers we were about to imbibe. We had preordered the food, which arrived soon. Once I caught my breath and the kidneys were working again, I enjoyed country pate on toast with cornichon pickles, followed by gnocchi with a pumpkin cream sauce, and finally a decadent chocolate gooey something that I absolutely could not finish. All this was consumed in the company of my 12 newest best friends. The talk was the usual chit-chat; kids, flats, neighbors (one lady lives next door to a man who has a screamer for a girlfriend, she has trouble explaining that to her kids: “Mommy, what is that noise? Why is she making that noise?”) They spent a reported 15,000 pounds soundproofing the common wall. Then, kids again, kids' illnesses, and discussions of the health care system and providers in general. Two women told me how wonderful their doctor is. “Let me guess!” I said.

I finally pried myself out of there at about half past two, and took the #46 bus back to A Flat on Abbey Road. My plan was to rest up for the next outing that evening, which shall be described separately.