Realm of the Peripheral Beings

I was drawn along the path down the back-side of Asda, past the Beehive Pub. The pub sign depicted a smiling woman with a beehive (actual, not hairdo) on her head, reminiscent of a mythical being. Her visage was slightly unworldly and enigmatic.

I reached the river soon after, emerging opposite the impressive green iron railway bridge and across the river from a terminal Pylon jutting out from behind the trees that only partially hid the patch inner city liminality beyond. An area usually devoid of activity other than the barely audible hum of the electricity sub station or the scuttling of a rat under a refuse bin, but currently operating as a temporary fairground.

After observing the scene for a short while I decided to double back. As I did so, glancing down I noticed unusual 'footprints' set into the tarmac. One looked freakishly large, the others freakishly shaped. I imagined what sort of being might be responsible. A deformed Black Shuck maybe. Or some mysterious creature from across the river. A liminal beast rarely seen by human eyes.

I left the scene and followed part of the depressingly named 'Workhouse' cycle route along a stretch between another back-side of Asda and some riverside flats. Following the encounter with Beehive Woman and the footprints of the Liminal Beast my walk had developed a different atmosphere and pace. Before I had been walking swiftly, thinking about lunch and getting back to work. Such trivialities had slipped away as if I'd shifted into a slightly different dimension. Things were slower, calmer and weirder.

Emerging from Rivergate Arcade, I was drawn along Bridge Street and sucked into the main drag leading to the centre. Just beyond the pelican crossing, a man, probably in his 60s,  hunched in a mobility scooter with a sound system attached on a trailer. Out of this pumped loud reggae. The man, sporting a policeman's cap, glasses and stubble, resembled a crumpled and more rough around the edges Blakey from On the Buses. As I passed, a jobsworth shop manager emerged from one of the retail outlets lining the street. 'Reggae Blakey' grudgingly turned down the volume, which was probably loud enough to be drowning out whatever 'musack' the shop was broadcasting inside in an attempt to soften the brains of potential customers. The shop manager was polite and non-agressive. But his rebuke of the man felt like an attack on eccentricity and the imposition of the bland at the expense of the interesting.

As I continued next I passed two buskers, an older man and a girl who may have been his daughter, playing a sort of 60s American hippie folk sound. This complemented the already off-kilter atmosphere of my slow drift.

Near the end of the stretch sitting among the  anonymous faces of resting shoppers was a clown. Full make up, red curly wig, clown clothes. Slightly frayed at the edges: fag on the go, sad resigned face. Like redundant Ronald MacDonald. I'd seen him before. Always sitting and smoking. Never performing.

I headed back to work leaving behind the realm of the Beehive Woman, The Liminal Beast, Reggae Blakey and The Clown. The Realm of the peripheral beings.

Sandy Heath Transmissions

We made our way along a road/track that initially appeared to be a long driveway linking a series of detached houses, before it turned and snaked up into some woods. There was a car park adjacent to the Heath so we parked up. As we did so a couple of other cars appeared, the sinister black sort that always have their lights on in the daytime. For a split second I thought we had turned up at the rendezvous point for some sort of pre-arranged dodgy deal or violent interaction between shady characters. Or only marginally less worrying, a dogging hotspot.

Although the cars turned out to contain nothing more dangerous than middle aged dog walkers, the uneasy feeling I had developed stayed with me as we walked out of the trees and onto the heath. I'd imagined the place would be deserted and have a calm surreal atmosphere. It did although the calm was an ominous one, that produced a feeling of being slightly on edge. An anti-calm.

Almost immediately we found ourselves underneath one of the immense wires that hold the transmitter in place like giant guy ropes. From the main road the transmitter didn't look particularly big, but in close proximity it was gargantuan in height, if not girth, such that it brought on a sort of inverse vertigo. I felt slightly dizzy with  a sort of unpleasant tingling feeling spreading from my stomach up to my face and down my arms each time I looked up at it. This added to the already sinister atmosphere, as dark grey clouds welled up behind the mast , as if summoned by it . I was at the same time repelled but facinated by it. My partner expressed similar feelings of revulsion.

We edged slightly closer to the transmitter and it's base as we began our circumnavigation, and within a certain radius could feel/hear a low level and persistent hum. We made our way around through the vegetation on the heath. The brambles in particular had a sort of ominous quality, the leaves holey and withered, as if they had somehow been affected by the strange energy that the transmitter seemed to impose on the Heath.

The base contained an additional collection of random looking ariels and dishes, around the single storey flat roofed building. It resembled the sort of low budget British TV setting that might hold the final chance for humanity, as a Quatermass type figure fiddles with the controls, in a desperate bid to fend off whatever malevolent force threatens to wipe out humanity. Or the base of a sinister enemy, lying low before unleashing devastating force from the mast.

It was easy to forget that this is the epicentre of television and radio broadcasting in East Anglia. Or more accurately the Western half of East Anglia, which I'm told frequently by the presenters of Look East and Anglia News is 'your part of the Region'. The trades test transmissions I remembered seeing as a child, usually with an image of the transmitter accompanied by light music, had not prepared me for the the reality, as bizarre and sinister as they had been. While there, I didn't have flashbacks to Sale of the Century, About Anglia or Programmes for Schools and Colleges, which are things I'd usually associated with it. Instead there was a sort of nothing, as if the broadcasts were beamed beyond its immediate vicinity leaving a sterile void around it on the Heath.

I'd seen a clip on YouTube of the day before the analogue signal was turned off, and West Anglia went fully digital. The presenter was allowed into the building under the transmitter where the equipment did indeed have a British TV science fiction quality about it. He got to pretend to operate the switch that would turn off analogue at midnight while talking to the excitable engineer who would actually be doing it, and evidently spent considerable amounts of time in the compound. The engineer had the slightly unsettling and derranged air of someone who was about to launch an untested and dangerous manned space flight, rather than boost the digital signal so more people could receive multiple shopping channels on Freeview TV, in addition to the 5 channels already adequately provided by the disappearing analogue signal.

We turned our back on the transmitter, and headed away from it slightly to the edge of the Heath. We reached the fence around the sandstone quarry. The atmosphere here was similar. The floor of the quarry looked like a version of Mars with a grey sky. The warning sign was accompanied by a malevolent looking black bag, as if indicating extra danger lurked nearby.

As we neared the end of of our semi-circular navigation, we could see in the distance the single wind turbine at the RSPB reserve, beyond the Heath separated by the main road. This structure lined up with the transmitter and was parallel to a row of pylons that crossed the reserve. I always thought people who objected to wind turbines cited the danger to birds as one of the reasons not to build them. That the RSPB should have one on their own reserve shows that either I've got this wrong or that the nimbies are hopelessly off the mark. They also cite the ugliness of the structures, but I think they have a sort of liminal beauty. I'd be more sympathetic if they were objecting to having the Sandy Heath Transmitter built behind their backyards. Who knows what the long term effect of the low level hum and the absorbtion of concentrated regional and local TV broadcasts might be on their children?

We left the Heath, through a path in the woods littered with used energy drink cans, fag packets, dogshit bags and a couple of used sanitary towells. Even a few hours later I still felt drained and off kilter. Possibly due to a dodgy bar of stale chocolate I'd had at the bird reserve, but I put it down to the energy draining properties of the transmitter. More powerful up close than when absorbed in diluted form via the beam of the television during Look East.

Morden to Hersham

We’d done a walk with a couple of other people to Hampton Court and had planned to carry on to Hersham. In the end that turned out to be a bit optimistic so we didn’t. We knew nothing of Hersham except that Sham 69 wrote a song about it.  Morden was a place I knew only as the southern terminus of the Northern Line. It looked within walking distance of Hersham on the map- roughly 12 miles- so it would do nicely as a starting point.

Outside Morden Tube station only hint of the rampant hipsterfication found elsewhere was at the  Wimpey. where their usual fayre is now being offered on wooden boards instead of plates.

The ‘bender in a bun’ looked more vile than ever being half exposed. Coincidently the day after the walk an article on Wimpeys appeared here. The franchise owner of a Wimpey interviewed says he’s eaten it every day for 31 years.  With the at least 3 grease cafes in the vicinity we weren’t tempted to start following his example.

South London -which I’m less familiar with - often feels a bit like a parallel version of North London. A bit off kilter, like a place in a dream that’s supposed to be somewhere you know but isn’t quite right. One feature we noticed here and on a previous walk following the Wandle is more extensive suburban-ness. The endless 1930s pebble dashed and mock Tudor houses reminded us of the settings for 70s sit coms.  We wondered about mapping locations of London based sitcoms across the city. The Civic Centre in Morden is a quite bizarre building incorporated into a curved block of flats or maybe offices. I could imagine it as a scene in the (probably deservedly) forgotten 80s comedy ‘a Small Problem’. 

The other feature is the abundance of parks and green spaces which feel more extensive, deserted and wild than in the North. We had a detour through the strangely elongated and deserted Kendor Gardens, and alongside a field we thought was Merton Park but I’m not certain. Not sure if the Merton Parkas -an 80s mod revival band I had a badge of when I was a kid but to this day have never heard- ever hung out there. Morden Park was a much larger concern where following the first and more benign of two close encounters with dogs, we took a diversion through some woods and had the first of several sightings of the parakeets of South West London. Exiting the park we passed something labelled the ‘Bow Lane Screen’ 

This marked the end of the above ground part of a stream (unidentified). We passed the headquarters of the ‘1^st Lower Morden Scout Group and Sharks Explorer Unit’ – well, normal scouting did always sound a bit boring. Was Jaws lurking streams and tributaries in Merton Borough? Maybe the Bow Lane screen was some sort of safety device…

Writing this a few weeks after the walk, looking at my photos for the next part of the walk they seem out of sequence with the way I remember it. Not sure if it’s the technology at fault or my memory. I’m going to blame the technology and relay events as I recall them.

We passed the Morden Brook – the first pub we had seen but it was a bit early for a pint. Nearby was something called ‘The Firework Factory’.  Not sure if it had any connection to the one that exploded in Southampton back in May last year but we thought it best not to hang about.

We went past this odd painting/mural in someone’s front garden just before Morden Cemetery. There’s obviously a nautical theme but beyond that it made no sense.

Morden Cemetery was pleasant enough but I have no significant memories of it. We came out into a park which I think was the Sir Joseph Hood Memorial Park. A quick google search reveals it’s named after a Tory from Ashby De La Zouch- a place I’d previously only associated with the character Adrian Mole and have visited with my work. It’s got a good Thai Restaurant and no train station. From the park we could see the three gas rings- a dominating feature of the area of Motspur Park.

R and me are a bit to old/cautious/worried about getting nicked to embark on any closer inspection but others have been a bit bolder (it’s a young man’s game!) and some closer views are available here.

The area Motspur Park was apparently the location of the sit com ‘Brush Strokes’. It  featured a character called Jack played by a bloke who went on to be in adverts for Flash floor cleaner. And music by the bloke from Dexys Midnight Runners. More impressively -if true-apparently George Clinton of Parliament/Funkadelic lived in the area which trumps Merton’s third division Mod Revival musical connection hands down.

Back on a main(ish) road we passed pub number 2 – The Earl Beatty.  Quite an impressive looking (from the outside at least) 30s style boozer. It’s claimed on the pub website that it’s in New Malden rather than Motspur Park. New Malden is famous for its Korean restaurants and has a large Korean community but none of that was evident here.

We passed the gas rings again beyond a house as we crossed the boundary into Kingston borough. And at some point according to google maps we had passed over the first Thames tributary of the day, Beverley Brook but I can’t say I recall seeing it. Manor Park featured  a row of pylons following a railway track and this 70s public information film style sign on the gate. 

We saw no sign of small girls encouraging small boys to fly big Peter Powell kites near pylons and leading them to certain death.

I’m not sure what this area is known as-  the Park is cited as being in New Malden on some websites, Old Malden in others. I found this from the ‘Worcester Park blog’ which suggests part of the park at least is/was owned privately and in 2013 being trashed deliberately to make whatever development was planned seem an attractive option.  Where Worcester Park fits in geographically I’m not entirely sure. But soon we were somewhere defiantly signposted as Old Malden. 

Nearby was a green space through which the Hogsmill river flowed (second Thames tributary of the day). Maybe this was where the shark hunting scouts who’s hut we had seen earlier would find what they were looking for.

Past here on a pretty unremarkable residential street we saw the trade van of the unadvisedly named ‘Splashback’ bathroom fitters. And in the distance loomed the Tolworth Tower.

A quick google had revealed The Toby Jug pub  had played host to some top names in the early 70s. David Bowie, Led Zeppelin, Atomic Rooster. It’s not there anymore. Just the other side of the underpass from where it once stood is one end of the Broadway. This is dominated by Tolworth Tower which is a shopping centre with offices above.  Its reminded me of a cross between a less sophisticated version of the  JG Ballard’s High Rise and the hemmed- in- by- ring- roads location of the office in the film Bartelby. On the Broadway we passed the Broadway Bar café. We weren’t sure if this counted as a pub but given the depressing infrequency of them up to this point we called it pub no.3 of the walk. 

We stopped for coffee in an Italian café  where the radio was broadcasting ‘Radio Jackie’. R was intrigued that a radio station should cater solely to the readers of a publication for pre-teenage girls It’s not- but a former pirate turned commercial local station broadcast from the Tower.  We cut through some back streets. A sinister looking tower (hospital? we never found out) loomed over the roads of 1930s looking houses. 

Soon after passing a dilapidated offy we ended up back on a bypass and next to the site of the former Ace of Spades roadhouse. In the 30s Roadhouses allowed the middle classes the opportunity to drive to a large pub for food, drinking and dancing ‘til late before a drive home after a skinfull. Acceptable middle class drinking and driving is unimaginable these days-as is such an establishment being on this site. Now it is a row of shops including the Ace of Spades café. We were disturbed to see another establishment with links to fireworks. It was probably around 2pm when we got here and mysteriously everything was shut and the area devoid of people. 

We crossed the underpass across the A3.

Having cut the corner by taking a side road through a slightly posher residential area we ended up on yet another bypass type road. This led along the side of a park/rec and the Hook and Southborough Parish Hall and then pub no.4, the North Star.  We still maintained temperance.  This was an area well off the mental map. I’ve never heard of Southborough, and only Hook because of a quick google search the night before. We wondered whether we were still truly in London. We were still (just about) on the A-Z, bus stops still had the London Transport sign and we were still inside the M25, although for martial arts experts at least we were in ‘North Surrey’

Not long after turning the corner near this establishment we were in what was beginning to look like the countryside. We passed the ‘Junior Livery Yard’ then Chessington Equestrian Centre and ‘The Dell’ which also featured a mobile home park. No sign of horses-only empty fields.There was a substantial amount of discarded beer cans, plastic bags and fag packets in the bushes opposite showing a particularly strong disregard for the country code. There was a lot more than could conceivably have been thrown from car windows we thought.

A bit further along we were heading towards the village (suburb?) of Claygate - slowly- down a muddy horse track which was as close a thing available to a proper footpath. The sight of an abandoned mattress by the side of the road appeared to mark a proper boundary between town and country- and beyond this it felt like we had properly left London. A sign pointed out  ‘Cameras Operated by Elmbridge Borough Council’ and we were now off  the (A-Z) map. 

I’d never heard of Elmbridge Borough or it’s council but having passed their sign we began to feel like we were somewhere we might not be allowed to be. The proximity of Sandown Racecourse close to the nearby village (suburb?) of Esher sort of explained the paddocks/horsiness of the vicinity. But this changed as we passed the entrance to a  Ruxley Heights- ‘PRIVATE ESTATE’ ‘NO HORSE RIDING’. A bit further along behind some houses suddenly loomed up what looked like a bizarre folly or water tower. 

We took a diversion to get a closer look. The street/cul-de sac it was in was even more ‘private -keep out’ feel about it-we were surprised nobody came out of their house to ask what we thought we were doing or called the police. The building with the tower turned out to be a private residence – Ruxley Towers-which has associations with Queen Victoria, Cliff Richard and Ronnie Wood. The later apparently trashed the place leaving coffee stains and fag burns everywhere allegedly costing the landlord 75 grand. I wonder if  the landlord was the same woman trying to sell it in this ever so slightly nauseating article from  Surrey Life.

 

R asked a woman walking two dogs how to get to Esher. This was a brave move on his part considering his usual relationship with dogs is one of allergic reactions and fear. The larger of the dogs growled and barked and had to be restrained. The woman clearly though we were of unsound mind and that Esher too far to go on foot (probably about two miles at most I think). This encounter as well as showing R had developed a previously unseen ability to remain calm in the presence of growly dogs, demonstrated the gulf in perceptions regarding a reasonable distance to travel by foot between us and most other people. This encounter did nothing to ease the feeling that we were intruders.

A bit further into Claygate and in an area that looked less inhabited by the ultra-rich we asked a bloke for directions to the station. This seemed a better option than explaining where we were really going given the dog walkers reaction earlier. We needed water so asked if there were any shops-we’d seen none so far. He looked surprised and seemed a bit shocked-‘We’ve got loads of shops’. Before we saw any shops we arrived a Pub 5- The Foley. We crumbled at this point-thirsty and in need of a sit and a pee. On the way to the loo it was necessary to pass a large picture of the Queen Mother pouring a pint of Young’s Special. The pub was I think also a hotel, and was probably more somewhere that tolerated drinkers than welcomed them. Although they did well to tolerate the loud bloke with the Mike Read accent holding court at the bar. We only had to for the time it took to drink a half and relieve ourselves.

There were indeed several shops near the station-most on the upmarket side. They didn’t interest us much be we noted the bus stop that confirmed we were still in the London transport area. On the way out of Claygate we passed a BT Telephone exchange opposite a Christian Science reading room – an unusual building with another London bus stop out the front. The Christian Scientists believe illness is an illusion which can be corrected by prayer alone. While I’m not one to take headache pills and have avoided going to the doctors for about 15 years it’s only because I haven’t been I’ll enough to have to. When I’m inevitably succumb to the maladies of old(er) age it will be the doctors (or possibly Dignitas) that I will seek assistance from, thanks all the same.

Soon after this we passed pub no.6, The Swan Inn, a telephone box (modern, not red but still a rare sight these days), and a white post bearing a London Corporation insignia. This puzzled us as we were at least 12 miles from the City of London. Not long after the walk a Londonist article appeared which explained this was a coal duty post-to do with the London and Wine Duties Continuance Act 1861. The Act is no longer in force but many of the posts remain encircling London.

After Claygate we took a diversion through Claremont Park. I had used the last charge on my phone to check google maps and this seemed a better option than the Esher bypass. There was no indication on the map that it was a private estate with a mini golf course, not a normal park. At the way out we could see a gate which appeared shut and possibly locked. It opened to let a car in from the other side and we made a run for it before it closed again. Just prior to this was probably not the best time to have been discussing ‘The Burglars Guide to the City’ which R had recently read. The place did have an air of somewhere the public were not allowed or were regarded with paranoid suspicion. But we might have just been a bit paranoid. We got out onto the main road unchallenged.

Soon after this we passed Pub No7,  Prince of Wales in Esher and then crossed a park to the River Mole. As it turned out there was no way to get across so we had to double back onto dual carriageway to get across.

We finally reached the sign telling us we had arrived at Hersham as it was beginning to get dark. We reached the Barely Mow pub-only the 8^th pub we had passed on a 12-14 mile walk.  Musical entertainment was available in the form of Chinese Elvis Night in the restaurant across the road. Not quite Sham 69. We didn’t see much more of Hersham due to it being dark and because we needed to catch a train back into London to meet a mate. The Archway Café over the road from the Station looked like it would have been an ideal starting place had we done the walk the other way round-so maybe we will return.