North London trails
Christmas had been a disappointment running wise. What started as a head cold soon developed into a full-on bout of flu that lasted for two weeks. By the time I could breathe clearly again, and the fever had stopped, I was desperate to escape the confines of the house and my local area.
During the days and nights confined to my bed I had been dreaming of all the places I loved to run in. Muddy trails, woodland and hills were the most popular locations to visit in my imagination. A chesty cough and sticky lungs lingered, but I figured I could run them off. Maybe the clean air would help?
There were a few options open to me that wouldn’t involve a ridiculous amount of traveling, especially important with constant train strikes taking place. I decided on North London. I could reach there by underground in less than an hour and with minimum inconvenience.
The morning train from Hither Green took me to London Bridge, and from there it was a short ride on the Thameslink to Finsbury Park. The park itself is a nice enough place to run, but I had eyes on one of my favourite London green ways – the Parkland Walk.
This two mile trail follows a railway line linking Finsbury and Highgate that was built before the second world war, but never used. A narrow, inconspicuous gate behind the tennis courts took me across a pedestrian bridge over the current railway lines and to the beginning of the trail.
The natural surface made for a comfortable landing for the legs and, after a wet few days like we’d had, the fun of muddy puddles to splash through. I find it’s best to embrace such conditions than try to fight them. Start as you mean to go on, hitting each one dead centre. Most of the contents of the puddle will splash to the sides away from you anyway, the key is to avoid bringing your following foot through and straight into the exiting dirty water.
My legs felt strong as I started off. Two weeks had been the longest rest my body had experienced for almost three years. I smiled at the dog walkers coming in the opposite direction, greeting them with a belated Happy Christmas. If I had tried this 200m away in the street I would have received a hostile look or been ignored. Here on the trail my smile was returned with a nod of the head and greeting.
The spindly birch and beech trees scored their jagged limbs against the grey sky as the sun attempted to break through. Finches and chiff chaffs called out and a robin appeared on a branch just ahead of me. Each time I closed in she took off again, flitting a few metres to another perch. We continued to play along the trail until she became bored and dived into a hidden space beneath a fallen tree trunk wrapped in ivy.
Other robins sang their upbeat melodies from the canopy above, occasionally broken up by the raucous croaks of magpies and crows. I passed through the abandoned platform of a defunct station that never was, its low brick walls narrowing the trail and guiding me towards and under a bridge decorated with brightly coloured graffiti.
There are eight bridges along the route, most of which pass overhead and a couple that lead over streets and the houses below. Under one of the bridges is the figure of a Green Man, a sculpture by Marilyn Collins based on a Stephen King character that was in a story set nearby.
The Parkland Walk itself is flat with little elevation as you’d expect from a railway line. However, like other rail routes, the surrounding landscape appears raised up at times with your eye line level with tree roots and basements, before falling away so that you feel as though you are running across the rooftops.
A tree ahead of me was draped in wooden ornaments hanging from strands of string and coloured wool. On closer inspection I saw it was a memorial for parents who had suffered the death of a baby or child. Each ornament contained a name. The branches were weighed down as though demonstrating the heaviness of the loss those people were suffering.
As I paused to hold a moment of quiet for those affected, a child of four or five dressed in a bright yellow waterproof coat and banana colour wellington boots ran past, giggling and stamping in the deep mud with a look of wonder on her face. The juxtaposition hovered in the cool winter air. The unimaginable sadness of losing such a precious child alongside the unspeakable joy of a child fully alive in the moment.
No thoughts passed through my mind, no conscious processing took place, I simply ran on with a smile knowing that it was just another reason to give every precious moment of life the attention and importance it deserves. The fragility of life makes it so beautiful. Its tenderness leads to its richness. I was reminded that terrible days will come to us all, we can’t escape them. All we can do is stand by those who are going through such suffering and seek to fully appreciate the times when we are free of such concerns. This was one such day. Here I was, now, healthy(ish), surrounded by beauty, free of demands and able to run and enjoy the moment. I owed it to myself, and those who didn’t have such freedom to enjoy it.
As I approached the end of the Parkland Walk the trail widened, the trees reached higher and the woodland grew more mature. Holly bushes and garlands of green ivy providing the only colour in an otherwise colourless winter scene.
The path rose up to my left as I exited the woods and joined the streets of Highgate. The clouds had parted and a low slung sun threw diffused rays earthwards under a pale blue sky. Half a mile further on I turned down a suburban street and then off into Queen’s Wood. This ancient woodland contained many mature trees, mainly oak and hornbeam, and resounded with bird song, this time the screech of parakeets. They flew from tree to tree, tails splayed and the bright green flash of their wings streaking the dull canopy.
I took the lesser used trails across the deep leaf litter, my new trainers sinking deep into the detritus and scattering it to the wind behind me. Dodging grasping brambles and spiky holly branches I skidded and slid down the slippery slopes. Now at the bottom of the woods I headed in an anti-clockwise direction and pumped my arms hard, lifting my knees as I began to climb the muddy bank that led to the exit. With each step taken I lost half of the distance through slippage. Hard work but a good work out.
Having battled my way back onto level ground I was able to open up my stride again and make my way to the gate which led over the main road into Highgate Wood.
The two woods had once been joined and stretched for many miles across the north of the city. Over time they have become two islands in a sea of concrete and so called development. Highgate wood is larger than Queens Wood and has a café, football pitches and a play area attached. I wasn’t interested in these parts, being there to immerse myself in nature and to get away from the noise and busyness of urban living. Within the wood itself the sound of cars fades away to be replaced by dogs barking, birdsong and the laughter of families enjoying a holiday walk.
I avoided the main routes again plunging into the spaces in between, ducking low hanging branches, leaping over exposed roots, running through the thorns and brambles. I relish the challenge of not knowing how each footfall will feel, whether the ground will give or push back, the turn of the ankle, the stumble, the slide, the mind racing to adjust and compensate, in the moment, alert, alive.
A blackened and decaying stump caught my eye. In fact it was the shiny, silver rectangular plaque appended to it that caught my attention. An inscription to a woman:
Once again, I was reminded of the fragility of life and the importance of the bonds we share.
Many have chosen to affix such dedications to wooden benches along the paths of the woodland where those passing will see and remember their loved one. The fact that this particular epitaph has been obscurely placed on a broken stump off the marked trail in the depth of the woods struck me as particularly poignant.
My route took me in an anti-clockwise direction again. Copper and lemon coloured fungi shaped like the ruffles of a medieval collar, marched across more fallen tree branches. A pair of jays flung their pink, feathered bodies between bowers chasing one another in an endless game of covid tag.
I was soon back at the road by Highgate station having completed a full circuit of the wood. My lower legs were smeared with thick mud the colour and consistency of dark chocolate, highlighted with red streaks where thorns had torn the skin and exposed flesh beneath. A stinging sensation like a low hum combined with the soreness in my lungs and ache in my quads felt strangely comforting, giving connection, resistance, life.
Back in the asphalt world I crossed the heaving mass of vehicles following the artificial arteries of the city nose to tail, metal bumper to belching exhaust. Up and away from Highgate towards Hampstead. The road climbs steeply and I noticed the size and value of property increasing too. Past mock turreted castles and mansions trapped behind ten foot walls topped with razor wire and surrounded by cameras I continued, before breaking free of the man-made environment and diving into the natural world of Hampstead Heath.
Unlike London’s southern heath - Blackheath, with it’s flat and desolate nature - London’s northern equivalent, Hampstead is a world in and of itself. The terrain rises and falls providing stunning views of the city and deep valleys to explore. Ponds, woods and fields add variety, along with a stately home and gardens – Kempton House – and a secret garden and pergola.
I was at the northern end and took the path past Kempton House itself before skirting the edges of the heath past Henry Moore’s 'Two piece reclining figure no. 5'. The paths were full of families and people walking dogs, so again I chose to take the path less travelled and scampered through the woods, kicking up the dirt and scattering the leaves.
The map that I was following on my phone showed a part of the Heath separated from the main open space by Spaniard’s Road. On the other side was a place called Jack Straw’s Castle and a Hill Garden and Pergola. Intrigued, I decided to take a look.
It turns out that the castle is a public house named after the man who lead the Peasant’s Revolt in 1381. It’s an impressive building, but not very old. A car park next to the castle leads down a steep hill into woodland. I skipped down the rocky path and at a T-junction decided to take a right. As I turned a corner there before me was a raised terrace. It had the faded grandeur that many of London’s neglected historical sights retain. A sense of once grand and monied luxury, now fallen back into nature and reclaimed. An arbour stretched around the high brick walkways. Cupolas remained, but the sky was visible through their broken curves. Thick vines clambered around the wooden arbour with ivy, pyrocantha, wisteria, clematis and roses battling for supremacy. I even noticed a cluster of kiwi fruit overhanging the path. There was very little colour due to the time of year, but this added to the mystique of the place.
I climbed up a winding metal staircase to access the walkway and followed it to the north. Mighty archways of stone divided up the narrow pathway and framed the surrounding trees on my left and the mansion to my right.
This is Hill House, once owned by Sir William Lever who made his fortune selling soap in the 19th century. His company is now known as Unilever. He decided to build the elegant garden and arbour to impress his visiting Edwardian friends. It didn’t cost him much as he was offered the soil excavated from the nearby northern line expansion for free, and used this to construct his party piece. It was finished in 1906 and later expanded in 1911 and 1925. After his death not long after, it was neglected and ran wild. Thankfully it is now open to the public to visit and admire. The ornamental gardens of Hill House remain closed, but I found the enigmatic hill garden and pergola more dramatic and fascinating than the well kept and pampered grounds behind the fence.
The Pergola ends with a view across the tree line towards Golders Green. I turned back towards the main heath and descended to Viaduct Pond. Crossing over Viaduct Bridge I cast my eyes over the water bathed in sunlight. Someone had scattered bird seed over the bridge walls and I stood back watching from behind a tree as the birds descended. At first Great Tits formed the majority of the feathered feeders, but then I saw a nuthatch, and another. They flitted down, picked up some seed and were away in a flash. While not rare, they aren’t as common as the tits, finches and other garden and park birds usually seen.
My twitching reverie was disrupted by a group taking a walk and I ran on, descending towards the bathing ponds that were surprisingly empty. The Hampstead ponds have become increasingly popular as wild swimming has taken off in recent years. I was reminded as always of Al Alvarez who used to swim there every day into his old age. His book Pondlife, about ageing and the pond community is one of my favourite reads.
I climbed up to the top of Parliament Hill, one of the best views of London available. I had a rest while taking in the stunning vista including the Shard, Canary Wharf, St Pauls and the BT Tower, a 180 degree panorama of London. Far in the distance I could just see the O2 Arena and Greenwich Park above it.
With over nine miles in my legs, I decided it was time to find a coffee shop. Locating one in Hampstead village would round the distance up to a nice ten miles. I’vd been stopping to take photos regularly and as a result I didn’t feel particularly tired. However, I reminded myself that I was coming out of a period of illness and didn’t want to push too hard too soon.
A branch of Waterstones enticed me through its doors and I bought the latest novel by my favourite author in hardback, a late Christmas present to myself. The cafes were busy and I ended up in New York café, slightly off the main drag. Pleasant enough, but the Turmeric Latte was a mistake. Nevertheless it has been an enjoyable morning on some of the finest trails in the UK Capital.
