We set out at 3 pm for our usual daily exercise walk. It was a beautiful warm spring day (17°C/63°F according to the weather forecast) and I wore my favourite “spring and autumn” jacket. We saw this jacket years ago in a sports shop in Eastbourne. They were having a sale and the coat was going at a reduced price. It was red – my favourite colour. Tigger suggested I buy it. I was dubious: “Don’t need another jacket etc etc.” but was eventually persuaded. From those inauspicious beginnings, it has become my favourite jacket to wear as the seasons change in spring and autumn.

We met a few people along the way but most behaved and kept their distance. We have become so used to this game of artful dodgery that I suspect we may have difficulty unlearning it once the pandemic ends.

Assuming that we want to go to Myddelton’s for coffee, there are only so many different paths to choose from. Today, we took a turn around Myddelton Square which I mentioned previously in Bombed and rebuilt.

Entering Myddelton Square

This is the view as we turned into the square. The bombed and rebuilt houses that I mentioned in the above post are on the left. The style is classic Georgian with a plain façade of “yellow brick” (that is what they are called although they don’t look all that yellow to me) and windows that reduce in size progressively the higher up they are. (The small rooms with the smallest windows on the top floor would have been the bedrooms for the servants.)

Incidentally, we learnt the other day that there have been thefts of used “yellow bricks” as these are now hard to come by but are required for rebuilding work in conservation areas.

Spacious layout

Turning right in the corner of the square gives us the above view. I took it to show how spacious the layout is. The square was built between 1840 and 1860 to provide town houses for well-to-do families and such profligacy of space would not be tolerated today! On the right is the square’s central garden containing St Mark’s Church.

Old street name signs

Modern street name signs in London have a white background with the street name in black and the post code and borough council name in red. See here for an exmple. In older districts, one often sees earlier generations of signs. Here we have examples of both the white on dark blue metal plate and above it, earlier still, and no longer legible, traces of the painted sign in white on black.

Myddelton Square Garden

As usual, we didn’t go into the garden, feeling that it was a little too “peoply”. As you can see, it contains some fine old trees and through their foliage you can make out St Mark’s Church.

St Mark’s Church

Here is another view of the church though it is still partially hidden by the trees. Designed by William Chadwell Mylne, also responsible for laying out the rest of the square, it was built 1825-7.

River Street

Beyond the point where the previous photo was taken, the street name changes from Myddelton Square to River Street. Given this name, you might be disappointed not to see an actual river anywhere. This refers, of course, to the New River and, for all I know, it might have been visible in times past but these days it has been banished underground though it does indeed lie behind the houses on the right.

Destination in sight!

Where River Street meets Amwell Street we find our destination, Myddelton’s. You cannot see the datails because that area is in shadow but the deli is on the corner with Gents Barbershop and King’s Chemists next to it. You can just see the old-style guilt signage of the chemist’s glinting from reflected light.

We had always assumed that the owners of Myddelton’s lived locally so it was a surprise to learn that they in fact live in Blackheath, south of the Thames, and make the return journey every day. The white van is theirs and is being loaded with stuff to take back with them.

We waited respectfully at the door while two customers ahead of us were served, then Tigger collected our takeaway coffees and we returned home.

Our daily walks are not as exciting as our usual explorations, especially as we cover much the same ground each time but it is a case of changing focus and concentrating on the details of what is there. Perhaps we could say, with a little exaggeration, that we have changed our perspective from the macroscopic to the microscopic!

If you view my blog on a mobile phone, it may seem that the pictures are distorted. This is because they are squeezed horizontally so that a photo in landscape looks as if it is in portrait mode.

I have tried reducing the size of the pictures to cope with this but risk them ending up looking like postage stamps when viewed on the computer!

If you are limited to viewing on your mobile the following trick might help: rotate your phone 90 degrees to landscape mode and then reload the post. This works with my iPhone; I don’t whether it works on other devices.

If that doesn’t work on your device but you find a workaround, please explain it in a comment and I will add it to this post.

I would also be interested in knowing whether the photos display correctly on wider devices such as iPads and other tablets.

Today’s walk took us into Claremont Square. Unlike the archetypal “square”, it has houses on only two sides but resembles the others in having a central “feature”. This is not the usual garden though you might at a quick glance think that that is what it is. This panoramic photo by Tigger shows a view of it.

Claremont Square Reservoir

It is in fact a covered reservoir and still provides the neighbourhood with water. As you can see, the land around the built part has been allowed to grow wild and now boasts a fine display of trees, shrubs and grasses, some of them of a flowering kind.

As the reservoir is surrounded by a high metal railing, access is reserved to maintenance engineers who visit it only rarely. As a result it has come to serve the valuable secondary purpose of nature reserve. We have seen many kinds of birds inside, along with squirrels, and there are no doubt smaller creatures less easy to spot. One morning we saw a fox on top of the reservoir, silhouetted against the dawn sky.

In records dating from 1709 we learn that at that time the reservoir was an open body of water called Upper Pond but today no trace of it remains. Following the outbreak of cholera in 1846, the 1852 Metropolitan Water Act caused all open reservoirs in London to be covered and that is when this reservoir took its present shape.

Why a reservoir and why here? I have previously mentioned Hugh Myddelton and his New River (1608-13) which he buit to bring much needed water to the area. The river ends at River Head, further down the hill and is still an important component of London’s water supply. Water is pumped from that station down below to the reservoir. If you stand beside it on the main road, where you have a relatively clear view, you soon realize that this is the highest point in the district. From here, water is supplied to the whole community.

Because of its historical importance, the reservoir is now a Grade II listed building.

As usual (we missed yesterday, you may have noticed!) we paid a visit to our friends at Myddelton’s deli and bought takeaway coffees. They kindly gave a free extra: two slices of Victoria sponge!

It was a lovely warm and sunny day and in “normal” circumstances we would have been tempted to dawdle and perhaps go for a stroll in Myddelton Square garden but, things being as they are, and with coffee and cake to encourage us, we made our way home.

Tomorrow, as they say, is another day.

This is a slightly edited version of a post that first appeared on my old on blog April 8th, 2009.

I have never liked football and have never understood the passions it arouses in others.

There are two aspects to football: there is watching it and there is playing it. If I have never derived the least pleasure from watching football played, then playing it myself has procured me definite displeasure.

I did of course play football at school. Love it or hate it, you had to play; there was no escape. If my father had lived long enough to teach me the pleasures of kicking things, the story might have been different. As it was, I only became acquainted with the game at school. Even this introduction was delayed because my mother entertained the notion that I would get a better education at a fee-paying school and sent me to a succession of these. Unfortunately, we lacked the means to afford good schools and all of those I attended, usually for a few weeks or months until their faults became obvious, were very poor. Academically I learnt nothing and at none of them were there organized games. We were lucky to get the odd nature walk in a nearby park.

It was only when my mother finally resigned herself to sending me to the local state school that I was at last introduced to the game that, in England at least, seems to be regarded as the birthright of every boy.

I was always tall for my age and – let’s be honest – rather clumsy. No one ever explained the rules of the game to me so I never really knew what I was supposed to do once out on the muddy turf. All I knew was that if by some mischance the ball should head my way, I suddenly became the centre of attention of 21 angry-looking boys all yelling contradictory orders at me. Whatever I did next would provoke a great roar of frustration and disapproval. All in all, it was best to stay well clear of the ball.

When I moved to the secondary school, I found that “sport” and “games”, along with athletics, were treated even more seriously there. If you were inept, you were treated with a sneering contempt as if your lack of ability were some sort of moral failing. Every Wednesday afternoon was “games period”, and I looked forward to it with foreboding.

The ritual never changed. The games master would select two boys as captains of their respective teams. They then, in turn and one by one, would choose their teams from among the rest of us. I was never picked, which was a blessing, but it meant that once the teams were chosen and went out to play their match with the teacher as referee, there remained a gaggle of us, the Untouchables, the Useless. We were given a ball and directed to one of the pitches and told to organize ourselves.

My companions probably had as little interest in playing football as I had and we would trot along after the ball, in a great crowd, each trying to kick it, but without any real idea as to what we hoped to achieve by doing so. Occasionally, the games master would come across and berate us for some misconduct or other and perhaps punish us by telling us to run around the pitch until he told us to stop.

In summer, we played cricket in much the same way that we played football in winter. The difference was that the ball, smaller and therefore more difficult to keep track of, was also much harder. You didn’t want to be caught in the line of fire so, even more than in the case of football, keeping well away from the ball was the best strategy. This was not always possible and I often went home with the bruises to prove it.

This torture might have continued throughout my school career but for two serendipitous discoveries. Although it was not publicized and I only found out about it by chance, the school offered tennis as an alternative to cricket. Thereafter, at each games period, I and a few other rebels would obtain a chit from the Latin master (why the Latin master? I have no idea…) which would enable us to hire a tennis court in the park up the road from the school. With no one to supervise us or order us to run around the court until told to stop, we enjoyed ourselves immensely. Of course, we never actually learnt to play tennis.

The second discovery, also not publicized, was that instead of playing football, one could go cross-country running. I carried the good news to my fellow Untouchables who immediately embraced the concept with joy. All we had to do was jog once around the prescribed track, which included part of the local wooded park, chatting and joking as we went, and as soon as we arrived back at school we could change and go home. It was with a true feeling of triumph that I set off homewards while the more sporty of my classmates were still chasing the ball around the pitch.

The only slight problem with this strategy was that the final leg of the run took us across playing fields shared with the girls’ school. If the girls were out in force at the time, you were lucky to get away with jeers and ribald comments. Sometimes they would dance in rings around you or chase you with intentions you would rather not think about. It was advisable to keep some energy for this final, occasionally desperate, sprint down the home straight.

While still in the thick of it at school, I solemnly promised myself that once I left, I would never ever again submit myself to the indignities of gymnastics and games. I have stuck to that promise. My son managed to learn to play football and to follow a particular team, all without any assistance from me and I do not think my neurotic disposition against what I see as a particularly pointless pastime has harmed him.

The shame and embarrassment that accompanied my enforced participation in games and athletics have largely melted away with the years but I occasionally remember a particular incident that comes back to me as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday. This was when I was briefly sent to school in Wales. It was the most shambolic school I have ever known, a village school where children of several age groups were all taught together.

One afternoon we boys were taken out to play football in a muddy field. The process of the match resembled the rout of Boudicca more than a game but at one moment play was halted. It must have been for a free kick. There was the hush of expectation and when the whistle blew one of the boys rushed forward and kicked the ball with all his might.

As usual, I was in the game but not of it: I had no real idea what was going on. I stood watching the action and the ball flew off the boy’s foot and caught me full in the face. The world dissolved into a grey mist and far away, very far away, I heard a voice, the lilting Welsh-accented voice of the teacher. “Well stopped, that boy!” he exclaimed approvingly.

The irony of that phrase remains with me still.

Instead of following our oft trodden path down Amwell Street, today we took a stroll along Duncan Terrace and Colebrooke Row. This is a rather posh area, as one might judge from the size of the cars parked beside the houses, but its main interest, for me at any rate, is the central park or garden. This runs down the centre of the street between the two rows of houses.

The interest lies in the fact that the gardens mark the passage of Hugh Myddelton’s New River which is still there though culverted and no longer visible.

The garden path

The garden has been kept open and we walked through part of it. The park managers have painted symbols on the ground in an attempt to create a one-way system so that we can stroll along the narrow path without meeting people coming in the opposite direction.

Need I say that we did meet a couple who obviously didn’t think these sensible rules applied to them?

Taped bench

On our last visit here, we had been struck by the large numbers of people sitting in the sun on the garden benches in defiance of advice. Today, we found that all the benches had been taped to tell people not to sit on them.

A glimpse of the canal

From here we crossed the road to where the Regent’s Canal enters the Islington Tunnel. This runs for 960 yds (878 metres) under the Angel district.

These days, canal barges have motors and sail through the tunnel without difficulty. In the days of horse-drawn barges, the horses had to be detached and walked through the streets to meet their barges at the other end. Meanwhile, the bargees would have to “walk” their barges through the tunnel.

Spring blossom

We did not go down to the tow path but kept to the street. We saw that the trees and shrubs are in flower. One might think that spring is here!

Flowers and butterfly
(Photo by Tigger)

We spotted a butterfly and though it was too quick for me, Tigger caught it in the above photo.

Old Red Lion

On the way home we passed along the top end of St John Street where I photographed the Old Red Lion pub theatre lit by the afternoon sunshine. It is closed, of course, like all the other pubs.

Pleasant as it is to go out and enjoy a walk in the fresh air, continually dodging other people is somewhat unnerving and I reached home at last with a feeling of relief.