Delighted that this story has just been published in 'The Weybridge Flyer', having first appeared in 'Inner Feelings', the Walton Wordsmiths' recent anthology (available on Amazon), I thought that I would reproduce it here for river lovers everywhere.
'As Wordsworth wrote, ‘Earth has not
anything to show more fair.’ I
know that he was speaking of it from Westminster Bridge but, for me, the
stretch of the Thames from Shepperton to Sunbury Locks is unrivalled in its
beauty, diversity and energy. It’s
a jolly good walk too and requires a fair amount of stamina, not to mention
frequent stops at the hostelries along the way! Just don’t wear high heels. You won’t need them until later. My favourite way to spend several hours
starts across the river from Shepperton Lock at The Old Crown in Weybridge, a
‘proper’ pub, not like its neighbour over the way, which shall remain nameless,
although it enjoys better views of the gorgeous town houses being built on
Whittet’s Ait. Oh for the millions
to be able to live that particular dream… Anyway, back on the walk, I squeeze
through the tiny car park opposite the weir and head up the towpath towards the
next port of call. I love this
particular section of river, as, at times, one could be anywhere; screened from
the road by loads of brambles and greenery and passing creepy houses on the
opposite bank. Pausing only to
dodge silent cyclists, I hack my way along the narrow path, snagging thorns and
burrs in unwary trailing clothing and jumping puddles in the uneven surface. Occasionally there is a lone fisherman
at the water’s edge and the etiquette is never to speak to him (why do you
never see a female angler??) and KEEP QUIET. There are always tired-looking, closed-in houseboats on this
section too, as if afraid that they would appear drab and unkempt on the wider,
sunnier waters. Here, in the
shelter of the bridges and the tightness of the setting they feel more at
home. Soon, however, they are left
in their murky light and I stride out onto the leafier, more open bank at Cowey
Sale, which eventually becomes park-like, dotted with benches for the
weary. However, I have my
eyes firmly fixed on the prize, the first stop, the greasy spoon under Walton
Bridge. Josef’s, in
various incarnations, has been a fixture in this spot for many years, although
now it has a smart new coat of paint, and David, the Buddy Holly look-alike who
runs it, seems as much a part of the river as the swans and the rowers. Apart from the best bacon and egg
sandwich you will ever taste and coffee to die for – a tip, always ask for it
in a mug – the banter alone is worth the trip. I hate to think how many hours I have whiled away with a
book or a notepad sitting at one of his tables, always facing the river. I’m
supposed to be reading or writing but, in truth, I’m daydreaming; wondering
what it would be like to live on a houseboat – much fancier and gleamier on
this stretch and often with flowers in pots on their roofs (there’s probably a
nautical word for the roof of a houseboat but I’m not privy to it). How fit are the people sculling up and
down in their tiny, almost flat boats and how rich are the people charging past
in their gin palaces, eyes fixed on the moorings at the nearby Anglers. As a sailing friend of mine sniffily
remarks, you can always tell the ‘real’ sailors from the weekend variety, as
they don’t leave their fenders out – so now you know! Everyone comes to Josef’s, from bikers on a Sunday morning
to the daily police in their breaks .
Then there are others like me, the regular observers, who, apart from
being obsessed with the river, can watch anyone and everyone, as they
eventually pass by in some form or another, either overhead on the
controversial bridge itself, on the road behind or on the river in front. Fortified with whatever the time of day
calls for, I then resume my walk.
Zipping past the marina, so as not to be beguiled by boats of all sizes
and persuasion calling out for loving owners, I head to the Anglers and the
Swan. I love both but the Anglers
must have the best views on the river for miles. On sunny days sit next to it, on cold days hang over it from
their upper room but try and get there outside herd feeding time or you won’t
even get a glimpse of it. The
swans have the right idea; they congregate further along, just past the boats,
and get fed daily, I would have thought, by families with children. I’m always a tad nervous of the swans,
ever since I was told that the flap of a swan’s wing could break a man’s
arm. It may be an old wives’ tale,
but it stuck with me. I was also
put off, as a child who frequented many a canal bank in deepest Wales, by the
fact that swan pooh is bright green.
Maybe it’s only Welsh swans but I have steered clear ever since. Strange, the things we remember. Soon we are at The Weir pub. The problem with this part of the river
is that it’s in shade much of the time, although it’s well worth the dalliance
for the food, which is delicious.
It also has the advantage of being right on the weir, (what a stroke of
luck they called the pub that!) and so the view is only matched by the sound of
gallons of water roaring past at a rate of knots. For some reason, after sitting there for a while – yes,
you’ve guessed it, daydreaming – I always have to visit the Ladies before I set
off again. Funny that…… The last part of the five or so miles I’ve
now walked is a joy as, for part of it at least, cyclists get their own
path. That’s right, the bell-less
brigade (and you know who you are) can’t creep up on me unawares at 100 miles an
hour and force me into the nearest hedge (always better than diving the other
way into the river.) There are
proper gates, which you should remember to close behind you, and for yards you
can walk higgledy-piggledy, as nature intended, stopping without signaling and
generally enjoying yourself until you reach what you think is the lockkeeper’s
cottage, built in 1812, like Sunbury lock itself, but isn’t. Luckily for the lockkeeper, he and his
family live in the picture-book cottage, always, seemingly, bathed in sunlight,
on one of the locks (yes, there are two for the price of one, side by
side.) a few yards further on,
surrounded by an English country garden and overlooking the queuing sailors,
some self-important and impatient, some good-natured and relaxed. If he was 20 years older and didn’t
have a wife and children, I’d ask him to marry me, as he must have the best job
and house in the world, bar none.
Momentarily disappointed in love, I plod a few feet further on and sit
on one of the benches under the trees.
Relaxing on a seat, which is in memory of a fellow river worshipper (my
descendants take note, please), I then turn my attentions to coveting the tiny
apartment perched on top of a building and clinging to the side of another one,
as if afraid of falling into the river at Lower Sunbury. There’s just enough room on its terrace
for a café-style table and chairs and, for the next half hour I imagine myself
sitting there, glass of wine in hand, surveying the scene from the opposite
bank. One day, perhaps…. Then, like Ginger Rogers, I do it
all again, only backwards. That’s
when, if you’re really going to do it properly, you need your high heels…..'
