Deprived of an abundance of geographical splendours, living in the man-made leviathan of London, I could feel myself being compelled towards the predictable climes of Hampstead Heath or Regent's Park, where I could foresee that everyone and their new dog would be out trying to stem the tide of their bulging waistlines. Until I realised I had been overlooking the one truly great physical feature at my disposal, one surely overlooked by every Londoner each day due to its sheer ubiquity - the River Thames.
This cartographic creeper of blue tinsel draped across the branches of the city's bulk was the perfect setting for my next urban hike. And so I set as my target, to walk from West to East crossing all 13 of the central London bridges on my way. My zig-zag teetering on the borderline between north and south might perhaps provide me with a fresh appreciation of the ancient aquatic feature that acts as a pivot point for so much of our routine orientation. We habitually judge places and locations in relation to the river, and, I think, unconsciously keep aware in our minds the fact that for all the changes that manifest themselves on the cityscape - buildings built and torn down - and however much the structures of own lives may change, the river will remain resolutely the same, flowing along with the passing of time.
I began my trek crossing from north to south over the Battersea Bridge with the boats moored along Chelsea Harbour like bobbing ducks. Straight away I could sense a tangible shift in my ordinance of the city environs, viewing as I was an unfamiliar south-westerly perspective. My usual compass nodes of reference - the London Eye, the Shard, the new St. George's Wharf tower, Battersea Power Station - had shifted around like numbers on a melting clockface. From there it was a short walk to Albert Bridge, with its odd whimsical white suspension frame, purple spokes and spires, like something out of a 'Sleeping Beauty' cartoon. I noticed a sign displayed on both ends instructing 'All troops [to] break step when marching over', apparently because of it being used by 4 x 4 'Chelsea tractors' that were frequently breaching the weight limit, most likely for mum to ferry little Jack or Emily the half-mile to and from school.
I continued along the north ridge of Battersea Park, past the rather garish Chinese Peace Pagoda, until crossing north over the Chelsea Bridge, the first self-anchored suspension bridge in Britain. Compared to the camp exhibitionism of Albert, this seemed almost frigid in its refinement, with its spare red-and-white chains.
Walking along the north-side Grosvenor Road, as it flanks the awe-inspiring Battersea Power Station, one cannot help but think that this must be one of the last remaining truly great monuments to the industrial age remaining in London, or perhaps even the UK. The chimney pillors, as defiant as fisted arms held aloft, and the brick cathedral style (indeed it is the largest brick building in Europe) are a stirring reminder of our heritage and should, in my view, be painstakingly renovated into either exhibition space (i.e. the Tate Modern) or an entertainment venue (i.e. the Millenium Dome). However, it will likely be the case that it will become spruced into another luxury apartment complex for decamping millionaires. One can't help but notice the modernist abomination of such an apartment block neighbouring the power station with its glass frontage and blue and grey external cladding, it resembles the architecture of a child gifted a set of colourful plastic building blocks. Indeed that seems to be the inevitable destiny for the whole of the south side Nine Elms industrial stretch of the river leading towards Vauxhall, being as it is surely prime real estate for a committed consortia of developers.
Crossing south over the Vauxhall Bridge, looking eastwards the sharp curving sweep of the river had already eradicated from view the distance I had so far undergone. Indication of the form the bankside redevelopment will take can be evidenced from the migraine-inducingly modern St. George's Wharf complex, with its verticalised glass Havana cigar and surrounding Emerald City-like greenhouses topped with their individual V-shaped roofs like childish drawings of birds-in-flight rendered in structural form.
Directly opposite across Vauxhall Bridge is MI6, a perfect example of a building who's exterior design represents its internal utility. For just a quick glance at its sharp oblong blocks and Mayan-temple form stirs up images of labyrinthine secret passageways, corridors that lead nowhere, and hidden entranceways like a sort of Kafka-esque monument to bureaucratic secrecy and espionage. I continued along the Albert Embankment and across Lambeth Bridge, flanked by two pillars topped curiously by stone acorns, before pausing to eat my leftover turkey sandwiches in the Westminster Palace Gardens.
I ruminated on the notion of how it had transpired that each of these bridges had been planned and designated for their current positions. It seems to me that the choosing to construct a bridge linking, say, Battersea with Chelsea or Vauxhall with Pimlico, must be a product of a substantial quantity of minds clashing and meeting, compromises settled and arguments bandied back and forth about the justification or logic for the hand-holding of two separate – and quite often distinctly different – provinces of the city. Why these precise locations over any others, and what were the personal/political agendas invariably simmering in the background in the minds of those architects and city planners?
Continuing my walk I crossed Westminster Bridge to the South Bank and squeezed my way through perhaps the most oppressive of London’s tourist enclaves – the stretch running past the County Hall building which is now an insipid amalgamation of a McDonalds, various amusement arcades and the London Aquarium. After a brief hop northwards over the double-suspension Hungerford Bridge, I lurched back onto the South Bank across easily my favourite, Waterloo Bridge. This is probably my choice viewpoint of the entire city. It is the particular angle of the bridge, positioned at the apex point of the curving river, that affords it an unparalleled panoramic stretch to both the east and west. I like to think it represents a salient pendulum between the dual powers, Parliament on the one side and the economic City heartland on the other; both beacons of influence, however lamented at times, between which the rest of the country perpetually oscillates.
It was my first time crossing the inconspicuous Blackfriars Bridge and by this time the driving rain was beginning to ferment a sense of urgency to my journey. I did however, pause to wonder at some mysterious grafitti daubed on one of the stone alcoves along the bridge - 'The boy set fire to himself'. What could this signify I wondered? Was it a factual statement recorded by a witness to this young vagrant's self-immolation? Or perhaps a naive plea of defence on behalf of some pyromaniac fugitive? I simply don't know, although there was certainly no danger of anyone burning to death right now, such was the insistance of the rainfall.
I headed southwards again across the newest Millenium (or 'Wobbly') Bridge, now synonymous with London due to its magnificently photogenic views leading up to either the Tate Modern or St. Pauls. The following two bridges, Southwark and London Bridge, I crossed with little or no interest, such is their uniform arch style. In a way their dull and uninspiring form was a structural reflection of my own wearying sense of purpose as I drew close to the end of my journey. As I crossed over London Bridge towards the gleaming incisor that is the Shard, I was reminded of how, when travelling in America, my expedition party had stopped off at Lake Havasu City in the Arizona desert for a look at the 19th century version of London Bridge which had been bought an shipped by Robert McCulloch, a millionaire oil tycoon. Legend has it that he thought the Greater London Council were selling him Tower Bridge, and one can't help but laugh when imagining him slowly realising his mistake as the construction team drew closer to their completion. As jolting and out-of-place the brick-stone bridge looked beneath a sweltering desert sun, it looks perfectly at home here in the grey and dour downpour of British wintertime.
Walking south along Potter's Field and the Mayor's office building, one would be forgiven for thinking that, on the north bank, the Tower of London looked similarly misplaced, overshadowed as it is now by the modernist spectacles of the Gherkin, the Heron Tower and the new Cheesegrater that clamber up behind it.
I completed my hike by crossed the 13th and final Tower Bridge. As I stood on the drawbridge, feet on either side of the dividing line, I reflected on my walk over the 3-and-a-half hours and how invigorating it had been to toe the equator line separating the two hemispheres of London. In the past when I've visited the city very briefly and not actually set eyes on the river, it never feels like I've been there at all, such is the dominance the character of the river has on the unconscious orientational psyche of those who live here. As much as the city banking the river may alter, for better or worse, the steady flow transcends time, continuing to be traversed across, oriented around and sorely overlooked by the populace.
It was my first time crossing the inconspicuous Blackfriars Bridge and by this time the driving rain was beginning to ferment a sense of urgency to my journey. I did however, pause to wonder at some mysterious grafitti daubed on one of the stone alcoves along the bridge - 'The boy set fire to himself'. What could this signify I wondered? Was it a factual statement recorded by a witness to this young vagrant's self-immolation? Or perhaps a naive plea of defence on behalf of some pyromaniac fugitive? I simply don't know, although there was certainly no danger of anyone burning to death right now, such was the insistance of the rainfall.
I headed southwards again across the newest Millenium (or 'Wobbly') Bridge, now synonymous with London due to its magnificently photogenic views leading up to either the Tate Modern or St. Pauls. The following two bridges, Southwark and London Bridge, I crossed with little or no interest, such is their uniform arch style. In a way their dull and uninspiring form was a structural reflection of my own wearying sense of purpose as I drew close to the end of my journey. As I crossed over London Bridge towards the gleaming incisor that is the Shard, I was reminded of how, when travelling in America, my expedition party had stopped off at Lake Havasu City in the Arizona desert for a look at the 19th century version of London Bridge which had been bought an shipped by Robert McCulloch, a millionaire oil tycoon. Legend has it that he thought the Greater London Council were selling him Tower Bridge, and one can't help but laugh when imagining him slowly realising his mistake as the construction team drew closer to their completion. As jolting and out-of-place the brick-stone bridge looked beneath a sweltering desert sun, it looks perfectly at home here in the grey and dour downpour of British wintertime.
Walking south along Potter's Field and the Mayor's office building, one would be forgiven for thinking that, on the north bank, the Tower of London looked similarly misplaced, overshadowed as it is now by the modernist spectacles of the Gherkin, the Heron Tower and the new Cheesegrater that clamber up behind it.
I completed my hike by crossed the 13th and final Tower Bridge. As I stood on the drawbridge, feet on either side of the dividing line, I reflected on my walk over the 3-and-a-half hours and how invigorating it had been to toe the equator line separating the two hemispheres of London. In the past when I've visited the city very briefly and not actually set eyes on the river, it never feels like I've been there at all, such is the dominance the character of the river has on the unconscious orientational psyche of those who live here. As much as the city banking the river may alter, for better or worse, the steady flow transcends time, continuing to be traversed across, oriented around and sorely overlooked by the populace.
