Barnes to Fulham... to Battersea

Almost 12 months have I been here now. I am about to move to my third address in this city and know that I will see the coming and going of another winter. I might as well face it: London is where I live now. In recognition of this I have decided to make an effort to get to know the city better. Since the best way, the only way, to do this is on foot, I have treated myself to a book with 50 walking tours of London. Yesterday I picked my first one.

I start at Barnes Bridge Station. Although strictly speaking a part of London, Barnes is essentially one at those many little river towns that got swallowed up by the city but has managed to retain some of its small town feel. It looks prosperous and is full of families with young children. Apparently it is also rather full of Dutch people as several times I pass families warning their bike-riding children to be 'voorzichtig' or to stop 'zeuren'. Barnes is also where the famous Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race finishes.

The route continues along Putney which, for its sheer number of boat houses, reminds me of the sea-side villages I spent my childhood holidays in. This is rowing central. At the end of the route lies Fulham Palace, the former summer house of the Bishops of London. Although I have been to Fulham many times before I have somehow managed to completely miss noticing this. London is so full of history mixed in with the present that you develop a blind spot for it.

Barnes to Battersea

According to my guide book this is where the route finishes after a walk of two hours straight. In a reckless over-estimation of my own fitness I decide that, since I made it this far, I might as well continue walking all the way home. All I need to do is follow the Thames for another few twists and turns. A pleasant surprise is that I am kept company by hundreds of boats on the river participating in the Great River Race. Less pleasant is that in the last stretch my knee joints decide it has been enough and go on strike. I hobble the last 15 minutes home like an old arthritic woman. Sitting at home all these weeks, writing my thesis, has clearly not done my shape much good. Three and a half hours after I got off the train I stumble through my door. Home.

One down, forty-nine to go.