A couple of weeks ago I started walking the Thames Path. I am going to walk it in stages, a weekend here, a day there. I started at the source the other weekend, of which more another day. And then last Wednesday I worked out I could fit in a day near Maidenhead.
It was a beautiful Autumn day as I parked in Bourne End, set off via the marina - the dog skittering across the bridge in front of me - and headed South beside the meadow opposite some amazing homes. There’s probably a magazine called Waterside Homes and it would no doubt feature some of these incredible houses. Bourne End, Big Bucks.
One of the nicest houses across the water – another world? – was a lovely red brick Georgian house with a stripey lawn. A gardener wandered slowly back and forth in the dappled sunshine under a Scots Pine, as if he had all the time in the world. Maybe there is all the money in the world to pay him. Plenty of money to let him take as many hours as he likes. Speed of nature. A swan flew in and landed 747-like on the water in front of the house, majestic and proprietorial. They are the ones that really own this stretch of the river.
The deep red of the Georgian brick and the slope of the stripey lawn down to the river, the covered launch tethered at the landing station, the wisteria-framed French windows and the sunlight bouncing off the windows and reflecting in the water made a perfect scene. In my 20s I would walk through those streets between the commons in Clapham and every house was identical and at dusk you could look in and see into their lives. When you look into a house where everything looks perfect you imagine that people have perfect lives, but nobody does.
I love having the dog with me, with her dipping occasionally in the water and running through the meadow, occasionally encountering other dogs, sniffing hello and running on. There are weeping willows, some scrub and a wide flood plain here as Bourne End ribbons away on the other side.
En-route I had stopped in Cookham, sat outside a teeny lovely coffee shop, latte in hand and popped into a weeny bookshop and tried to visit the Stanley Spencer museum. But they were doggist and wouldn’t let us in. I reflected that a cat would just wander in if the door was left open and probably be ignored and everyone think how charming it was that the gallery had a cat. Like the Downing Street cat, Larry. Or the cat that used to wander in and out of the village school.
A couple of weekends ago our neighbours went away for the weekend and asked us to feed their cat. I completely forgot and rushed round in a panic on Sunday lunchtime to find said cat meowing and complaining waiting to be fed. Then when I did feed it it hardly touched the food and wandered off outside to jump on the garden table and do some Pilates-preening. If you feed a dog you feel that properly brought up it would say its pleases and thank yous and – even though it probably wouldn’t remember what it had eaten – would be jolly grateful and thank you very much can-I-get-down-now-please? Cats seem to me to be sort of languid-Paris-bored. Hmmmm, don’t care. Like a spoilt sophisticated teenager who had been repeatedly calling for Room Service as something to do, and then deciding when there was the knock at the door and the trolley arrived (drawling “Come In” lazily from the other side of the room) that they had changed their mind and they perhaps weren’t hungry after all. QED.
Now we’ll obviously never be asked to feed next door’s cat again as I’m obviously a bit cattist. She is a beautiful creature and our dog can never match her in a chase. She always wins: it’s always Cat 1 – Dog 0.
After Marsh Meadow you come into Cookham via Bell Rope Meadow and the path takes you via the church into the village. Holy Trinity Cookham was closed, a sign of the times, but I sat in the porch and the dog lay on the warm tiles and I had a pray and a think and a ponder. There was a notice on the door that said “Daily Hope”, a free phoneline for reflections and thoughts. Anyway, you ring up and the Archbishop of Canterbury answers, which is alarming and reassuring at the same time. And I pressed 1 for “Hymns We Love” and listened to “Dear Lord and Father of Mankind”. Which we do love - and very restoring it was. The yew trees were like sentries up the church path and the golden Autumn sun shone on this ancient corner.
The Ferry Inn can’t decide if it’s ancient or modern. From the river side it looks modern but at the back it is Tudor/traditional. Once you’re inside there are fires and it’s pretty cosy, but there’s a touch of velour, a hint of Hilton and at the front the grey metal chairs and the blue and white felt a bit bleak marina. I am trying to get away from bleak Corona times, so I sat inside, the dog at my feet looking for crumbs under thy table. The hint of Hilton in this country pub was strangely unsettling, but the service was excellent and the food was good.
The Crab and King Prawn Fishcakes (how were those prawns going to curl up tightly enough?) came in a Pea Veloute and with asparagus spears, that were unseasonally unnecessary. Do you think they flew in by themselves? We are quite near Heathrow here. Which also set me to wondering, given this part of England is tucked in between the M25, M4 and M40, do you think people feel squashed? Or thrilled by their proximity to everything? Even the asparagus spears can fly in easily. Veloute, Velour, Valete Asparagus.
Further down the bank on the opposite side, Cliveden rises above the trees and looks down upon the place beneath. Very superior, even if not on the high ground in every way. Forever associated. Maybe at Cliveden the asparagus spears have their own landing strip?
One of the puddings at The Ferry was 5 berry crumble. What do you think? Blackberry? What else? Mary Berry? I asked and they mentioned blueberries and strawberries and raspberries. Really not ideal. Strawberries in a crumble? I guess they had got one of those summer frozen fruit compilations ignored by their breakfasters and set it to Crumble. Hmm, not sure. They wouldn’t that mistake over at Cliveden. There, one feels sure that there would at least be some Pear and Ginger Crumble, with hazelnuts crunched on top. So I had the crème brulee, which was delicious.
Then a trek through the village, down Mill Road to find the river again, and onto Boulters Lock and Maidenhead, still flowing very fast after all the rains of the weekend. Closely wooded on the other side, this side was marked on the map as the tow path, so we trod in ancient steps and watched Canada Geese fly across into the flatlands to our right.
“Take from our souls the strain and stress, and let our ordered lives confess the beauty of thy peace.”
