London - love it or loathe it, it's my home

I have always had a bit of a love hate relationship with London. I am sure everyone who lives here loves it and loathes it in some way. You can't avoid the bad stuff; another week goes by and another teenager is stabbed to death for no apparent reason, the main road through Brixton is shut for the second time in 2 weeks and the assumption is that another drug-dealing, gun-toting local has cashed in his life-insurance policy prematurely. The back door of the office yet again looks like the local tramps and deadbeats have mistaken it for the public toilet and it's only 8.30 on Monday morning. Over the years I have had to cross off a number of things that I can do; shops that I am allowed to visit, roads I am allowed to use, that sort of thing. Mainly for my own protection but also for those with me. For example, I can't go to Argos in Streatham any more. Having queued there to return a hoover for the 3rd time in 1995 (actually it felt like the whole of 1995), I looked the manager in the eye and vowed never to return even if Argos was the only shop left on the planet and I was desperate for cheap electrical goods. I now can't go to Lillywhites in Piccadilly ever again. Tom is off to Canada on a rugby tour and needed a scrum cap. We sweated our way on a super-heated underground to the premier sports emporium in the capital of the country that invented rugby, but the surly and completely disinterested assistant didn't know what a scrum cap was - even though he worked on the floor that sold rugby clothing. He looked a bit bemused when I delivered the crushing news that never again would I visit this football shirt-replica swamped excuse for a sports shop.

The same is true for roads. For years I couldn't leave London on the M40 because of that idiotic junction by White City; Battersea Bridge northbound will never see me in a car again; the North End road junction with the Cromwell Road will be similarly starved of my presence - and people ask me why I cycle around London! I don't have much choice.

And yet, still I live here. Ok, so I sneaked off to Hong Kong for a couple of years, but other than that, I have now lived in London since 1986. That's 25 years. Before that I hadn't lived in a single place for longer than 2 years, if you exclude boarding school. In fact, I have lived in West Norwood for most of those years - and, if you don't know it, no, it's not an endearing and vibrant little suburban village; it's actually a bit of a dump. The high street is scruffy and full of pound and charity shops, the ratio of people to fried chicken and kebab shops is about 1:1 and the total number of bars you'd want to go to is zero.

But here's the thing; you can only really lay into something in public when it's yours. If someone insulted my children, they'd need more than a scrum-cap for protection; insulting them is my job. If someone else has a pop at London, or West Norwood, I get all defensive. So there must be some stuff about it that's good - not just the familiarity of a comfortable pair of old slippers. This is partly why this weekend, instead of striking out for the countryside to train, I decided to trade in the rolling green belt of Surrey for the urban jungle. You see, I get to the bit about training for Trailwalker eventually.

Ruskin Park - Camberwell

The last few weekends I have trained alone and, whilst my own company doesn't necessarily rule out stimulating conversation, I thought I'd come up with a plan that allowed others to benefit too. The plan was to leave West Norwood early on Sunday morning and walk/ hike/ jog up to Tower Bridge and then a long tour down the Thames, hooking up with some company for the last section.

I left West Norwood at around 7.30 in glorious sunshine, oiled up like a well-greased chicken with factor 175 suncream. I wasn't risking the torching I had last weekend nor the snake-like sloughing of forehead skin (don't say that too quickly!). Visitors to London Bridge last week must have assumed I was visiting outpatients at Guys for treatment on a nasty case of leprosy.

A brisk walk through Brockwell Park, home to one of the coolest outdoor pools in the world. And I mean temperature cool. Actually, it's cool in both senses of the word. Then on through Herne Hill, known locally as Col du Herne, home as it is to the single remaining venue from the 1948 Olympics, the Herne Hill Velodrome. A little delapidated it may be, but my kids learnt to ride bikes there and I now meet the Dulwich Paragon there. On past King's Hospital; very special memories there of the boys' arrival many years back. It won't surprise the fearless foursome that my chief concern, faced with a wife who didn't exactly rush herself through childbirth (I'll be ironing my own shirts tonight!), was how I would manage mealtimes during the 'birthing process'. In one of the anti-natal (yes 'i' is correct), I had latched onto the warning that the father would need a good supply of snacks to get through a prolonged period of huffing and puffing. Anxious to avoid the 'business end' of childbirth, I focused on the head-end until in complete exasperation Heledd yelled; 'Oh, for god's sake stop going on about food all the bloody time, I am trying to have a f***g baby here.' I tried not to take offence, but it was pretty hurtful.

Tower Bridge

So, on through Camberwell, past Edwards Cycles and on up the Walworth Road towards London Bridge. My commuter route in the late 90s and again now I work in London Bridge. Probably not London's smartest streets, yet on a sunny Sunday morning, Burgess Park was a green haven of tennis and dog-walking. Even the now empty tower blocks as you approach the Elephant and Castle had a quiet dignity to them; low cost replacements for the streets remodelled by the Luftwaffe, not pretty but home to many a struggling Londoner. Round the Elephant, and 2 extraordinary buildings that have changed the traditionally low-rise skyline. The 'Strata' tower or 'Razor' and the 'Shard', not yet finished but already visible from miles around.

Shard in the background

City Hall

Still walking at this point, and beginning to understand why the tramps use our office doorways due to lack of alternatives, I took a quick break in Starbucks. Then it was onto the Thames path starting at Tower Bridge, such a stunning landmark, standing out against the bright blue sky. For the next few miles, the tourist landmarks hit you one after the other; a mixture of old and new; HMS Belfast, with the wax models of the chap having his appendix out. A survivor of one of the most famous sea battles of the 2nd World War and now a floating museum and conference venue. Boris' wobbly jelly of a building, tilting to one side; Hays Galleria, Southwark Cathedral, the Golden Hinde. On past the Globe, the Tate Modern and the South Bank. Then the classics; the Eye, Big Ben, Parliament.

Southwark Cathedral

By this time, it was around 10.00am and the tourist numbers were swelling; I must apologise to the large group of Germans who may have overheard me deep in conversation with my camera. It had chosen this moment to stop working; perhaps the cornucopia of architectural eye-candy was too much for it. It required some firm but perhaps somewhat agricultural words of encouragement and, with my iPod blocking my own hearing, I may have spoken a little louder than I intended. A little behind schedule now, I decided to run once I had moved on from the delights of Westminster to the wastelands of Vauxhall and Battersea Power Station. That's an odd one; a distinctive but hardly beautiful fixture, beloved and hated in equal measure; abandoned and left mouldering for years whilst plans to re-build it have foundered. It sort of sums up London in many ways. Is it an iconic and historical landmark or an eye-sore occupying much needed development land in the heart of the capital? Yes to both.


Battersea Park. I love Battersea Park. When we were fed up with the manicured lawns of Dulwich and the open dog-shit acres of Brockwell, we'd go the extra mile to Battersea to wear out the boys in the zoo, or at the adventure playground, or just walking around the lake, eating genuinely good food at the cafe. I was still running, feeling no pain and doing the now traditional diesel-chug, where I break no land-speed records but keep ticking off the miles.

Lots Rd Power Station

At this point, I diverted from the river and up to Clapham Common to meet up with the rest of my team for the latter part of the day's training. Paul, Karen, Heledd and I, post-bacon sandwich re-fuel, set off from 'between the commons' and off down to Plantation Wharf, past the old Candle factory, picking up the Thames path again past acres of new flats housing London's young professionals. Down to Wandsworth Bridge and across up the north side of the Thames, past the old power station on Lots Road that used to provide the electricity for the underground, but which now stands idle and derelict. What is it about London power stations? On past chintzy Cheyne Walk, where one posy resident parks his two cars, number plates '2 B' and 'NOT 2B' alongside the main road. Cock.

St Mary's Battersea

Over Battersea Bridge and past the Church of St Mary's, where William Blake was married, built in 1777 and now sitting alongside the ultra-modern apartment blocks that flank the bridge, we finally stopped for the promised coffee break that had been the condition of Heledd accompanying. The continental feel of Battersea Square, a delightful pavement, thronged with young Londoners idling away a sunny Sunday morning. Then back up to Clapham Common and shoes off. 36km, feet a little sore, left shin a bit stiff but otherwise fine.

So I might moan about London; I may even have said that while I was in Hong Kong, I didn't miss London at all. But where else in the world could you see all this walking from your home? And on days like this, with the sun shining and some great company, how can it get better? Well, I'll tell you how. An enormous side of English beef and a bucket of sparkling wine. Not from Australia or France; but from Denbies Vineyard in Box Hill. Yes, Box Hill, in England. English Sunday lunch, with the Wimbledon final and the sports section of the Sunday Times. London. Home.