Spring is in the air, and the forshore in Chiswick is a beautiful place.
With a pub lunch in my stomach (washed down wonderfully with a pint of chiswick bitter, all courtesy of the Bell and Crown), I sit on the banks of the Thames, basking in the quietly warm sunshine and gentle gusts of wind. It isn't spring yet, by any means, but it's certainly warmer these last couple of days. And it feels serene here, despite the traffic just audible off to the west. Small clouds of gulls hang screaming in the air, just as they have done for hundreds of years. Children and dogs run along the water's edge while their parents walk arm in arm along the towpath. The wind stirs the green-tinged branches of the weeping willows, clinging to existence on the edge of the high tide mark - higher than you'd think, in fact - the towpath edges of the old houses have doors which start halfway up the wall or high doorsteps set at right angles to the path, flood defences for when the river runs high in winter. All the pubs along Strand on the Green have big steel doors which bolt shut tight against the water, like the alleys with their cautionary notices - "This door will remain locked during flood warnings". I imagine the scenes - the landlord and barmen pulling the door shut in the face of rising floodwaters, yanking snail-lock handles tight and tightening bolts while the regulars clutch at the bar. "Sorry lads," says the barman. "We're not going home tonight. Better tap another cask of Chiswick..."
But today the water is at low tide, and the low sun shines brillantly from its surface. I succumb to a whim and slip from the rail I'm sat on, descending the worn, high steps in the embankment onto the foreshore proper.
My shoes crunch on a mix of sand, grit, mud and flotsam. It's amazing what you find hidden away in the grey mud - shells (whelks, mussels, clams) bricks (red and yellow and grey) stones of every shape and size (old cobbles, lumps of concrete, building rubble - this is a whole trove in itself, everything from Victorian pipes to stoneware). In the shallows a flash of red cathes my eye and I see a peice of white teapot, with delicately painted roses around the miraculously unbroken handle. Chains lie in piles, marking high tide moorings for the houses - age and the river have fused shining steel coils into dull brown lengths, silver snake-like heaps into piles of rusty sticks. Glass, worn white from years of scouring, is everywhere - green, brown, clear and even a deep blue. I see the obvious remains of Kopparberg and Newcastle Brown bottles, and more from the brewery a short walk up the bank, but others tell the story of the city over the last hundred years or more. That one with the twist in the neck had a glass marble for a stopper - hold the bottle one way while drinking and the marble rolls into the mouth and stops fast, hold it the other way and the twist grips the marble, letting lemonade or beer flow out. That narrow neck, almost like a thin pipe - well that's a medicine bottle surely? And the pretty blue glass - what exotic liquor did that once hold?
Well actually it probably held Vicks. Best not to drink it.
This is thinking weather. The sun warms my back, and I unbutton my coat. Swing one foot gently in front of the other, and let momentum carry you downriver. I ponder the week I've had, and the one I'll go back to. Frankly, either one makes me worry, as does my lack of sleep and the need to work on my deadlines. At Uni, these things are an unavoidable part of life, and I'm struggling to deal with them. But here by the quick river, I feel the wind and the water wash my worries away.
I hear handmadehands lyrics in the back of my mind, and for the first time in a few days I feel like I'm slipping back into my slot in the world. I'll enjoy my few days here, then head back to Coventry refreshed and ready to deal with what life throws at me for a bit.
London once again, February 2011
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