Mad dogs, Englishmen & us
On July 22 2018, the temperature in London was 35C. The British Met Service issued a stern warning to stay out of the sun, avoid exertion, and watch out for the elderly who might be at risk. Venetia Sherson foolishly ignored the advice
The record for running non-stop the 289km Thames Path, which starts in Gloucestershire and ends at London’s Thames Barrier, is 40h 47m. Non-record holders should aim to walk it in three weeks.
“Do you think I’ll need a rain jacket?” I ask Jan, the B&B owner. She looks out the window of her 18th-Century stone Windsor cottage to a garden that hasn’t seen rain for six weeks. The lawn has turned to straw that crackles underfoot. She’s given up on the grass but keeps a hose handy in case of wildfires. “Shouldn’t think so,” she says.
Two days before, we had left our rain-soaked homeland, with cases of clothes designed for a British summer: merino leggings, pashminas and anoraks. As we flew in to Heathrow, I had my first misgivings. The green and pleasant land was brown. A British tabloid at the airport begged, “No more sun, please, we’re British”. There was a picture of sweat dripping off the face of a Queen’s Guard, under the banner, “It Ain’t Half Hot Ma’am.” Clearly, I should have packed more shorts.
We plan to walk a section of the Thames Path, the 289km route from source to sea of Britain’s most historic river. We will begin at Windsor and finish at Reading, some 50km upstream, stopping overnight at the pretty and historic river towns of Marlow and Henley. The walk is flat and suited to mature plodders. It is also less trafficked than the Camino de Santiago, plus there are old English pubs along the way. What we haven’t planned for is the heatwave.
This summer was Britain’s hottest since 1976. Over 15 consecutive days in July, temperatures topped 30C. It was so hot that Brits stopped travelling to places like Ibiza, forcing Mediterranean resorts to slash prices. News sites were dominated by stories about topless businessmen on rush-hour trains; plagues of blood-sucking horseflies; clammy, sleepless nights, and a ball boy fainting at Wimbledon on the hottest day on record.
“It will be cooler by the river,” says Jan cheerfully as she waves us off with packed lunches in our rucksacks.
She lied. It was like walking in a pizza oven. The Thames Path, which gained official National Trail status in 1989, is a green corridor that begins as a trickle at a tiny spring in an empty field in Gloucestershire, marked by a headstone. It officially ends in the centre of London at the Thames Barrier, built in 1984 to prevent flooding from the North Sea. Around 90 per cent of the path is public footpath or bridleway, some following the original towpaths once used by beasts of burden or teams of human pullers to tow a boat or barge. For the 96km stretch that passes through the city of London, the river is a bustling highway of freight and passenger traffic. But long before it turns nontidal, at the Greater London boundary, it becomes lovelier and lonelier.
There is no right way to walk the path although some insist it should be done from source to sea, the way the current flows, ending with a flourish in the city. Since we weren’t going to either point, we choose to walk upstream.
Our route begins at The Long Walk in Windsor Great Park, where Harry and Meghan passed in a horse-drawn carriage two months before. A small piece of red, white and blue bunting bleached by the sun is caught in the branches of an oak. The only other human abroad is a young woman with a dog. She looks askance, probably wondering whether to report us to authorities. “Hot, isn’t it?” she says in case we hadn’t noticed. My tiny pack already feels too heavy.
In the centre of Windsor, we top up our water and are joined by an English friend who regularly tramps the hills and dales. She looks remarkably cool and we set off at a clipping pace past the Athens bathing site, where boys from Eton used to swim. The joy of the Thames Path is its passage through history. Great mansions, spired stone churches, and pubs where for centuries river travellers have taken shelter, line the banks. William the Conqueror attended services at one church. Another, dating from the 15th century was visited by Charles II.
Our destination that night is Marlow, 22km distant, along one of the prettiest stretches of the Thames. The towpath is easy underfoot, but the heat is intense. Carnivorous red kites circle overhead, possibly sensing dinner could be close. The kites were nearly wiped out last century but have
returned to England after a successful breeding programme in Wales.
Our first night’s lodgings is a Victorian vicarage at Bisham, a swan’s waddle from the river’s edge and 2km from Marlow where there are some top eateries. After long walks these days, I want a daily reward, so I have booked accordingly. Our host Heather, a former lawyer, greets us with tea in bone china cups and home-made cakes. She is anxious her lawn will recover for her daughter’s wedding in autumn. The bride intends to punt to the ceremony on a paddleboard. “I just hope she doesn’t fall in,” says Heather. “We didn’t pay that much for the dress to see it floating down the river.”
The following morning, I wake at dawn when the river is already busy with rowers, paddleboarders, boaties and barges. A couple of swimmers in lifejackets float downstream, not put off by warnings of strong currents, whirlpools, and the chance of being struck by a skiff. Heather is watering her lawn and already looks hot, but she has prepared boiled eggs, toast and preserves and fresh coffee.
The stretch from Marlow to Henley is only 13.5km and thankfully tree-covered for some of the path. It should be a doddle, but when Henley comes into sight, I am sweat-soaked and snappish. Excess heat makes people more murderous, according to psychologists. The beautiful old market town restores my spirits. There are graceful homes with boats tied to the verandas, an ornamental temple built on an island in 1771, and rowers zipping back and forth.
Henley is the site of one of the most famous rowing regattas in the world. New Zealander Mahe Drysdale has claimed six victories here, the latest earlier this year. His name is on honours board in the Henley River and Rowing Museum. Also at the museum, is a Wind in the Willows exhibition, reminding us of the magic of the river as described by Mole: “… this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh.” Author Kenneth Grahame found his inspiration at Cookham Dean, a short stroll from the Thames.
Another pleasure of the Thames Path is its quintessential Englishness. There are pretty towns and velvet village greens, tearooms, dog-walkers, vicars on bicycles, locks and weirs and graceful willows dangling their green tips in the water. The Thames is flush with fish, including carp, perch, pike and brown trout, and the riverbanks are dotted with anglers equipped with hats, hampers, thermos flasks and comfy seats. Most throw their catches back. Sixty years ago, the Natural History Museum declared the Thames biologically dead in central London.Since then, a huge clean-up has taken place. There are now 125 species of fish in the river. In London, porpoises often frolic, to the delight of office workers.
On our final day, from Henley to Reading (15km) the sun has decided to push us to our limits. The Met Service predicts temperatures will reach Level 3 on the heatwave scale. At Level 4, an emergency will be declared. A woman in London has been rescued after jumping fully-clothed into the Thames.
We stop at every opportunity, principally to cool off, but also to catch a glimpse of kingfishers and butterflies, and watch polished launches pass through the locks (there are 45 on the Thames). Two kilometres from our final destination we come upon a herd of white deer, camouflaged in the bleached fields. They seem as startled to see us as we are to see them. More importantly there is a pub. It has cool ale, umbrellas in the garden bar and a sympathetic barman. He calls us a cab, and we ride in air-conditioned luxury along the narrow road to Reading. The cabbie says, “I hope you haven’t walked far. Too hot to be outside.”