From Southwark Park to The Millennium Dome

From one of the northern gates of Southwark Park you get to the eastern end of Jamaica Road. You can see the Norwegian St Olaf's Church across the roundabout. If you cross Jamaica Road, there is a small park, which has a less grand feel than Southwark Park, but connects it to the Thames. Here's a view of The Pool of London:

 From the initial joining of the Thames there is the Thames Path to follow, which follows the river as closely as it can. The following two pictures are looking across towards the Isle of Dogs, bathed in late afternoon sunshine:

The course I happened to be following was part of the national cycle network: 

If you look closely, you can see Canary Wharf tower through the arches:

A photo that refuses to take in the whole of an elaborate commemoration of Peter the Great's time in Deptford:

Entrance to the foot tunnel:

Though I did marvel at the ordered architectural splendour of maritime Greenwich, all I really caught of it was this dwarfed building in the 'Gothick' style, which doesn't really match with the rest of it:

Whoever dreamed-up the Millennium Dome probably knew that it would look particularly special around sunset. For one thing it felt like the right place to end an evening of exploration. It felt like beyond here London fades to its suburbs:

I remember visiting The Dome back in the year 2000, and the docklands skyline being more bare, more dominated by the single Canary Wharf tower:

The cluster of towers also suits sunsets:

As a landmark, I cannot help but love it:

A sculpture in the Thames:

Once more: the Dome:

A final look towards the towers, with their lights taking-over the burden of the sun:

Having misplaced my lights I then pushed my bike home...

Southwark Park

Southwark Park is one of those great legacies left to us by the Victorian age. I particularly like the bandstand, though the rose garden and lake are also nicely done. I always like it when you are reading a book, and a local reference pops up, without you planning it that way. In a book where the action takes place in Spain, a character was introduced who was an unemployed dock worker from Bermondsey. But yes, Southwark Park is as pleasant a park as I have ever visited.

 The lake

View towards the Ada Salter Rose Garden (look into her and her husband, Alfred - if there were more like them, the world would be a better place)

 The bandstand

LONDON: (n)ever-changing...

"We knew the different railways by their smells.
The City and South reeked like a changing-room;
Its orange engines and old rolling-stock,
Its narrow platforms, undulating tracks,
Seemed even then historic. Next in age,
The Central London, with its cut-glass shades
On draughty stations, had an ozone smell-
Not seaweed-scented ozone from the sea
But something chemical from Birmingham.
When, in a pause between the stations, quiet
Descended on the carriage we would talk
Loud gibberish in an angry argument,
Pretending to be foreign."

From Summoned By Bells by John Betjeman

Bicycle Decoration

I don't know who created this, but it was one of the most imaginatively decorated bicycles on the day.

The Tweed Run 2011

Cycling is something I love, I really do. Having said that, cycling in central London is something I very rarely love. Luckily there are some imaginative people about. Once a year, for the past few years, central London has been taken over by a rather eccentric breed of cyclist... Yes, I was lucky enough to register for the third annual TWEED RUN, where people dress in tweeds or other elegant vintage threads and cycle round the capital all in the name of having a jolly good time.

What was so wonderful about this event was the way that the everyday was forgotten for a while and replaced with something extraordinary and special. In terms of mere cycling, it was very stop-start at times. When I cycle I love to get away, to explore, or simply to let off some steam, tire myself out, feel the rush of descending a hill at breakneck speed, or the sense of achievement when you have conquered a long or steep climb. The cycling itself, was arguably as slow as in rush hour traffic - slower, even! The route went from London's showiest parts, to its most familiar parts, so there was no exploring alleyways you'd never been down before. No, as I say, the virtues of the Tweed Run lie separate to the virtues of commuter cycling, or general leisure cycling.

Yes, there are things that will happen to you on the Tweed Run that don't tend to happen every day. Girls will unashamedly and soberly tell you that you look amazing, or ask to take your picture. You get settled into a whimsical world where everybody dresses so splendidly. A world where people appreciate fine craftsmanship in whatever form it takes - from a handbuilt steel frame, to a homemade dress, a well-polished set of brogues, or even an endearing Blue Peter-style attempt to make a relatively garish modern frame fit in with the Pashleys, Mercians, Holdsworths and the like. There is also no snobbery. Nobody ever tells you they dislike your outfit or bike. Ewan MacGregor even entered as a participant, and although there came a point where everybody realized there was a famous man in the ranks, he must have enjoyed the same social-leveling effect of being one delightfully over-dressed cyclist amongst many for much of the day. It really is strange to think how this day-long social order superficially, with its plus-fours and Oxford bags, resembled the elitist world of upper-class idiots crashing racing cars and getting sent down from Oxford in Evelyn Waugh novels. Come to think of it, I didn't hear the usual conversations about 'what do you do?' or 'where did you study?'. More remarkable was the way that people of different ages were mixing so seamlessly. A virtue was made out of nerdy obsessions with knowing how to smoke a pipe properly, wax a moustache or simply wanting to take photos of bicycle head-tube badges.

Then there were moments when you found yourself thrust back into 21st century London, and they were just as unusual, with looks and questions from amused passers-by. There was no escaping it, it followed you wherever you went; the Tweed Run was the world turned delightfully on its side for a whole day. I'd say it was a shame it had to end, but the wonderfully-weird wackiness of it all depended on it being a break from the norm. I now have an inner-tube to repair, possibly even a rim, but it was, without any doubt, absolutely worth it!

To begin...

The place to start is often so daunting. Artists are often intimidated by blank canvasses, writers by blank pages. It is often good to leave the task at hand, go for a walk, clear your head and return to the task afresh. I imagine writing here could be a little like this - I don't mean by this that I will have to clear my head in order to type anything here, but rather that what you read here may resemble the clutter in my head that needs removing!

More to the point, I need to know why I want to be broadcasting thoughts to whoever happens to read them. Why do this at all? Well, I'm not entirely sure, but I'll have a go at answering this. Firstly there is a part of me that tends towards hoarding. I hoard things. Not good things, but rather, I like to think that I keep the fleeting bits of ephemera that most people cannot throw away quickly enough. This personality trait is very unhealthy, as it clogs you up with rubbish and stifles new experience; the ephemera turns to litter.

But no, I will make the start of this, the thing that will motivate the whole undertaking, something better than all this. In place of clutter and rubbish, I hope to pursue (and possibly even create) all things beautiful, inspiring, edifying, terrifying, sublime, dizzying, fragile and fleeting, and simply to share them.

Well, why not?