Thames Walk 7: Barnes Bridge to Kew

Barnes Railway Bridge to Kew

"A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us."— John Steinbeck from "Travels with Charley: In Search of America" (1962). 

A leaden sky hangs over Barnes Railway Bridge as Pam, Freya and I begin our next walk. It's mid-week, and there's a remarkable stillness to the riverside that's often missing on weekends. The grey clouds mirroring the Thames' murky waters create a monochrome palette that's oddly soothing. There's something calming about these muted days – no glare from the sun, no squinting required, just soft, diffused light that makes the familiar landscape seem slightly dreamlike.

'Quiet today,' Pam says, sensing my thoughts as she often does after forty years of marriage. Her hair is tucked under a woolen hat, and her cheeks carry a slight flush from the cool air. 'I like it when it's like this – feels like we have the river to ourselves.'

Freya seems particularly sprightly today, trotting ahead with unusual confidence.

Barnes Railway Bridge looms above, its Victorian ironwork a testament to the age of steam and industry. Built in 1849, this crossing has witnessed more than a century and a half of London's evolution. The low-slung lattice of metal has a certain industrial charm. It is, of course, now sadly adorned with the obligatory graffiti. I wonder, briefly, why we seem powerless to stop this never ending desecration of the public space. Personally, I think Banksy is a wanker. But I digress.

I check the internet for some info.

'Pam. This bridge was actually doubled in width in 1895 when they realised the original couldn't handle the increased train traffic. They built a second bridge right alongside the first instead of replacing it.'

'Hmm,' Pam nods, feigning interest. 'So they just... added another bridge?'

'Precisely! Victorian pragmatism at its finest.'

A train rumbles overhead, the rhythmic clackety-clack echoing across the water as it makes its way into central London. I find myself imagining the commuters above us, faces buried in phones or newspapers (that's showing my age, I don't think people actually read newspapers on the train anymore), perhaps glancing momentarily at the river.

As we leave the bridge behind, Dukes Meadows stretches out before us – a welcome expanse of green after the more built-up sections of our walk. Created in the 1920s, this riverside park was once farmland belonging to the Duke of Devonshire, hence the name. The council purchased it specifically to provide recreational space for Londoners – a small act of civic goodness which I am now fully appreciating.

Today, the meadows are quiet. A few dog walkers nod hello from a distance, and an elderly man sits on a bench staring contemplatively at the water. Perhaps remembering summers long past, or mulling over the passage of time that the river symbolises.

I pick up a stick, engage Freya's interest and thorw it. She looks at me baffled, almost insulted that she should stoop to such games. SHe trots off to smell doggy smells. One day, perhaps, she'll oblige and actually go bring a stick or a ball back. But not today.

The towpath narrows as we approach Chiswick Bridge, another of the Thames' crossings. Built in 1933, it's a relative newcomer compared to many of the bridges we've encountered. Its clean Portland stone arches represent the more restrained architectural sensibilities of the interwar period.

'This is where the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race finishes,' I tell Pam, gesturing to the stretch of water beneath the bridge.

'I know.'

'It's a significant part of Thames history!

'I know. And you are a significant part of Thames repetition.'

I laugh. There's a kind of relaxing comfort in our familiar patterns of conversation, the gentle teasing that masks our affection.

The White Hart pub appears around the bend.

It would be rude not to stop. Dating back to the 18th century, this riverside tavern has a low ceiling and wooden beams and an atmosphere of cozy antiquity.

'Southern Comfort and lemonade?' I ask Pam, already knowing the answer.

'You've learning,' she smiles.

'Ok?' Pam asks, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of her glass.

'Yeah. Great,'I reply. And I mean it. There's something about this journey that feels significant to both of us. It's not just a walk; it's becoming a type of meditation, a way of connecting not only with London's past but with our present.

 

As we leave the White Hart, the path takes us toward Chiswick Eyot, a small, uninhabited island in the middle of the Thames. At low tide, a causeway of mud appears, allowing access to this tiny piece of wilderness in the midst of London. Today, with the tide moderate, the island sits like a green jewel in the grey water, inaccessible and mysterious.

The Ship Inn appears next, another historic riverside pub dating back to the 1700s. I find my mind wandering as we pass by, imagining the scene here three centuries ago...

The tavern is alive with the raucous energy of rivermen and lightermen, their hands calloused from years of handling barges and wherries. The low-beamed ceiling is stained dark with centuries of tobacco smoke, and candles cast moving shadows across the wooden tables. In the corner, a group of sailors fresh from sea voyages are engaged in heated debate, their voices carrying tales of distant shores and exotic ports.

I'm seated near the hearth, warming my hands around a pewter tankard of ale. My woolen coat is still damp from the river spray – the small wherry I pilot on the Thames is my livelihood, ferrying passengers and small goods up and down London's aquatic highway. The riverside is my world, the ebb and flow of the tide my calendar and clock.

A burly man in a salt-stained jacket slams his mug down. 'Mark my words,' he growls to anyone who'll listen, 'these new steam boats will be the death of us all. Unnatural things, belching smoke like the devil's own breath!'

I nod in agreement, though privately I know human progress can never be halted. The Thames is changing – the ancient profession of wherryman, once protected by guilds and royal charter, faces challenges unimaginable to our forefathers...

'Earth to husband.' Pam's voice cuts through my reverie.

Approaching Kew Railway Bridge, the industrial architecture of steel and iron creates a stark contrast to the natural beauty of the river. Built in 1869 and extended in the early 20th century, this utilitarian crossing reminds us that the Thames has always been as much about commerce and transport as it is about beauty and leisure.

Soon, we reach Kew Pier, where today a handful of pleasure boats are moored, waiting for the tourist season to properly begin. But this site has a history stretching back to the medieval period, when water transport was the lifeblood of London.

Internet time.

'Did you know,' I start again, unable to help myself, 'that this has been a landing place for boats since at least the 15th century?'

This time, Pam indulges me. 'Tell me more.'

'Well, before roads were properly developed, the river was the main highway. Kings and queens would travel by royal barge to Richmond Palace or Hampton Court from central London. When Kew Palace became a royal residence, this pier became an important landing spot.'

'I can see why,' Pam says, looking out across the water. 'It must have been quite a sight in those days – all those royal barges going up and down the river.'

I nod, my imagination already conjuring the scene...

The river is alive with color and sound. The royal procession approaches – a flotilla of gilded barges, their oars dipping in perfect synchronisation, creating a hypnotic rhythm on the water's surface. Pennants and flags snap in the breeze, the royal standard prominently displayed. Musicians play on one of the vessels, the notes carrying clearly across the water.

On the shore, we stand among the gathered crowd – a mixture of nobility come to greet the monarch and common folk eager for a glimpse of royalty. Children sit on shoulders, straining for a better view. The air buzzes with excitement.

The lead barge draws near, its hull elaborately carved and decorated with gold leaf that catches the sun. Seated beneath a canopy of rich fabric is Queen Elizabeth herself, resplendent in a gown of crimson and gold, her pale face distinctive against the dark wood of the vessel.

As the royal barge approaches the pier, there's a flurry of activity. Officials in ceremonial dress step forward, ready to assist Her Majesty ashore. Guards stand at attention, their halberds gleaming. The Queen rises, a small but commanding figure, and the crowd falls silent in anticipation...

We reach Kew Bridge, its stone arches spanning the river with simple elegance. Built in 1903 to replace an earlier structure, this bridge has witnessed the transformation of Kew from royal retreat to suburban enclave.

From the bridge, the view opens up to reveal the magnificent expanse of Kew Gardens spreading along the south bank – a verdant sanctuary in the midst of urban London. Even from this distance, the iconic Victorian palm house is visible, its glass and wrought iron form gleaming despite the overcast day.

'We should go in,' Pam suggests. 'We've got time.'

We xcan't, because they do not allow dogs. But we've been there before, plenty of times. Founded in 1840, though with gardens dating back much earlier, the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew represents one of the most significant collections of living plants in the world.

Once inside the city disappears, replaced by meticulously landscaped gardens and extraordinary architecture. It truly is a botanical wonderland. There's the ornate Waterlily House with its enormous circular pond hosting giant lily pads, and toward the modern marvel of the Hive – a multi-sensory experience designed to highlight the importance of bees. Then there's The Great Pagoda, which rises like an exotic punctuation mark on the English landscape. Built in 1762, this ten-story structure was designed by Sir William Chambers for Princess Augusta, and originally adorned with 80 golden dragons that were removed during the early 19th century and only recently restored.

The broad avenues lined with specimens from across the globe, make it feel like stepping into another country.

Unable to visit on this occasion there'sonly one thing for it – The Bell & Crown awaits us, it's riverside terrace beckoning like an old friend. Inside, we find a corner table. Freya collapses dramatically at our feet, earning sympathetic glances from the bartender who brings over a bowl of water without being asked. Pam's Southern Comfort and lemonade appears alongside my pint of bitter.

We clink glasses, and I find myself reflecting on the day's journey. Each section of this walk reveals something new. The Thames has been a constant in our lives as Londoners, always there, always flowing, but never before have we paid it such deliberate attention.

'What are you thinking?' Pam asks.

'That we should have done this years ago,' I reply. 'Or maybe not. Maybe this is exactly the right time.'

No further words are needed.

Freya sighs contentedly at our feet, as if in agreement.