Thames Walk 8: Kew Bridge to Richmond

‘In rivers, the water that you touch is the last of what has passed and the first of that which comes; so with present time.’ — Leonardo da Vinci

 

We’re back at it the very next day. The sky has transformed overnight, as if the Thames has washed away yesterday's grey blanket of cloud. A brilliant blue sky stretches above us as we set out from Kew Bridge. It's early March, and though there's still a crisp chill that nips at our fingers and reddens our cheeks, the promise of spring sparkles on the water's surface.

Pam tilts her face toward the sun like a flower seeking light. She's wearing the red woollen hat I bought her last Christmas, and the colour makes her eyes seem even brighter.  ‘I might regret these extra layers by lunchtime.’

‘Better to have and not need,’ as my mum used to say.

We've barely started when we encounter our first obstacle—a sign informing us that the south side path ahead is closed due to a recent landslide. The winter's rains have taken their toll on the riverbank.

‘Looks like we're crossing,’ I say, gesturing back toward Kew Bridge. Freya seems unbothered by the change in plans, pulling on her lead as her tail wags with the simple joy of being outdoors.

We cross Kew Bridge, its Portland stone glowing warmly in the morning light, and begin our journey on the north bank. ‘There’s our silver lining,’ Pam points out – she always was an optimist - as we head north. ‘We now get to see the London Museum of Water.’

The museum rises before us, housed in the imposing Victorian buildings of the former Kew Bridge Waterworks. Its distinctive chimney punctuates the skyline. Built in 1838, this site once housed the steam engines that pumped London's water supply. I’ve always had a soft spot for the grand Victorian engineering projects that transformed London from a medieval city into a modern metropolis.

We go inside.

The museum is a cathedral to the power of steam … and the human ingenuity that harnessed it. The massive beam engines stand like sleeping giants, their brass fittings polished to a mirror shine. These remain some of the largest steam pumping engines in the world.

‘Just imagine,’ I say, my voice naturally dropping to a whisper in the cavernous space, ‘these engines were pumping millions of gallons of water every day, bringing clean water to London when cholera and typhoid were real threats.’

It’s time to wander back in time...

The air is thick with coal smoke and steam, and my ears ring with the rhythmic clanking of the massive engines. As chief engineer at the waterworks, I wear my responsibility heavily—millions of Londoners depend on these engines for their daily water, though few give a thought to how it reaches their homes.

I move between the towering machines, checking gauges and adjusting valves. My apprentices scurry about, shovelling coal into the hungry boilers that power these iron beasts. The heat is almost unbearable, but we endure it, knowing our work keeps cholera at bay and saves countless lives.

Today, I'm overseeing the installation of the new 90-inch engine—a marvel of modern engineering that will pump more water than any before it. The construction has taken months, with mechanics and labourers working day and night to assemble the massive components. Now, as steam builds in its boilers for the first time, there's tension in the air. Will it work as designed? Has some small calculation error doomed our efforts?

 

#The pressure gauge climbs steadily. I nod to my second-in-command, and he opens the main valve. There's a moment of breathless anticipation, then a great whoosh as steam rushes into the cylinder. The massive beam begins to move, slowly at first, then with gathering momentum. The flywheel turns, gathering speed until it's a blur of motion. Water begins to flow through the pumps, and a cheer goes up from the workers as we back slap each other in congratulations.

Enough of that.

We continue our walk, rejoining the Thames Path as it skirts the grounds of Syon House. Though we can't see much of the house itself from the river path, glimpses of the magnificent building designed by Robert Adam peek through the trees of the estate.

Internet time. I discover that Syon House has been in the same family—the Dukes of Northumberland—for over 400 years. That’s a long time. Queen Catherine Howard was imprisoned here before her execution, and Lady Jane Grey was offered the crown here—which didn't work out too well for her either. Bit of a bad luck spot for Tudor women.

The path takes us through Watermans Park, a welcome green space in this more industrial stretch of the river. Named for the watermen who for centuries transported passengers along the Thames before bridges and public transport made their services less essential, the park offers a moment of tranquility. I pause at a bench overlooking the river, watching a cormorant dive beneath the surface in search of fish.

‘That would have been a great job, rowing passengers up and down the river. Open space, no bosses.’

‘Until the first winter storms,’ Pam points out.

Syon House

We continue along the path to Goat Wharf, an industrial area that's been repurposed in recent years. The name always makes me smile—though I've never discovered why it was called that or if actual goats were ever involved.

‘Lunch?’ Pam suggests. We find a bench with a view of the river and unpack our sandwiches and thermos of tea – a real sign of an aging couple! Freya sits patiently at our feet, knowing from experience that a morsel or three might find its way to her.

The simple pleasure of eating outdoors, watching a river flow by, is one of life's underrated joys. There's something primally satisfying about breaking bread (or in this case, a cheese and pickle sandwich) in the open air, with the sounds of water and birds as your soundtrack.

Watered and fed our path soon brings us to the mouth of the River Crane, a tributary that flows into the Thames. Though modest compared to the mighty Thames, the Crane has its own important place in west London's geography and history, forming part of the ancient boundary between the historic counties of Middlesex and Surrey.

Confluences were often seen as sacred by ancient cultures—places of power and transformation where different energies merged. Some believed they were gateways between worlds.

Not far beyond, we encounter another waterway joining the Thames—the Grand Union Canal. Built in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, this engineering marvel once formed a crucial commercial artery, connecting London to the Midlands and making it possible to transport heavy goods like coal, building materials, and manufactured products efficiently across the country.

‘The motorway of its day,’ I tell Freya, who looks up at me with her head tilted, wondering why I'm explaining canal economics to a dog. Or just humouring me, hoping I have treats in my pocket.

Next up, Richmond Lock and Footbridge. Completed in 1894, this remarkable structure is the furthest downstream of all the Thames locks and the only one owned by the Port of London Authority. Its primary purpose is to maintain a navigable depth of water upstream of Richmond when the tide is out. The internet tells me it’s a half-tide lock, and before it was built, when the tide was out, this stretch of river could become so shallow that boats would get stranded. Imagine designing something over a hundred years ago that's still working perfectly today. Human ingenuity is boundless. I wonder what will still be standing a hundred years from now. Who knows?

The last stretch of our journey takes us along a particularly picturesque section of the Thames. The path narrows and winds close to the water's edge, with willows dipping their branches into the flowing river. Freya trots ahead, occasionally looking back as if to check we're still following.

‘She's really come into her own on this walk, hasn't she?’ Pam observes.

‘Queen of the Thames Path,’ I say.

As we round the final bend, Richmond Bridge appears in the distance, its elegant arches spanning the river like a string of pearls. Completed in 1777, it's the oldest surviving Thames bridge in London, its Portland stone weathered to a soft honey colour.

‘Beautiful,’ Pam murmurs beside me, and I'm not sure if she's referring to the bridge or the whole scene before us—the grand Georgian and Victorian buildings of Richmond rising up from the riverbank, the boats moored along the shore, the timeless elegance of this stretch of the Thames that has inspired painters and poets for centuries.

As we climb the steps up from the riverside path to bridge level, I feel the familiar twinge in my knees, a reminder of age that I try to ignore. The view from the top, however, makes any discomfort worthwhile. Looking back along the curve of the river we've just walked, with the sun beginning its descent toward the horizon, the Thames seems to shimmer with golden light.

‘I think we've earned a drink,’ Pam says, linking her arm through mine.

‘No argument here.’

As we clink glasses, I'm struck by how this journey is more than a simple walk. It's a thread weaving together history, memory, and possibility—a pilgrimage not just along a river but through our shared life and the countless lives that have intersected with the Thames through centuries.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Pam asks after a moment.

"I was just thinking that the Thames doesn't simply flow through London," I reply, watching the last rays of sun turn the water to liquid gold. "In many ways, London and all its stories flow through the Thames."

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the water, as another chapter of our Thames pilgrimage draws to a close. Tomorrow will bring another stretch of river, another set of discoveries and memories. But for now, this moment—with the bridge before us, the river flowing steadily beneath, and Pam beside me—feels like exactly where we're meant to be.

What's this? On the banks of the Thames near Brentford. I have no idea.