Old Father Thames: Walking from Source to City... Chapter Ten
Trip Four, Day Two: Windsor to Weybridge
(Catch up on the previous chapter: Here!)
“Then suddenly the white flashes of the Heat-Ray came leaping towards me. The houses caved in as they dissolved at its touch, and darted out flames; the trees changed to fire with a roar. The Ray flickered up and down the towing path, licking off the people who ran this way and that, and came down to the water's edge not fifty yards from where I stood. It swept across the river to Shepperton, and the water in its track rose in a boiling weal crested with steam.”
-H.G. WELLS, THE WAR OF THE WORLDS
Day ten on the path came with a deadline. When looking for accommodation I had landed on a Best Western Hotel in Weybridge, a suitable fourteen-or-so miles from Windsor and perfectly walkable in a day. However, I had neglected to factor in the Shepperton Ferry. One of only a handful of surviving cross-river foot ferries, it has operated almost continuously for half a millennium, performing the vital service of linking Shepperton on the north bank with the larger town of Weybridge on the south. There is no bridge here, partly due to the currents and breadth created by the confluence of the Wey and the Thames, so the only way to cross (without a lengthy detour) is by boat. The service forms an official part of the Thames Path, as the towpath switches banks here to avoid some eyots and marshes.
It is request service, a jetty at which one rings a bell and waits for the ferryman, and a cursory Google the day before suggested that, whilst it was on the whole reliable if one reached the crossing point late in the day on a damp afternoon then the ferryman could well have packed up for the day and gone home. Following our usual rhythm of walking, we would likely not reach Shepperton until five, and the forecast for that afternoon was for heavy downpours. We thought it best then, to save us a damp five-mile detour at the end of a long day, to make an early start and ensure we got to the ferryman before he decided it was time for his tea.
So, it was shortly after nine that we checked out of our Windsor hotel and made our way towards the river. To save a little time, and to avoid a tedious meander of the river around the edge of the Great Park, we decided to rejoin the path via The Long Walk. This 2.5mile long, ceremonial avenue was laid out by Charles II and connects the southern gateway of Windsor Castle with the original Norman deer park, home to the largest number of ancient oaks in Northern Europe - there are trees here in whose shade William The Conqueror might have sat. It is now crowned in the far distance by a large bronze statue of George III on horseback. The whole avenue is lined with almost two thousand mature trees, which were in their full green glory in the early morning sun. The forecast rain was yet to appear and we made the most of the sweeping views of Windsor, the oldest and largest inhabited castle in the world. Passing a steady stream of dog walkers, joggers, and horse riders, we evidently reached the point where the main road crosses The Long Walk. This is the place where, about halfway along the full avenue, the late Queen’s funeral procession turned to make its final slow march towards the castle, St George’s Chapel, and the tomb.
Pounding the pavement on a fast A-road for a few miles, passing the home farm of the Windsor estate, we ultimately reached Old Windsor and rediscovered the river. As the name suggests, before the Normans established themselves at ‘new’ Windsor, this was the centre of the community. Now just a village on the edge of the larger town, Old Windsor was an important site for Saxon Kings, Edward the Confessor had a manor here by the Thames and there is evidence of a royal presence going back as far as the Ninth Century. The royal connections of this part of the river do not end here, as, crossing into Surrey a few miles downstream, a brown road sign in gothic script announces we are now in ‘Magna Carta’ country.
We soon found ourselves in the large open meadow with the river on one side, a bank of wooded hills on the other, and a busy road running through its centre - this is Runnymede. The entrance to the area is flanked by two redbrick bungalows by Edwin Lutyens, one holding the estate office and the other a cafe. Entering the latter, Dad gets chatting to the National Trust cafe manager. He warns us that if we want our tea in crockery pots and cups then we’ll have to stay inside.
“I’ve lost over a thousand pounds worth of crockery to people breaking it or stealing it outside! I don’t allow it anymore.” he tells us.“One lady recently asked me very nicely and so I allowed her, she tripped on the doorstep going out and smashed the whole tray! I don’t allow it anymore.”
We sit down with our drinks, inside, whilst trying to calculate just how much crockery one could break up to one thousand pounds. Having made good progress so far that morning, we decided to make the most of the sunshine and tour the Runnymede monuments. There are a number of these strange little memorial follies dotted about the site, many of them funded by Americans. They seem to have a closer attachment to the Magna Carta than we do, it is all part of their constitutional fetish.
On a summer's day in 1215, the tyrannical King John was forced to come to terms with his rebellious Barons and Lords here at Runnymede. The location was chosen for a number of reasons, firstly it was halfway between the King’s estate at Windsor and the rebel base at Staines, it was also a Europe-wide custom for charters and treaties to be negotiated and signed on the banks of rivers, maybe simply for ease of access but also perhaps with some deeper, more pagan motive, a belief in the power of a river God or the baptismal symbolism of the ever-flowing waters. The charter they made the Kings sign, amongst other things, ensured the freedom of the Barons (and Welshmen) from arbitrary arrest and imprisonment, protected the rights of the church, and, most crucially, established that the monarch was not above the law but subject to it, as were all people of the realm. The Magna Carta, or Great Charter, has since entered the popular history of the world as the first written constitution, the first bill of rights, and the root from which all liberal governments have grown.
It was none of these things. There is nothing especially unique about the Magna Carta when compared to similar 12th-13th century legal documents. There are similar charters from across Europe in this period, some going even further in the curtailment of royal power. It can also be said that, as a treaty, it was a failure. King John had the Magna Carta annulled by the Pope only a month after the signing at Runnymede and carried on ruling much as before. A somewhat diluted form of the charter was eventually revived by John’s son, Henry III, but even still it was not the egalitarian document which history has imagined. Some rights may have been secured but only for those at the very top of feudal society, it meant next to nothing for your average peasantry who would have to wait centuries for any significant emancipation.
In this context, the monument built and funded by the American Bar Association, and the neighbouring memorial to John F. Kennedy become vaguely laughable. The latter, however, does give us an opportunity to add an, albeit fleeting, visit to another country to our journey along the Thames; the land on which the JFK memorial stands was granted to the United States of America by Elizabeth II in the 1960s so, by leaving the path only by a few hundred metres, set foot in the USA on our way between Windsor and Weybridge.
By far the most effective of the Magna Carta Monuments is the newest. ‘Writ in Water’ opened in 2019 and takes the form of a rough concrete cylinder, inside of which is a circular chamber, open to the sky and containing a shallow pool of dark water. Around its edge are written some words from a clause of the Magna Carta pertaining to justice and liberty, they are written upside-down and thus appear legible only in the rippling and reflective surface of the water, along with the sky above. Whilst the other, American, monuments shout about the freedoms supposedly discovered here, this monument says something altogether more considered, noting a fragility at the heart of any declaration of rights and liberties. The ever-shifting surface of the water, reminiscent of the Thames nearby, can obscure or obliterate the text at any moment, and it can just as suddenly become readable again. This memorial seems to me to be more about the enduring idea of Magna Carta than the somewhat disappointing reality of its history.
I must admit that, despite that disappointing reality, the school-boy historian in me still got a thrill from being a Runnymede and picturing the sight of the King’s tent and the Baron’s banners fluttering in the wind…even if nobody is quite sure if they signed it here in the meadows or on the nearby island in the middle of the Thames.
As we leave Runnymede, passing one final monument, a statue of Elizabeth II, here by virtue of her position as the longest-reigning constitutional monarch in world history (Louis XIV, normally in the top spot for long reigns, misses out by being an absolute monarch and not limited by any French constitution), the forecast clouds begin to dampen the sunlight and we hurry on towards Staines.
Before we reach the…attractively named riverside town, we pass possibly the most significant milestone on the walk since the source; the M25. Just after Bell Weir Lock, a large red-brick-faced bridge crosses the Thames and carries over the lugubrious waters the London orbital motorway and the A30, in all, thirteen lanes of thundering traffic. Despite the heavily twenty-first-century flavour of the scene, evidence has been discovered of a river crossing here as far back as the Bronze Age. For us it marks the beginning of the end, we are entering Greater London. The actual, cultural, and official boundaries of modern London are much debated and there are multiple systems of local identification in place at once. As we cross under the motorway we are still in the county of Surrey, but nonetheless many consider the circuit of the M25 to mark the edge of the city. Certainly, we have had the last of the rural Thames, from now on the banks will never be without some kind of habitation or industry. It is equally true that our walk will end within the M25 at the Thames Tidal Barrier, so this marks the beginning of a final chapter.
A little further on, in the heart of Staines, we come across the London Stone, or at least a replica of this medieval landmark, and another sign we are entering the city limits. Who ‘owns’ the Thames has always been a vexed question, whilst the monarch technically owns the river bed, the water above has always been in contention. To avoid private riverside dwellers from shutting off passage through their stretch of river, William the Conqueror decreed a public right of way along the length of the navigable river but this did not stop centuries of private weirs, mill runs, and fish traps littering the Thames from source to sea. This became an increasing issue with the growth of the mercantile power of The City of London in the Middle Ages. It was vital for them that the river, both upstream and downstream from London Bridge, was reliably navigable for their shipping and trade. This gave King Richard I an idea, strapped for crusading cash as he was. The King sold the rights over the lower reaches of the river to The City in 1197, making both a quick buck and washing his hands of any maintenance responsibility of the waterway below Staines. This was marked by the London Stone, which has siblings on both banks at the mouth of the river near Southend and Yantlet respectively. Every mile marker and lock we see from now on will be decorated with the red and white crest of The City…despite their authority for the Thames being passed onto the Thames Conservancy in the 1850s, a body which ultimately became the Environment Agency.
We did not linger in Staines. The weather was coming in, rain beginning to fall with increasing force, and we had a ferry to catch. In any case, the town does not offer an enticing face to the river, mostly bypasses and concrete car parks. The first bridge here was built by the Romans but ever since the town seems to have been in a perpetual identity crisis, in the 1960s the county of Middlesex decided it no longer wanted Staines and ceded it to neighbouring Surrey where it remains today, then came a name change in 2011, the suffix -on-Thames being added in an attempt to eschew the reputation of being the home of suburban yob culture, mostly thanks to Sacha Baron-Cohen’s comic character, Staines resident, Ali G.
Walking through the misty grey rain, we passed along endless rows of riverside houses and apartment blocks all built at different times and in different styles, some quite attractive and others frankly hideous. At Penton Hook Lock there was a lonely ice cream van with the registration plate GE11 ATO. We came off the path at Lelham in search of a pub for a brief stop, but on reaching the village centre both the interesting-looking church and the gastro-ish pub were closed. We carried on.
With the rain now quite heavy we trudged along an uninteresting passage of river on a grass verge between a small road, a campsite, and some playing fields. The handful of cars that sped along the road splashed us with water from the rapidly gathering puddles in the gutter. After passing under the M3, Chertsey was finally in sight.
Despite its particularly attractive regency bridge across the river, Chertsey is not in fact on the Thames, but rather the river Bourne, a tributary a few miles west of the main river at this point, and as such we see little of it from the path. The town’s origins lie in the founding of Chertsey Abbey in the inauspicious year of 666 by St Erkenwald. At the end of the Eighteenth Century, the town’s cricket club was the strongest in the country and when one of its star players, the Duke of Dorset, was appointed Ambassador to France, he decided to take his best eleven over the channel to introduce God’s beautiful game to the French. However, on reaching Dover in 1789, they revived news that revolution had broken out in Paris and the cricketing tour was cancelled. And that is why, to this day, the French remain ignorant of the great civilising force that is First Class Cricket.
The only shelter near Chertsey Bridge was The Kingfisher pub, so, sopping wet, we made our way inside, leaving damp boot prints on the carpet in the hall. Sections of The Kingfisher appear quite old from the outside but the interior was one open-plan restaurant decorated in oversized jungle prints, mock-glass chandeliers, and brightly upholstered easy chairs and sofas. Yet another Thameside pub that has had the soul surgically removed by chain managers. We have a swift and expensive half pint, dry off a little, before returning to the path and the rain once again. Just before we leave the pub Dad returns from the toilet saying,
“Nice soap at the sinks here…” then a pause followed by, “...seek help.”
Slightly taken aback at this cryptic imperative, it takes me a moment before it clicks that he is referring to the soap ingredient ‘sea kelp’, and not, in fact, demanding that I attend therapy. We have certainly bonded over the course of this adventure, but I am glad to know this has not resulted in any significant fears for my mental well-being.
We don't have much further to go before reaching the moment of truth: Shepperton Ferry. This meeting point of the Wey, which has come down from the Surrey Hills, and the Thames on its journey to the sea, where the ferryman has long plied his trade, is the setting for a dramatic scene in H.G. Wells’ The War of The Worlds. The Martians, having landed on Woking Common, have slowly and destructively made their way through the Surrey backcountry on their way to London, and it is at Shepperton that they cross the Thames. Wells paints the horrifying picture of more than a thousand refugees desperately trying to flee across the ferry to escape the giant alien tripods with their deadly heat-ray. This is also the moment that the Royal Artillery, stationed in nearby Chertsey manage to successfully destroy one, but only one, of the Martians, exposing the fact that they are not invulnerable as previously thought.
Our experience of Shepperton is thankfully more peaceful, if slightly worrying, as there is not a soul in sight and the ferry stands abandoned at the jetty. As we draw closer, we are relieved to see a sign reading ‘Ferry Open’ and Dad goes into the nearby shop and cafe to fetch the ferryman. Putting on his coat he joins us at the little boat, takes our money, and powers the engines on the thirty-second journey to the opposite bank and the town of Weybridge.
Henry VIII built a large palace on the hill above Weybridge, called Oatlands; it was used as an occasional royal residence until the Civil War when it was entirely demolished under Cromwell. During that same period, on a site near Weybridge, Gerald Winstanley established The Diggers, a community of equality and toil which aspired to discover a new utopia by establishing an agrarian society without any form of social hierarchy. They were the forerunners of Communists, Socialists, and Anarchists the world over. Although the town is probably most famous for Brooklands, the world’s first purpose-built motor racing circuit, completed on the edge of Weybridge in 1907. The first British Grand Prix was held there in 1926 and subsequently became an important site for both vehicular and aviation development. The Hawker Hurricane was designed and tested at Brooklands, as was the Wellington bomber and the Sopwith Camel.
Our hotel, The Ship, is positioned at the end of the high street and, whilst it has the appearance of an olde-worlde tavern at the front, extends backwards and upwards into a veritable labyrinth of hotel rooms, in which we eventually find our own…
Next time: A Welsh doodle…A Temple to Shakespeare…Leg Before Wicket…palaces, coronations, and the rising tide…
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Wonderful history lesson. What an adventure you and your Dad have had. Thank you for sharing your journey.