In Praise of Pedestrianism
I don’t run, I don’t jog – I walk.
My abhorrence of rapid motion goes right back to my high-school days – I went to a British Public School (the latter to be pronounced as if one had a hot marshmallow in the mouth). Now this was a ‘sporting’ school – and even worse, a rugby school. There was compulsory sport on Wednesday afternoons, then, to make up, school on Saturday mornings, followed by more compulsory sport on Saturday afternoons. If you were weedy with very powerful glasses, as I was, then rugby was out, and boys like me were automatically assigned to the cross-country running squad. There was no training in loosening up exercises, or how to breathe, or any actual training – we were just sent out in our thin running gear and canvas plimsolls to run one of the courses. (The teachers occasionally came around by bike to check against skipping the course). The general feel of the squad was that we were being punished for not playing rugby – all sport was cancelled if it was actually raining or snowing, but if it had been, and the rugby pitches were frozen or very muddy, rugby was cancelled, but not cross-country. When I finally left school, and gladly settled to a five-day week, I vowed never again would I voluntarily run. If a doctor told me I had to run to save my life, I would have asked for any alternatives!
My abhorrence of rapid motion goes right back to my high-school days – I went to a British Public School (the latter to be pronounced as if one had a hot marshmallow in the mouth). Now this was a ‘sporting’ school – and even worse, a rugby school. There was compulsory sport on Wednesday afternoons, then, to make up, school on Saturday mornings, followed by more compulsory sport on Saturday afternoons. If you were weedy with very powerful glasses, as I was, then rugby was out, and boys like me were automatically assigned to the cross-country running squad. There was no training in loosening up exercises, or how to breathe, or any actual training – we were just sent out in our thin running gear and canvas plimsolls to run one of the courses. (The teachers occasionally came around by bike to check against skipping the course). The general feel of the squad was that we were being punished for not playing rugby – all sport was cancelled if it was actually raining or snowing, but if it had been, and the rugby pitches were frozen or very muddy, rugby was cancelled, but not cross-country. When I finally left school, and gladly settled to a five-day week, I vowed never again would I voluntarily run. If a doctor told me I had to run to save my life, I would have asked for any alternatives!
One thing I enjoyed about school, however, was the cadet force – in that, I learned to march (that was mostly what we did anyway!), and found that with heavy boots and regular leg and arm swinging, one can go a long way. I still sort-of march when I’m walking for exercise! Then, in my first job, my first assignment out of training school was with an inspection department, where I was attached to a guy whose job took him all over the factory. He had been a policeman, and taught me two things – first the policeman’s walk (don’t raise your feet up much – sort of slide them above the pavement) so you can walk all day with minimal effort. Second, was the almost universal fact that with a determined look and a clipboard or a wad of forms, you can go ANYWHERE!
Now walking became a major part of my off-duty life (mind you, the fact that I was mostly broke might have had some influence). In my first job with Avro’s, I walked around Moston, Manchester, especially around the local park (Boggart Hole Clough – eee, a reet Lancashire name, that!). To get home from the works club after the buses had stopped, was nearly an hour’s walk. Later, I was in a flat in Crumpsall, and walked all over the area, especially around the local park (http://www.heatonpark.org.uk/HeatonPark/) . I was probably considered mad by some of my mates, because I enjoyed a walk in the park in winter, coming back all aglow and full of luffness and righteousness (albeit to a nice coal fire in the hearth!). Douglas Adams’ ‘The Meaning of Liff’ has the following definition: LUFFNESS – the hearty feeling that comes from walking on the moors with gumboots and cold ears.
Now in London, first in a Civil Service hostel in Notting Hill Gate, and later a flat in Barons Court. Over the year or so, I’ve walked from Hyde Park to Shepherd’s Bush, from Portobello Road to Sloane Square. I walked to and from my work in the computer centre in Kensington, and (albeit in stages) along the Thames towpath between Walton-on-Thames and Putney. Really, you can only get to know a place by actually putting feet to pavement. (OK – there IS an exception. On my travels, I saw a lot of guys on mopeds, with a clipboard attached to the handlebars, riding around the streets of London. Talking to one of these guys, I found that he was learning “The Knowledge” – the detailed understanding of London’s streets that’s required to obtain a taxi-driver licence. There’s a test, something like: “You’re at a West-end hotel, it’s rush hour, how do you get to a particular street in Mile End?”. You gotta know London backwards to be able to pass that!)
Next, in Israel, I was living in Tel Aviv, and driving to work at the airport. So Saturdays (the weekend) were either spent at the beach, or walking. I’ve walked from the beach in the West to Ramat Gan in the East, from Ramat Aviv in the North to Jaffa in the South. Mind you, it was really the only way to get around – because of the religious politicians, there was no public transport on the Sabbath, and of course, nowhere to park if you were irreligious and drove your car!
Working at Hawker Siddeley (HSA), Kingston, I had a flat in Teddington just across the river Thames from work. Just up the road were the Royal Parks of Hampton Court and Bushey Park, which of course I wandered through – it’s quite amazing to be walking along a path when a herd of startled deer run out in front of you! To get to work, unless it was pouring, I walked to Teddington Lock, crossed the river on the footbridge, and walked up the tow-path to the end of the road that HSA was on. Anyway, this walk took less than 30 minutes, compared with about 20-30 minutes drive up to the road bridge at Kingston, through the traffic, then back down to HSA. HOWEVER, 'twas a dark and stormy night, or at least early evening. There had been rain the previous day, the river was full, and a high tide and East winds had pushed salt water all the way up the Thames to Teddington Weir. I'd walked to work without any trouble that morning, but it was dark and raining a bit when I came back. Crossing the footbridge, I found a crowd standing at the top of the last bit, staring down at the steps which descended into cold, possibly deep water! Option one - walk back to HSA, then 30 minutes up the road to Kingston, cross the bridge, then another 30 minutes home. OK - let's try option 2 - remove shoes & socks & hang them around my neck. Roll up trousers as far as possible. Step into ice cold, salty water, feeling for each step!
One step.
Two steps.
Third step and knee deep.
Next step - and my foot's on the concrete ramp at the bottom! So I got out with just wet feet, and went barefoot into the pub at the bottom of the bridge for a defrosting drink. Apparently this flooding is a regular thing, because there's a foot high doorstep you have to step over to get into the bar! Coming out, I saw that the launching ramp next to the bridge was flooded. There is a large sign at the top of this ramp, saying "DO NOT PARK HERE - DANGER OF FLOODING". Some people from Thames Television around the corner apparently couldn't read, because the roofs of two cars stuck out of the water in the slipway. Remember, this is SALT water, so I wouldn't like to try to explain two total write-offs to my insurance!
Next job was in Yeovil, Somerset – a medium sized market town with a helicopter factory, and enough population to support a cinema, a supermarket, some decent pubs and at least two decent restaurants. Accommodation was iffy, but I ended up in a shared house, about a hundred or so years old, just out from the centre. It even had a ye olde English street name – Grass Royal. The house was scruffy – I wouldn’t say that it wasn’t fit for pigs – it was! And the worst of the messer-uppers was the owner, so all I could do was to keep my own room clean, and try to keep the tide of grunge from totally overwhelming the kitchen. But – countryside was minutes away, and I could walk (what else!) to work and to shop.
Anyway, seeing the writing on the wall for the British aviation industry, I accepted a job to start up an engineering department in South Africa at Atlas Aircraft outside Johannesburg. I went through all of the immigration bumph, and got a letter saying that Atlas needed me urgently, so would I get ready to go as soon as my papers came through. So, I gave up my job, had a holiday, sold my car, and was all set to go. Then a fat envelope arrived at my door from S.A. It contained all of my application papers, and a brief letter saying “Your application for permanent residence has been refused. It is not the policy of the Board to give reasons”. Sheesh! I immediately telexed (remember that device?) to Atlas, but it took 4 months to find the clerk who put the wrong stamp on the papers and get it reversed. In the meantime, no car, no job (and definitely no prospects in the UK aircraft field). No unemployment pay-out ‘cos I’d been self-employed, but I did get Social Security, which allowed me to pay for the food while living in my Mum’s house! OK – back to walking, but this time as a NECESSITY!
Now I had to check in at the Job Centre to get my Social Security cheque, and one week I was offered a temporary job with Liverpool Council. The voting age was just changing from 21 to 18, and the Council decided to make the city aware of this by doing a census, and getting everyone who would be able to vote in the next election (i.e. 17-year olds) on to the voters roll. So now walking was my job! So for a month, I went by bus to my current assigned area, walked to every dwelling in the area with the voter’s roll forms. I walked in old slum streets by the docks, where I could usually find a granny who knew everyone in the street, with their ages and birthdays. I visited the soulless tower blocks of the 50’s post-war resettlement, where people in the flats on one side of the lifts didn’t know who lived on the other side! Anyway, just before Xmas, the S.A. permit came through, and I set up to emigrate to S.A. (I’ll post another blog some time about my early days in S.A., and my run-ins with various officials).
Now in South Africa, and my first flat was in Hillbrow. Ah! Hillbrow of the 70’s! A cosmopolitan, 24-hour sort of place, full of clubs and bars and restaurants. Accents from all over the world – except for black African! For this was a ‘reserved area’, where only the non-whites who worked there were allowed to be in the vicinity. Because the blocks of flats had to have gardeners, janitors, cleaners and even individual maids, there had to be accommodation for them. But – to spare the sensibilities of the blanke, the accommodation had to be out of sight. So, in this flatland area, arose the concept of ‘locations in the sky’, where the domestics’ quarters were put on the roof level of the blocks. So, by a twist of apartheid rules, the low-level workers occupied the places that in other societies would have held the penthouse apartments of the rich! Meanwhile, as always, I walked the area, often walking down into Johannesburg city centre to go to the cinema or to one of the big department stores. In walking around, I found, in the small, aging suburb of Judith’s Paarl, a narrow tree-lined switchback lane up a small escarpment – almost a bit of alpine scenery in the middle of the city!
Later, married and living in our first (and only) house in Randburg, I walked through the neighbouring natural park (http://www.footprint.co.za/deltapark.htm ), with its bird sanctuary and the spruit or little river running down in the valley. To tell the truth, the fact that this park was so close was probably the decider in buying this particular house! Now, after 31 years here, I am still walking around there, although not as far and as fast as I used to! Being close to the river, most directions from home are uphill, and I’m afraid that those hills seem to be getting steeper. But as long as I can, I’ll still be walking, and never, ever, running!
Now walking became a major part of my off-duty life (mind you, the fact that I was mostly broke might have had some influence). In my first job with Avro’s, I walked around Moston, Manchester, especially around the local park (Boggart Hole Clough – eee, a reet Lancashire name, that!). To get home from the works club after the buses had stopped, was nearly an hour’s walk. Later, I was in a flat in Crumpsall, and walked all over the area, especially around the local park (http://www.heatonpark.org.uk/HeatonPark/) . I was probably considered mad by some of my mates, because I enjoyed a walk in the park in winter, coming back all aglow and full of luffness and righteousness (albeit to a nice coal fire in the hearth!). Douglas Adams’ ‘The Meaning of Liff’ has the following definition: LUFFNESS – the hearty feeling that comes from walking on the moors with gumboots and cold ears.
Now in London, first in a Civil Service hostel in Notting Hill Gate, and later a flat in Barons Court. Over the year or so, I’ve walked from Hyde Park to Shepherd’s Bush, from Portobello Road to Sloane Square. I walked to and from my work in the computer centre in Kensington, and (albeit in stages) along the Thames towpath between Walton-on-Thames and Putney. Really, you can only get to know a place by actually putting feet to pavement. (OK – there IS an exception. On my travels, I saw a lot of guys on mopeds, with a clipboard attached to the handlebars, riding around the streets of London. Talking to one of these guys, I found that he was learning “The Knowledge” – the detailed understanding of London’s streets that’s required to obtain a taxi-driver licence. There’s a test, something like: “You’re at a West-end hotel, it’s rush hour, how do you get to a particular street in Mile End?”. You gotta know London backwards to be able to pass that!)
Next, in Israel, I was living in Tel Aviv, and driving to work at the airport. So Saturdays (the weekend) were either spent at the beach, or walking. I’ve walked from the beach in the West to Ramat Gan in the East, from Ramat Aviv in the North to Jaffa in the South. Mind you, it was really the only way to get around – because of the religious politicians, there was no public transport on the Sabbath, and of course, nowhere to park if you were irreligious and drove your car!
Working at Hawker Siddeley (HSA), Kingston, I had a flat in Teddington just across the river Thames from work. Just up the road were the Royal Parks of Hampton Court and Bushey Park, which of course I wandered through – it’s quite amazing to be walking along a path when a herd of startled deer run out in front of you! To get to work, unless it was pouring, I walked to Teddington Lock, crossed the river on the footbridge, and walked up the tow-path to the end of the road that HSA was on. Anyway, this walk took less than 30 minutes, compared with about 20-30 minutes drive up to the road bridge at Kingston, through the traffic, then back down to HSA. HOWEVER, 'twas a dark and stormy night, or at least early evening. There had been rain the previous day, the river was full, and a high tide and East winds had pushed salt water all the way up the Thames to Teddington Weir. I'd walked to work without any trouble that morning, but it was dark and raining a bit when I came back. Crossing the footbridge, I found a crowd standing at the top of the last bit, staring down at the steps which descended into cold, possibly deep water! Option one - walk back to HSA, then 30 minutes up the road to Kingston, cross the bridge, then another 30 minutes home. OK - let's try option 2 - remove shoes & socks & hang them around my neck. Roll up trousers as far as possible. Step into ice cold, salty water, feeling for each step!
One step.
Two steps.
Third step and knee deep.
Next step - and my foot's on the concrete ramp at the bottom! So I got out with just wet feet, and went barefoot into the pub at the bottom of the bridge for a defrosting drink. Apparently this flooding is a regular thing, because there's a foot high doorstep you have to step over to get into the bar! Coming out, I saw that the launching ramp next to the bridge was flooded. There is a large sign at the top of this ramp, saying "DO NOT PARK HERE - DANGER OF FLOODING". Some people from Thames Television around the corner apparently couldn't read, because the roofs of two cars stuck out of the water in the slipway. Remember, this is SALT water, so I wouldn't like to try to explain two total write-offs to my insurance!
Next job was in Yeovil, Somerset – a medium sized market town with a helicopter factory, and enough population to support a cinema, a supermarket, some decent pubs and at least two decent restaurants. Accommodation was iffy, but I ended up in a shared house, about a hundred or so years old, just out from the centre. It even had a ye olde English street name – Grass Royal. The house was scruffy – I wouldn’t say that it wasn’t fit for pigs – it was! And the worst of the messer-uppers was the owner, so all I could do was to keep my own room clean, and try to keep the tide of grunge from totally overwhelming the kitchen. But – countryside was minutes away, and I could walk (what else!) to work and to shop.
Anyway, seeing the writing on the wall for the British aviation industry, I accepted a job to start up an engineering department in South Africa at Atlas Aircraft outside Johannesburg. I went through all of the immigration bumph, and got a letter saying that Atlas needed me urgently, so would I get ready to go as soon as my papers came through. So, I gave up my job, had a holiday, sold my car, and was all set to go. Then a fat envelope arrived at my door from S.A. It contained all of my application papers, and a brief letter saying “Your application for permanent residence has been refused. It is not the policy of the Board to give reasons”. Sheesh! I immediately telexed (remember that device?) to Atlas, but it took 4 months to find the clerk who put the wrong stamp on the papers and get it reversed. In the meantime, no car, no job (and definitely no prospects in the UK aircraft field). No unemployment pay-out ‘cos I’d been self-employed, but I did get Social Security, which allowed me to pay for the food while living in my Mum’s house! OK – back to walking, but this time as a NECESSITY!
Now I had to check in at the Job Centre to get my Social Security cheque, and one week I was offered a temporary job with Liverpool Council. The voting age was just changing from 21 to 18, and the Council decided to make the city aware of this by doing a census, and getting everyone who would be able to vote in the next election (i.e. 17-year olds) on to the voters roll. So now walking was my job! So for a month, I went by bus to my current assigned area, walked to every dwelling in the area with the voter’s roll forms. I walked in old slum streets by the docks, where I could usually find a granny who knew everyone in the street, with their ages and birthdays. I visited the soulless tower blocks of the 50’s post-war resettlement, where people in the flats on one side of the lifts didn’t know who lived on the other side! Anyway, just before Xmas, the S.A. permit came through, and I set up to emigrate to S.A. (I’ll post another blog some time about my early days in S.A., and my run-ins with various officials).
Now in South Africa, and my first flat was in Hillbrow. Ah! Hillbrow of the 70’s! A cosmopolitan, 24-hour sort of place, full of clubs and bars and restaurants. Accents from all over the world – except for black African! For this was a ‘reserved area’, where only the non-whites who worked there were allowed to be in the vicinity. Because the blocks of flats had to have gardeners, janitors, cleaners and even individual maids, there had to be accommodation for them. But – to spare the sensibilities of the blanke, the accommodation had to be out of sight. So, in this flatland area, arose the concept of ‘locations in the sky’, where the domestics’ quarters were put on the roof level of the blocks. So, by a twist of apartheid rules, the low-level workers occupied the places that in other societies would have held the penthouse apartments of the rich! Meanwhile, as always, I walked the area, often walking down into Johannesburg city centre to go to the cinema or to one of the big department stores. In walking around, I found, in the small, aging suburb of Judith’s Paarl, a narrow tree-lined switchback lane up a small escarpment – almost a bit of alpine scenery in the middle of the city!
Later, married and living in our first (and only) house in Randburg, I walked through the neighbouring natural park (http://www.footprint.co.za/deltapark.htm ), with its bird sanctuary and the spruit or little river running down in the valley. To tell the truth, the fact that this park was so close was probably the decider in buying this particular house! Now, after 31 years here, I am still walking around there, although not as far and as fast as I used to! Being close to the river, most directions from home are uphill, and I’m afraid that those hills seem to be getting steeper. But as long as I can, I’ll still be walking, and never, ever, running!