Thames Pathway 6: Putney Railway Bridge to Barnes

Putney Railway Bridge, with its interlaced ironwork grid, stretches across the Thames like the city’s own set of ribs, as if it's holding the river’s pulse in check. Today is overcast, with fine mist in the air, the kind of weather that makes you grateful for a decent coat but doesn’t quite justify a complaint.

So all's good as Pam zips up and Freya’s fur starts collecting droplets, and the three of us set off, boots crunching on the damp path. Almost immediately, we pass more of the public art that lines the riverside. The Motherfigure is a distorted human figure by Alan Thornhill that, I suppose from the name, represents motherhood in some way. A quick internet check says:

The "Motherfigure" sculpture is notable for its anatomically distorted and ambiguous appearance-a hallmark of Thornhill’s style. Rather than presenting a traditional, easily recognizable maternal figure, Thornhill sculpts in clay with exaggerated, abstracted forms that challenge viewers’ expectations

I hold back a yawn. "Challenge viewer's expectations" is no more than the bog-standard lingua franca of the art industry. It conforms to the expected narrative, and the statue's distorted forms are as challenging as a bowl of sick.

We move on.

Rowers in front of Fulham Football Club

More interestingly, this stretch of the Thames is rowing country. Boathouses line the bank in a proud, competitive parade: Thames Rowing Club, London Rowing Club, Vesta, and many more. Each has its history, its own stories of near misses and triumphant comebacks. The river itself is alive with the rhythmic splash of oars, the shouts of coxes, the silent, focused faces of rowers practising, honing their craft as their boats slice through the grey water like razors skimming across glass.

I'm impressed by the skill and power on display. My imagination takes over, and there I am on the river, in a single skull. My hands are blistered and bleeding from the effort, my legs burn, my heart pumps from the superhuman effort, but glory must be mine … the finish line is in sight and Olympic gold is but a few strokes away. The sacrifice, the early mornings, the relentless drive. Pam is in the stands, Freya is beside her, cheering and barking me on. For a brief moment, I am young again, strong, invincible. Then a boat filled with real-life rowers overtakes us, and I’m back to being an elder man with a dog, a wife and a daydream. But that's enough, I think.

Across the river, in the distance, Fulham Football Club catches my eye. The last time I went there to see a football match must have been in the 1970s. I remember it as a ramshackle affair, little more than a glorified shed waiting to fall and be forever lost in the Thames. Times have changed. Premiership TV money and huge cash injections from its one-time owner, Mohamed Al-Fayed – best know for losing his son in the crash that killed Princess Diana and as the former owner of Harrods – have been transformational. Now the stadium is a gleaming spectacle of glass and steel, a monument to English football’s progress to global spectacle. I tell Pam about the old days of football: the pies, the chants, the dirty stadiums. She smiles, indulging my nostalgia, as Freya sniffs by the river and more boats of virile young men and women overtake us.

We reach Hammersmith Bridge, its green ironwork shrouded in scaffolding. Closed for years now, ever since architects discovered it to be cracking, it's been the subject of a major rebuild programme. Just like London, it never seems to be finished. You can walk over it now, but there's no traffic. It was built as a flexible suspension bridge and is particularly susceptible to vibrations. Thus, the famous sign to "break step", an instruction for soldiers to walk out of sync rather than march in unison, as marching creates rhythmic vibrations that amplify structural movement that can destabilise the bridge.

Although it's a Sunday, there are a few people working and I engage one in a quick chat. He tells me both the original road of the bridge and the rebuild are built with wood, so even when the bridge opens, there will be no buses or heavy vehicles, and even cars will be limited. So it's going to do nought to improve London's traffic congestion. Oh well.

It’s time for a break. The Dove pub beckons, its low ceilings and riverside terrace promising a decent pint. We duck inside, order a beer, a Southern Comfort and lemonade (Pam's has developed the flavour for this on walks, so goodbye elderflower for now) and a bowl of water for Freya. The walls are lined with plaques and photos -Charles II, James Thomson, – and countless other unknown drinkers who have watched the river flow by, year after year. I am reminded that being a Londoner is about joining a long, unbroken thread of people who have found comfort and camaraderie along these banks. 

Suitably refreshed, we move on, and just a short stroll away is the home of the William Morris Society, tucked into a Georgian terrace. William Morris was a Victorian artist who helped shape the Arts and Crafts movement. As an artist, craftsman, writer, and social activist, he believed that beauty and utility should be for everyone. Perhaps he’d have seen the irony: in London, even the pursuit of beauty comes with a side of drizzle.

Islands in the Thames

A little further on, an island splits the river. It's tide out, so we decide to take a walk on it. I fall, shoes skidding on mossy stone, although nothing hurt but my dignity. Freya makes a fuss, licking my hands as I try to stand. This kind of thing is dangerous to me, as I have a split disc at the base of my spine and my back jas been known to lock completely when this injury is threatened. But Freya is delighted to see that I'm ok and on my feet, and jumps in celebration.

The scent of hops drifts from the Fullers brewery upstream, and somehow I feel better already. The industry of the river is never far away.

Duke's Meadows opens up, a welcome stretch of green. Children play, dogs chase balls, and the river seems to slow, as if catching its breath. We pause, watch a group of rowers haul their boat ashore. It’s simple moments like this, quiet and unremarkable, that make the walk so worthwhile.

Finally, Barnes Railway Bridge comes into view, its arches framing the sky. The sun, which had been sulking behind clouds all morning, finally breaks through, turning the river silver and gold. We stand for a moment, letting the warmth soak in. That's enough for today.

Time to head home, I think, as Freya shakes herself dry.