Thames Pathway: Greenwich to Tower Bridge

Back to Greenwich via Lewisham and the Dockland's Light Railway. I'm still getting used to the driverless DLR - all electronic wizardry, but at least you can't have a driver's strike. Soon after we set-off, Greenwich's grand naval architecture fades away like a watercolor as we head towards Deptford, an altogether grittier part of town.

The Dog and Bell emerges from the Victorian streetscape, and suddenly I'm lost in thoughts of press gangs and sailing ships. I find myself slipping into a reverie, imagining waking in the belly of a naval vessel, head pounding from more than just last night's rum. Pam's voice snaps me back to 2025, and I'm rather grateful for it.

We're forced inland around Deptford's concrete estates - "where even the pigeons wear brass knuckles," I quip to Pam, earning another sigh. Returning to the river, we feel the chill of the artic winds picking up. It's a cloudless, bright blue sky but also a cold one. We encounter Greenland Pier, Greenland Lock, and South Lock in quick succession. The names themselves evoke images of icy fjords, which seem fitting on this crystalline winter's day, where the cold brings with it a striking beauty.

The old dock infrastructure is worn to a patina by centuries of mooring ropes, and metal railings are cold enough to steal the warmth from even gloved fingers. These locks, which once helped to controlled the lifeblood of London's maritime trade now stand mostly in silence save for the whistle of wind through their ancient mechanisms. The name 'Greenland' hints at their history - these docks once welcomed ships laden with whale oil and furs from Arctic waters. Now, on days like this, when the temperature drops and the clear sky shines bright overhead you imagine those hardy whaling ships emerging from the freezing fog, their rigging transformed into delicate lacework by the frost.

Surrey Docks Farm

From out of nowhere Surrey Docks Farm appears like a rural mirage in the urban sprawl - goats contentedly munching away with Canary Wharf looming behind them. I've lived hereabouts forever and had no idea there was a farm here! Freya's nose twitches at the unfamiliar farm smells, and I imagine her thinking "Weird." We pause at the farm for sandwiches, but the biting wind and Pam's Raynaud's drive us toward shelter at the Salt Quays pub.

Inside, we unexpectedly stumble upon Pam's cousin Sophie - one of those chance meetings that make these walks memorable. Hugs all round. One mulled wine turns into an hour of warm conversation before Freya starts poking us with her nose - reminding us we have miles to cover.

We bid farewell to Sophie and continue on, and soon reach the Sunshine Weekly and the Pilgrim's Pocket, a realist work of public art which means you know what it is. It's a riverside sculpture commemorating the area's connection to the Mayflower and the Pilgrim Fathers' voyage to America in 1620. Created by artist Peter McClean, it depicts two main figures: a newsboy from the 1930s, dressed in period attire, reading a newspaper called the "Sunshine Weekly" and a Pilgrim Father, looking over the boy's shoulder at the newspaper. There's also a dog jumping up on the boy.

The statue represents the area's historical connection to the Mayflower voyage and the newsboy symbolises the modern era. The newspaper depicts the story of the Mayflower and subsequent developments in America since the early settlers' arrival. There's another pub just further down called The Mayflower and, as legend has it, it's the place where the Mayflower actually began it's voyage.

So this very spot is where the world's superpower got started! I start thinking about how the pilgrimage of the Pilgrim Fathers had an impact on the world many million times greater than the walk me, my wife and my dog are on and wonder what were those Pilgrims were thinking when they fled Britain in search of religious freedom.

Suddenly, there I am, standing on the deck of the Mayflower. It's 1620. My heart thumps with a mixture of emotions. The familiar sights and sounds of London fade into the distance as we set sail. I'm on the precipice of a journey that will become as famous as that of Odysseus.

My hands are trembling as I grasp the ship's railing, feeling the rough wood beneath my fingers. The weight of the mission presses upon me, as I think about the land I've only dreamed of, a place where I and my brethren can worship freely and build a community founded on our convictions. Fear challenges my resolve. The Atlantic Ocean is a formidable adversary, filled with danger. Will we all survive the treacherous storms? Will disease claim us before we reach the shores of the New World?

Yet, hope and belief burns brightly within, a flame that refuses to be extinguished by doubt. I close my eyes and envision the "new Promised Land" that awaits us. In my mind's eye, I see fertile fields stretching to the horizon, a place where we can build our "spiritual Jerusalem".

'That dog's cute,' says Pam. I look around,. The real dog is sniffing the other dog, the one that's a statue. Art imitating life.

Our path leads us to St. Saviour's Dock and the ominously named 'Devil's Neckinger', a historic gallows where pirates were executed until sometime in the 18th century. It's located at the point where the River Neckinger enters the Thames and believed to have got its name from the term 'Devil's neckcloth' … a hangman's noose. For reasons that worry me profoundly I find myself salivating at the thought of attending a hanging, or even being the hangman.

Suddenly, the mist rises from the murky waters as I stand alone in my quarters. My hands are trembling slightly as I prepare for the grim task ahead. The weight of duty hangs heavy. I take a deep breath, inhaling the damp, fetid air of Bermondsey. The stench of the river mingles with the tang of fear that permeate the very walls of the prison. I close my eyes, steeling myself against the flood of memories - faces frozen in terror, final pleas for mercy, the sickening crack of breaking necks.

I don my uniform, each button a reminder of the lives I've ended. Slowly, so slowly, I make my way through the prison's winding corridors. I think of the man waiting in the condemned cell, wondering if he sleeps or whether such luxury has deserted him for what remaining time he has left.

But there's no room for sentiment. Entering the cell I get to work, becoming swift, efficient. I secure the prisoner's arms with a leather strap. We walk the short distance to the gallows, place the hood over the prisoner's head and adjusts the noose. Today has drawn a large crowd. Some family's have come early to the hanging to get the best seats. They have sandwiches for a days picnic.

River Neckinger

Others throng the sides of the river, and the kids push their way to the front. I step back and my hands hover over the lever. In this moment, I am death writ large. The lever falls. The trapdoor opens. The rope snaps taut. In the cheering that follows, I stand silent and motionless, my face an impassive mask. Behind my eyes, ghosts multiply, as the Devil's Neckinger claims another soul.

'Life was brutal back in those days,' says Pam, reading the notes on the information plinth. I nearly say 'Yes, I was,' but resist the urge, although I remain profoundly worried about my capacity to so easily empathise with a man who kills people for a living! This is meant to be a pleasant walk by the river, but I guess history shows we can all fall prey to the darker side of our nature. And I'm sure I would have made a terrible hangman.

We end our day's pilgrimage at Tower Bridge. There's far too much history here for this blog so let's just say that Freya is tired but content. "Well," I say to Pam, "time for a quick half?" She knows that means a pint or two, and Freya's tail wag seems like approval.

Roy and Pam Robson is fundraising for Alzheimer's Society