Thames Pathway: Tower Bridge to Battersea

Old Father Thames ... Southbank, near Vauxhall Bridge

On a crisp winter morning, we resume our Thames Path journey at Tower Bridge, its magnificent gothic towers catching the morning sun. My wife Pam and I are joined by my sister Yvonne, her partner Paul, and their dog Albert—a "Sir Sitalot" known for refusing to walk when tired.

The tide is out, revealing the muddy foreshore where centuries of London's history lies buried. My imagination transports me to 1850, knee-deep in Thames mud as a mudlark scavenging for valuables with bleeding fingers. "Hey, time traveller," Pam calls, bringing me back to reality.

Walking westward, we pass "More London" with its modern glass buildings, HMS Belfast, and London Bridge—practical but plain "like sensible shoes among flashy trainers." At Borough Market, memories flood back of working there as a boy, helping my uncle with crates of vegetables before dawn while flat-capped men shouted orders. This once-thriving wholesale market declined with the rise of supermarkets before reinventing itself as today's artisanal food destination.

We continue past Southwark Cathedral with its Shakespeare connections, the Golden Hinde replica, and the infamous Clink Prison. At Shakespeare's Globe, Pam suggests attending a summer performance—"Get your Victor Meldrew under control," she teases when I mention my back and knees.

The Tate Modern and Millennium Bridge lead us to the South Bank, where across the river stands Cleopatra's Needle, a 3,500-year-old Egyptian obelisk.The London Eye turns slowly against the blue sky, a modern counterpoint to the ancient obelisk across the river. Tourists queue for their chance to see London from above. I recall Pam and my trip on the oversized Ferris wheel the week it opened. We were with my since departed parents and, perhaps because my sister is with me today, I recollect our dad's own contribution to the colossal structure and go onto contemplate the type of life he lived.

Back in the day Terence Henry Aluwishers Maximillias Robson (he lied about the third and fourth names but I believed him for years when I was young) was a self-employed tipper driver, usually tasked with clearing sites of muck and rubble in preparation for building work to commence. It was a rainy day in 1999. I was visiting my parents when my dad said 'come with me, I want to show you something.' We drove the mile or so from my parents home at the Elephant and Castle to the London Eye – not yet erected.

'Take a look at that,' he said after using his friendship with the guard to allow us access to the building works. It was the biggest hole I have ever seen, so dark inside you could not see the bottom. 'Listen,' he said as he tossed a coin inside. Nothing. The bottom was too far down for us to hear the noise. The hole was the foundation for the metal arm that now holds the wheel in place, and dad was proud that he and his tipper driving friends had moved the dirt as it had been dug.

By the National Theatre with Sir Laurence Olivier

Contemplating my London Eye legacy led me to further contemplating the lives of the self-employed tipper drivers that dodged and weaved the London traffic, plying their trade in 1960s and 1970s London. Men like my father were a breed apart, forged in the crucible of post-war London's reconstruction. They were the unsung heroes of the city's rebirth, clearing away the rubble of bombed-out buildings with their larger-than-life personalities and even larger trucks.

In those days, before the stranglehold of regulations tightened, these drivers were masters of their own destiny. They owned their trucks, chose their jobs, and lived by a code as solid as the concrete they helped remove. The streets of London were their kingdom, and they ruled them with a mix of skill, bravado, with a big portion of roguish charm. I remember going to work with my dad during school holidays and was always struck by the camaraderie among the drivers. They'd gather at greasy spoon cafes at dawn, sharing bacon sarnies and steaming mugs of strong, hot tea, swapping stories and leads on the next big job.

These were men who could navigate the labyrinthine streets of London blindfolded, who knew every shortcut and back alley from Brixton to Barking that would allow their large lorries through. The work was hard, no doubt. Long hours behind the wheel, battling traffic that seemed to grow more monstrous by the day. But there was pride in it too. Pride in being your own boss, in seeing the city change shape under and because of your wheels. Every load of rubble cleared, every foundation dug, was a small piece of London's future they were helping to build. Dad, I think, loved the sense of freedom he felt, rumbling through the streets in his tipper truck. No office walls to hem him in, no boss breathing down his neck. Just him, his truck, and the open road – or as open as London's streets ever got.

Anyway, I digress. Past the OXO building and the conspicuous MI6 headquarters, we reach Battersea Power Station, its four white chimneys meticulously restored after decades of neglect.

'Backs killing me,' I say, also noticing how the light is now starting to fade. 'Shall we throw the towel in?' Freya looks up at me hopefully - she's with me, ready for her dinner and a warm lap. 'Just a bit further,' Pam insists, 'onto the park.'

We press on to Battersea Park, where Pam, Yvonne, Paul, Freya and Albert take a run around the Peace Pogoda. Its a building that features four gilt-bronze statues of Buddha on each side, representing significant stages of his life: birth, contemplation leading to enlightenment, teaching, and death. I think of it as a metaphor for our own Thames pilgrimage. The River, like life itself, is in constant motion.

As daylight fades and my back protests, Albert finally performs his signature move—sitting down in refusal. We end our day at a riverside restaurant, watching the sunset paint the water gold while Freya settles contentedly at our feet.