The Crooked Billet
Walkers: Mrs P, Farty, TB, and me.
Distance: 7.5miles
Found: Tissues and Wimbledon
Time Taken: including lunch, all day!
A streetcar named nostalgia (thank you, Mon) and wombling round Wimbledon.
Another episode in the occasional
series, the Rahras go forth. (urban section or Arborfield London Explorers (ALE))
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| Croydon Tramlink |
It was a beautiful day with gin
clear skies, our favourite, as Mrs P and I girded our loins and boarded the
Uckfield "Express" to Croydon to meet up with Farty and TB. This
"service" can be unreliable to say the least, and often morphs into a
bus ride, but today all went to plan and Farty and TB were waiting for us, and
we set off to board a tram to Wimbledon. Mrs P and I are impressed by the
tram system, we don't have such things in the provinces, it was quite like
being oop north. I do remember trolley buses around London as a kid
though. (Oh god, she's off)
We arrived safely at Wimbledon
Station and set off up the High Street. My, how it had changed.
There was going to be a lot of this today, as I used to live nearby. The
only shop I recognised was Ely's where my mum went shopping on the morning of
her wedding with her bridesmaid, as you do. I think there was a sale
on.
Our first stop was at St. Mary's church, the one you see in the
background at Wimbledon tennis. Farty had an urge to see the tomb of Sir Joseph Bazalguette, designer of the London sewer system after the "big stink" of 1858. Farty and TB had a similar problem some years ago after a particularly hot vindaloo. Sir Joseph was buried in a mausoleum with several relatives - all very grand. We had a good nose round. Inside the church was a plaque dedicated to Canon Norman Hook. This rang a bell with Farty, and sure enough she later discovered he had christened her all those years ago. (Sorry Mon!) What a memory, and only 6 months old! Leaving the church we were now on a road skirting Wimbledon golf course, very exclusive, with des reses, & full of character. Sadly some of these houses were being bulldozed and replaced by square buildings a la Kevin Mcloud's Grand Designs. Such a shame.
We arrived at the entrance to
Wimbledon Park itself, (nostalgia alert), where I spent many happy hours on the
swings. Proper swings, you remember, really tall, where you could swing
until you were horizontal, and probably fell on to concrete beneath. Now
they're little plastic things with sand underneath. Pah! Onwards
towards the lake where Farty remembered being brought as a child by her granny,
who lived in Wimbledon. What a coincidence. We could have been
there at the same time. Come to think of it, I was once pushed in by a
little blond girl.......We were close to Southfields where I was brought
up. (Oh oh, memory lane again). It seemed a shame not to have a look
round. Lots of changes of course, and people of, how shall I put this, a
different hue from the 50s and 60s. There's a big South African
contingent living here now, and several biltong shops which Farty, Mrs P, and
TB could'nt resist. Try as I might, I can't get my head, or gob, round
biltong. It looks like the sort of stuff Sir J. Bazulguette would have
dealt with. On into the town, and lo and behold, there was the dentist
Farty used to visit. Around the corner was Sutherland Grove where I grew up,
a nice road with plane trees, on one of which Dad measured my sister and
me. 
We about turned and headed for the
common. "Follow me!" I cried, confidently, "I know a
short cut!" Wrong! Estates seemed to have popped up
everywhere. Quelle shock. Farty got us back on track, and we
stopped off at the Buddhapadipa Buddhist temple. 
In Wimbledon? Who
knew. It's a fantastically ornate building, and the air was heavy with
incense. Monks drifted about, looking serene. Maybe it wasn't
incense. Feeling peckish now, we hot footed it on to the Crooked Billet,
where my mates and me used to indulge in a bit of underage drinking. A
schoolfriend passed her driving test at 17, and having acquired an ancient
Austin 1100, 6 of us would pile in, (no probs, no seat belts), and head for the
pub. Unfortunately the friend had a withered right leg due to polio, and
all the controls were around the steering wheel. Recipe for disaster,
especially after a lot of elderflower wine. Bit sickly really, none of
your tequilla slammers back then. We lived to tell the tale. We
settled down in the warm welcoming pub, which was situated next to some cinque port houses for men over 55. 
God knows where the women were.
Probably dead of exhaustion after having 10 kids. The food was fab.
Pork belly for Farty, and good old fish and chips for the rest of us, with
triple cooked chips. Yum. It was starting to get dark and a light
drizzle was falling, so we made a move. The Uckfield "Express"
waits for no man. We reached Wimbledon station and boarded the tram.
Ay oop, we'd had a reet champion time!
Apologies, this has turned into All
Wend's Yesterdays! I can hear the yawning from here! xxxxx
