Tales From The Riverbank - The London Stone

 Back in 2019 I planned a little winter adventure, crossing the country in easy stages from Margate to St Davids, in Wales.  It went well until COVID, as a consequence of which it took a while to complete.  But I did complete it, and I enjoyed it, so I thought that something of the sort would be a good idea this winter.

The original plan was to ride the length of the Thames, from source to sea.  It didn't take much research to find that this was a poor idea, as most of the Upper Thames is footpath, and not particularly good footpath at that.  Cycling starts about Maidenhead, with a fairly continuous path from about Staines.  As these are fairly frequent A Group destinations, I couldn't see much adventure there, pleasant though it might be.

I began to look east of London Bridge, at parts we visit less often.  In so doing, I realised that if I was going to ride to the end of the Thames, I'd need to know where the end of the Thames was.

It was no surprise to find that this is well documented, and was agreed a long time ago. In 1197 King Richard I, short of cash, sold his rights over the river to the City of London.  Marker stones were erected, and have been replaced over the years, and until fairly recent times the Mayor and Corporation of London would come every seven years to touch the stones, to assert their rights.  The end of the Thames is a line between two stones.  One, the Crow Stone, is at Leigh, near Southend, the other, the London Stone, is at the Yantlet Creek, near Rochester.  Fun to visit, I thought.

It turned out to be not as easy as I expected.  The nearest land to the stone is the North Level, apparently accessible from Grain.  However, the North Level is a dangerous place, with a great deal of abandoned military ordnance which may, or may not, have become less dangerous in the time since the War.  It was also used as a decoy site for the nearby oil refinery, with fires and explosions being set to distract bombers.  The remains of those are there too ...

So I looked again, and decided that a route through Allhallows might be possible.  There was a right of way to the Creek, a footpath not a bridleway, but aerial photos showed that it was actually a trackway.  If anyone complained I could always get off and walk.

I started at Cliffe, a pretty little village that I have visited before.  Although only an hour or so from London, it feels pretty remote.  The Six Bells is the pub, and I have eaten well there in the past.

I rode across the Hoo Peninsular to Allhallows, an interesting ride, surprisingly hilly, with wide open fields and no hedges, rather in the French fashion.  For a couple of miles I was convinced that I could smell lunch cooking, until I realised that the crop in the nearby fields was onions.

Allhallows is an odd place, the home of some failed projects.  The Southeastern Railway had a track to the refinery at the Isle of Grain, and thought in the 1930s that a branch line to the seaside at Allhallows would be a ready money spinner.  Large hotels would be built, and a swimming pool with a wave machine.  People would flock there.  Well, they didn't and the resort never materialised.

But the line had been built, so what about an airport? International travellers could land conveniently at Allhallows and take the train to London.  Nope.

Riding through Allhallows today it consists of a small number of houses, a static caravan site that looks like a permanent dwelling and another, larger, that is a holiday resort.  The only piece of earlier dreams that I found was a large 1930s pub, ambiguously named the British Pilot.  The builders were in, turning it in to a Coop.  Good luck with that.

Passing the British Pilot I set off down the track, which was indeed a good trackway, lifted the bike over a locked gate and rode on, passing another gate, to the levee. Up on to the top, where I found that the track continued in both directions.  Partly concrete, partly overgrown, I assumed that it was a wartime relic.  If my aerial mapping is right there are about twenty miles of this to the west, a ride for another day.

It was easy going for a gravel bike, and a couple of miles later I was at the London Stone.

The Stone is the dot in the distance, the nearer mark is the Black Widow, a seamark.  She can't be very important these days, as she has fallen off her platform and no-one has bothered to put her back up.

I rode on to a spot where I could get down to the creek, and did so.  From here I think it would be safe enough to walk to the Stone at low tide.  I didn't, though.  I got back on my bike and rode back to the Red Dog, High Halstow, where I enjoyed a salt beef sandwich and a pint of Imperium bitter.  Kent's finest, they said, though there are those that would give them an argument on that point.

There's quite a lot more to explore in the marshes.

Mark