AI Website BuilderIn July and August 2024, I embarked on a pilgrimage along the River Thames, travelling from sea to source. This journey was a personal tribute to the natural world. This project, comprising an article and an art series, is a compilation of the diary entries, sketches, and research I gathered along the way. I dedicate this work with heartfelt gratitude to the River Thames.
I also take this moment to thank:
Shaun Chamberlin, who edited this article,
Fritjof Harms, who built this website,
My wonderful family who kindly and unfailingly support me in my madcap schemes.
The Gatekeeper and His Kin: Of Water and Spirits
The C.S. Lewis Nature Reserve was the forest of my childhood, and sits on the tail end of Shotover Country Park. I have known it by many names: the Fairy Place, the Sandpit or, simply, The Forest.
It is an old claypit, [1] reclaimed by woods. In the centre lies the main pit, now filled with water.
I have walked this three-hectare [2] piece of land since I was small; it is here that I catch glimpses of what it might be like to be native to a place — to belong.
And here is where I first encountered The Gatekeeper, who dwells in the pond. He began as a story told to me by my father and grew in my mind into a spirit inhabiting the space between realms: Day and Night, Urban and Rural, Life and Death. And, from that liminal space, one with the ability to open eyes to reality's truths and magic.
Today, I understand that there are many such gatekeepers in the world: stones, trees, and caves…
And so, by way of honouring these spirits and all that they have to teach, I would like to share The Gatekeeper’s story with you:
The quarrymen left. Their human holes gradually filled with water and became green. The land exhaled and began to settle down.
And ere long, a creature stirred in the clay. As the sediment built, he slowly grew. An eye opened to watch the life around him.
Seasons passed, eggs hatched, frogs spawned, herons hunted and trees blossomed. Life spiralled above him. And he watched.
Occasionally, he would lift a great hand out of the water to shift some little thing, to ensure things were moving as they ought. To make sure the lives around him were safe.
Over time, the urban landscape swelled once more around the little forest where he lived and the humans returned to play, hide and walk in it.
They built a fence on the border and a gate at the entrance.
Sometimes, he appears to them. Throw a stone into the mirror-still water of the pond to rouse him, say a prayer of gratitude and you might spy him.
When it suits him, he takes the shape of an old, ashen-faced man. He cloaks himself in a tattered grey-green robe, the colour of the rocks in the murky water. He does not speak but moves purposefully.
He is born of the land, a spirit, an intention, a shrine become sentient. If he likes you, he will initiate you into the ways of the in-between. He will make you aware of the cycles he protects. He will show you that life is motion and it never stops.
Yet on his belt hangs a set of rusty keys with which he locks the gate at night, keeping outsiders from his realm. Locking you inside too, if you linger after dark. You had best be sure you belong before taking that chance, for the night is the creature's time – and he will keep his community safe from harm.
He was my first encounter with a Gatekeeper, and, I now realise, truly the originator of my Thames pilgrimage. This Gatekeeper of my childhood has remained a central presence in my life and, as you walk with me, we will discover together the significance of those early adventures in his realm.
Yet before our journey properly begins, I must share one more tale, about another of his kin, who I met over fifteen years later, in Portugal…
~~~~
Here, I take a moment to thank a beautiful Portuguese carpenter. He introduced me to his country, showing me places that would touch my heart. And he instinctively knew when and where to give me space to laugh, to cry, or simply to reflect. One such occasion was when encountering the Nascente do Rio Lis.
The river Lis flows for 40 km [3] through urban sprawl and forest before reaching the sea. It provides a welcome balance to the region’s dryness, watering areas at regular risk of wildfire.[4]
Near to its origin, however, it is only a shallow stream, whose company has brought me great joy and contemplation.
Its Nascente (birthplace) consists of a pile of stones, topped by a header concealing a spring, which flows intermittently throughout the year. During that first visit, the afternoon was golden and the late sun threw sparkles over the water. We meandered upstream, stopping to delight in the algae-covered rocks and small fish swimming beneath the surface. As we walked, the stream slowly became a trickle, and eventually, a dry bed.
When I saw the stone, I knew that here was a Gatekeeper. It marked a doorway between the deep, heavy darkness of the Underland and the light-filled Overland.
I saw how the water inhabits all places, unafraid to move between realms. I stayed there for several minutes, still and silent, trying to make sense of what this stone sought to tell.
Moved and humbled, I built a small altar with leaves and figs from the gully and made a promise: I promised to honour the sacredness of this stone and all it represented, to honour the water. I did not know how to keep this promise, but in that moment, making it felt like enough.
~~~~~
A further three years would pass before, in early 2024, the Lis called in my vow. It was time. As a woman whose body was nourished and built through all my years by the waters of the Thames catchment, I owed the birthplace of those waters my presence. This intention lingered for a while, coalescing in the background until the day my father’s friend came over for lunch. This man worked for an organisation called Walk the Thames,[5] which handles the logistics for would-be Thames adventurers. And suddenly, it clicked. A pilgrimage. I had to see it, to walk it, to witness and learn to understand the monuments and messages left by both humans and nature. To greet and honour the creatures, beings and plants with whom I share this landscape. Above all, I had to create a ritual, to demonstrate my commitment, and honour my longing to more deeply connect with my home and to learn from my eldest elders, in this more-than-human world.
I must confess, that hiking has never been my favourite activity, but the call was undeniable. A promise must be kept, especially to one who speaks from inside the heart.
Logistics:
And so began four months of research. I decided to walk the Thames from the sea to its source. Inspired by the source stone of the Lis, it felt fitting that the Thames Head Stone should be my journey’s end. There’s something rather poetic about this direction, like a life cycle: we spin out of the moving, unpredictable cosmos (the sea), take the journey of life, and walk towards the grave. It would be a meaningful metaphor for me—a reminder of where I came from and where I'm going. However, it also meant that I couldn’t use Walk the Thames, as they only guide from the source to the barrier.
For the next few days, I trawled Google Maps for routes and accommodation. I referenced Thames Path guidebooks, but the information pre-dated the pandemic so I couldn’t be sure if the recommended places to stay or eat had survived Covid. Many people assumed I’d take a tent, but I knew it wasn’t practical. I would not be able to carry all the camping paraphernalia long distance and I would be moving through multiple urban hubs of the South East. While there are many people who, by choice or necessity, live in tents, in cities like London, Reading and Oxford, it is not the easiest of procedures to rock up and pitch a tent without feeling unsafe, trespassing somewhere, or being moved on by the police. I settled on a mix: budget hotels and B&Bs, staying with friends, and using my family home in Oxford as a base.
Safety was the next question. Most people’s first reaction to hearing about my journey was: “Are you going alone? Will you be safe?” Personally, I wasn’t too worried since much of my route passed through cities, where help would be nearby if needed. But I knew I’d also encounter some more isolated paths along the way. To prepare, I set up a system of regular check-ins, sharing my location and itinerary with friends and family. I felt this plan would ensure that, should anything happen, someone would act quickly.
In regards to my fitness level, this walk would also be a challenge. I am considered to be a moderately fit person and can walk more than fifteen kilometres on a good workday. But to complete the walk within my time and budget allowances, I would have to cover double that distance daily while carrying my pack. I found the bag I wanted to use and proceeded to fill it with weights and food tins in addition to things for my daily workday. I figured that carrying about half my body weight should be enough for me to get used to it. I began to walk to and from work, this added an extra ten kilometres to my regular day. Doing this five days a week for six weeks would be my training.
I researched both the geological and human history of the Thames, brushed up on my water cycle knowledge and studied the different animals and habitats I might spot on the way.
If you are interested dear reader, I will leave a reading list below.
The journey’s beginning:
I arrived at Shoeburyness East beach at extreme low tide. The day was hot and clear, with clouds hanging in a low ribbon on the horizon. Low water above, low water below.
I had prepared many prayers and speeches for this moment, to mark the beginning of my journey. But when I arrived, there were no words in me. It was not my time to speak. Instead, I sat and listened to the noises of the sea breeze.
After some time in silence, I meandered along the beach. Among the shells, stones, sprats and jostling crabs, there were bricks and rusted boat equipment scattered along the shore, now clad in barnacles. Everything here seemed touched by humanity, from the flotsam and the holidaymakers to the barges in the Estuary. The remnants of one of WWII’s two Mulberry Harbours, artificial ports used for the D-Day landings, stood off to the right.[6]
As i walked, I thought about the book, Rag and Bone, I’d been so engrossed in, and its description of the Thames Estuary. So much of London's waste or “rough stuff" [7] had been dumped in the Estuary mud over the centuries. Ships stood quarantined here during the plague, disused vessels were sunk and left to the seabed (bedlam’s bottom)- prison ships with prisoners of war were left to rot here, their bodies buried slightly inland in what became known as Dead Man’s Island.[7,8] All the unwanted things, shoved out of sight and out of mind. And all the while, life continues to swirl around the human debris, reclaiming it once more.
I sat down again and watched a young girl with her hair in a messy bun- just like mine- grubbing in a tidal pool. She was digging out sand and yelling to her mother about the crabs she had found. She is slight of build with a blue top and shorts, speaking in a London accent. Watching her, I wondered about who her ancestors might be, and how, from early humans until now, we’ve dug clay for pots, and scoured the sand and rocks for shellfish or crabs. Her ancestors would surely recognise the instinct, joy and curiosity - or need - that drives her to dig.
I thought of the people who once made a living by sifting through the rubbish here, and those who comb beaches today, seeking out the stories thrown up by erosion and the tides.[7] So little had changed. Would this little girl know about it? Would she ever learn? I only recently discovered this history myself, and I’m far from an expert. Does she realise she is carrying on an ancient tradition?
In my research on footpaths, I hadn’t found a clear route from the beach to the next stopping point - It seemed like a maze of private land and marshes between the two places, so I jumped on the train. I would begin walking from Gravesend, where the Thames path became clearly signposted. Furthermore, starting my walk from here, had a rather poetic symmetry to it - cradle to grave, Gravesend to Birth. I learned later that I could have tried the Coast-to-Coast path,[9] but my planning did not go beyond articles mentioning that the opening of the Thames path to the coastal paths was a plan rather than a finished project.
On my return journey, I took note of the landscape. Industrial estates stretched to my left, marshland lay to my right. Square buildings and rolling green flats, interspersed with ponds. I thought about the processes needed to first drain marshland and then build on it. Surely, wetlands are terrible places to build on, counterintuitive on so many levels. Yet it happens all the time. Despite wetlands having a “vital role in the ecosystem, purifying water, filling aquifers and harbouring wildlife,” [10] humans have different priorities and are always looking to expand. Like the debris on the beach, the wetlands too are continually transformed by humans, for humans. So, they are drained, and great hulking buildings rise in their place.
Names:
During a catch-up call with a dear friend, the conversation turned to the topic of pilgrimage. My friend, whose cultural roots lie in Islam, spoke of the Hajj- the pilgrimage that every Muslim must undertake at least once in their lives should they be able to do so. [11,12]
He explained that, upon completing this journey, a pilgrim can take on the title “Al-Hajj” as a mark of respect and recognition. [13] Although I no longer practice, my own roots lie in Catholicism. I recalled my Confirmation when I was 12. In this Catholic rite of passage, one chooses to become an adult participant in the church and continue one’s faith journey. [14] In this ritual, the participant chooses a new name, a saint’s name. I chose the name Lucy.
Laughingly, my friend asked me what name I might claim after this river pilgrimage. We chuckled about it and moved on to other topics, but his question lingered in my thoughts. My understanding of pilgrimage is to dedicate time to clarifying one’s beliefs and then going through an initiation or right of passage where one demonstrates those beliefs. Through this pilgrimage, I dedicate time to learning about the land and beings around me.
Perhaps, in the end, the title I hope to one day earn is that of: “inhabitant,” or “local.” To know the land in such a way that I can truly call it home.
I am up, out, and walking at 0700 and by 0800, the sun is already strong. My route today will take me along the river from Gravesend to Erith. My route will zig-zag around to account for the industrial estates who own private land on the riverbank.
Blackberries:
This year has been a fabulous year for blackberries and they are everywhere! They line the street walls, their branches sprawling over fences, scattering purple stars on the pavements where the berries fall.
As I wander along, I snack on the juicy fruits, savouring the bursts of green and purple in the otherwise concrete-grey streets. I start to think that I should have brought a box; there are so many blackberries, I would hate for them to go to waste. But then I pause. Why do I think that? Would the blackberries really be wasted if I didn’t pick them? Do I believe something is only valuable if humans (or specifically, I) can use it?
Many creatures eat blackberries and will be delighting in this good harvest. Countless beings make homes in and under bramble shrubs, using them for shelter or to lay eggs. Blackberries that are not eaten will fall to the ground, decompose and enrich the soil. This sustains the mother plant, and sows new seeds in the process. In nature, nothing goes to waste. I notice how my initial thoughts reflect a Scarcity Mindset, [15,16] the belief that I should grab what I can now before it is gone. Logically, I know that, at least for now, I have access to food in supermarkets, and that there will be swathes of blackberries as I walk. But just now, I take a moment to thank the blackberries for their lesson. I walk on, revelling in the abundance of today.
Northfleet bench. The Hill Northfleet:
A huge industrial estate eclipses my view of the Thames. From a nearby poster, I learned that industry in this area is nothing new. From the bench on which I sit, at different points throughout history, I could have seen the Imperial Paper Mill, an industrial railway, factories including a cement plant, a cable factory, and dockyards.
Today, turbines, warehouses, pylons and cisterns fill the landscape, with large metal containers being moved by huge cranes. I am certain I must have purchased something in the course of my life that passed through this estate. A little later, I would walk by an Amazon warehouse, and I know I have bought items dispatched from there. Nevertheless, I look upon this sight with sorrow and disgust. It is so grey, so square, so full of structures that pollute the river it sits on.
This is the reality of the predicament. We all long for unspoilt nature and are heartbroken by the destruction that makes way for facilities like these. Yet, by consuming the way we do, we continue to create the need for these industrial estates. Our convenience takes priority over the collective life of the planet. Sights like this are a harsh wake-up call- a challenge.
The section of my journey through the industrial estates is anything but picturesque. But it presents part of the true account of our relationship with water and our abuse of it. In my endeavour to gain a full picture of the Thames, I must witness the uncomfortable parts, perhaps more so than the beautiful ones. I find guidance in a quote from Wendell Berry:
“There are no unsacred places. There are only sacred places and desecrated places.” [17]
Walking through the desecrated places in a way that acknowledges all that the river is, the fact that it is no less sacred for the desecration of humans, the place becomes sacred to me.
The world is a friendly place:
By mid-morning, the sun was beating down, and somewhat foolishly, I stopped along the path to do a little sketching.
After a little while, I spied a man and his dog walking towards me along the path. Immediately, I was on the alert. Despite the business surrounding factories, this path felt isolated, and many who care about me were concerned about my being alone on this particular section of the walk. It would be so easy for someone to hurt me and many unpleasant scenarios flashed across my inner vision. I quickly checked to make sure I was location-sharing with my family before the man had a chance to pass by.
The man stopped and jovially asked,
"It is hot today, have you got water?"
I answered, somewhat guardedly:
“Yes, thanks. and yourself?”
He smiled as he tapped his water bottle and said:
“Yep!”
"Make sure you look after yourself!”, he added before wandering on.
I sat for a moment longer, smiling to myself.
There are dangers in undertaking any journey. We are vulnerable in unfamiliar places, and I own that I am often naive to risks, only realising the dangers of situations in hindsight. I have many people who care for me and do their best to look after me. While It is important to safeguard against potential dangers, it is also vital to remember that most people, in their essence, are kind, and ultimately, the world is a friendly place.
Purfleet on Thames:
The last few hours have brought me to Purfleet on Thames. I know this place from my English Literature classes as one of the locations where Dracula stored his coffins of Transylvanian soil. [18] While Dracula’s reasons for bringing his native earth to London were supernatural, the idea of carrying one’s native soil is an interesting metaphor.
I was born in the UK and was shaped by the society I grew up in. For better and worse, like Dracula’s coffins of Earth, I carry that conditioning with me wherever I go. The question of acculturation, especially for those who migrate to new lands, looms large. When we encounter other cultures, we must decide which aspects of our upbringing, and culture are worth preserving and which should be let go. It is a negotiation of values. We must decide which parts of ourselves to keep and which parts we might outgrow. But this question extends further than mere country borders. Anyone wishing to grow must actively analyse the beliefs they were brought up with, and decide whether they still serve and, whether they still want to carry them.
I smile as I look across the river to Purfleet. Dracula’s evil literary plots have given way today to a children’s party, the music and happy shrieking of which I can hear from the other side of the river.
By this point in the day, I have been walking through open meadows in direct sunlight. The heat has started to take its toll. My joints ache, my head hurts and my energy has dipped. Everything feels heavier and I long for some shade. The trees are sparse here and there is no breeze.
I stop at the Dartford Creek Barrier, part of the Thames’ flood defence system, [19] and attempt to rest in the narrow slice of shade the concrete supplies. But it won’t do. The concrete is hot from the sun, I have to keep moving, and I have to find some shade.
It took three hours and a ten-minute rest under a sad-looking Rowan tree before, dehydrated and sunburnt, I arrived at my overnight stop.
I woke up stiff and a bit grumpy, I had suffered from heatstroke after yesterday’s walk, but I am out again by 0700. My route today takes me from Erith to Canary Wharf, where I will stay the night with a dear friend. I expect the scenery to shift today from the gritty greyness of factories and depots to the sleek squareness of banks and offices in London’s capitalism central.
Crossness sewage:
The Crossness pumping station sits on the Thames riverbank between Erith and Thamesmead.
It is one of the largest sewage treatment plants in Europe and serves around two million people. [20]
It sits adjacent to an original pumping station, part of the design of Joseph Bazalgette to build and improve a sewage system for London after the Great Stink in 1858. [21] Before this, raw sewage, along with waste from factories and slaughterhouses emptied straight into the Thames or were collected by night soil men who carted the waste out of London to be dumped elsewhere. [23]The pollution running into the Thames contributed to periodic outbreaks of Cholera, which ran rampant. [22] The Governmental response to the stink - which eventually cleared Parliament [21] - was to dump tonnes of quicklime into the river to disinfect the water. [23] This wreaked its own ecological havoc.
Bazalgette’s system of pumping stations, including Crossness, facilitated the channelling and treatment of sewage before it was released into the rivers and ocean, which was a significant improvement.
However, this is not to say that the society of that era was as wasteful in general as we are today. Back then, anything reusable or resellable, trickled down through society, with dustmen collecting fire ash from houses and mudlarks who scoured the riverbanks for “anything that might translate into bread.” [24]
Sewer Systems today:
While we might no longer have outbreaks of cholera to contend with in the UK, and despite many headlines proclaiming the Thames as one of the cleanest rivers in Europe, [25] sewage discharges into the river are still a regular occurrence, while there is governmental resistance to introduce more oversight on water companies. [26] Discharges severely impact the river’s biodiversity, altering oxygen levels and causing mass die-offs of fish and other aquatic species. [27,28]
Near the Crossness station, I see one of the “Thames Bubblers.” This machine was introduced in the 1980s to pump Oxygen into the river to help sustain aquatic life [25]. While this technology might offer a short-term, symptom-easing answer, it does not provide a long-term solution to the fact that our current systems of waste management are not viable or logical on these large scales, [29] nor does it deal with the profound disconnect between humans, and our responsibility to the systems that keep us alive. Mark Boyle sums it up in one quote:
“If I had to clean my own water, I sure as hell wouldn’t shit in it.” [30]
On a smaller scale, human waste can be and is turned into a valuable resource, while dramatically reducing wastewater and the need for chemical treatment. Compost toilets are one fabulous example. In a compost toilet, as the name suggests, human waste is composted and eventually turned into rich soil. There is something deeply satisfying about using one. While maintaining one requires time, space and some dirty work, I know exactly where my waste ends up. There is nothing about the process that I do not understand or cannot do myself, reducing the need for governmental oversight on large waste organisations. Without water involved, I do not have to worry about chemical treatments, it reminds me that waste is only harmful in the wrong quantities and that humans, by nature, can actively enhance ecosystems- we are not inherently toxic to the earth. The challenge lies in how to translate these principles into the massive-scale systems that serve our urban and many rural communities.
Each act, like this, of realigning with nature, adds a piece to the puzzle of repairing our relationship with waste. Recognising this softens my despair and strengthens my resolve to not turn away when faced with these giant pumping stations.
By 11:30, the temperature is approaching 20 degrees and I want to avoid a second bout of heatstroke. If I want to make it to the end of this journey, I need to be smarter about how I take care of myself. So I jump on the clipper ferry for a few stops. While this might be considered cheating by some, my intention was always to connect with the river on a spiritual level rather than demonstrate a feat of physical stamina, at the expense of my overall health. It is not what I had planned, but there is something romantic about travelling by boat. Attending to the river while floating on it.
The Thames Coastguard:
As I wander up from Erith and toward Woolwich, I notice red boxes containing life rings placed at intervals along the riverbank. Each box is marked with coordinates to quote to the emergency services in case of an incident.
The River Thames remains tidal for around 95 miles inland, reaching all the way to Teddington. [31] This tidal range means that safety on the river throughout much of London falls under the jurisdiction of HM Coastguard.
While we flock to the Thames to play in it, swim, fish in, run by, sit by, and travel along it, it is easy to forget how dangerous it can be. Strong currents, riptides and deep mud make the Thames very hazardous. [32]
Many people, myself included, who do not have a direct understanding of our local waterbodies, are ignorant of their tides, currents and moods. We are often unable to notice the indications of danger in our rivers before it is too late. Our disconnect magnifies our vulnerability and shows up in the data: “On average, 400 people drown in the UK each year, with a further 200 people committing suicide in our waters.” [33]
The folks at the London Coastguard work in conjunction with other Institutions [34] to respond to distress calls and to prevent loss of life in addition to search and rescue missions, boat collisions, severe damage, and pollution incidents such as spills. [35] In 2021, they responded to 36,330 incidents. [33] If we can rekindle our relationship with the land, and once again become curious observers with respect for the forces of nature, perhaps we can recognise and respond to dangers in a different way. Avoiding contributing to those statistics
Having used the ferry for part of the journey, I arrived in Canary Wharf earlier than planned. I was able to spend a few hours picking up rubbish, painting in the shade, and generally attempting to recuperate.
Plastic and comfort:
I slept poorly last night. My legs ached, and I felt hot and grumpy. Despite my intentions, I have not been attending to the river as I thought I would. My backpack feels impossibly heavy and the massive heat makes it harder to keep my thoughts straight. These were the ruminations that kept me awake in the small hours.
The natural solution would be to make my bag lighter by discarding things and acquiring what I need as I go. But this will inevitably mean single-use plastic. I have already used far more single-use plastic than I intended. The dinner from Lidl the night before last was all plastic packaging and the sanitary pads which I bought to cushion my hips to stop the bag straps from rubbing them raw, were plastic-based. It feels so wrong, knowing some of this waste may end up in the very river that I am supposed to be honouring with this walk. I saw all the industrial estates yesterday, overflowing with rubbish. I know I am part of that. There is a supply because there is a demand. It seems there is no escaping waste these days. I feel livid, tearful and immobilised.
Here I am, sitting on Canary Wharf, acutely aware of my reliance on convenience. For the past two days there has been little in the way of food shops or cafes, public toilets or shade. Here, in the heart of London, there are facilities aplenty. I can stop in the shade wherever I need to, I do not have to carry food and water if I don’t want to, and I can rely on public transport if things get too much. It certainly makes life easier - but at what cost?
The Thames is a dusty amber colour this morning and will hit high tide very soon. For a moment, I am relieved from my anger by the amusing thought that the river looks just the right colour to be a giant cup of builders' tea.
Anyway, must get on. My route today takes me through London, past the Tower of London and through Battersea to Putney Bridge, my next overnight stop.
Execution Dock close to Pelican stairs:
Wapping is famous for its shipping trade, boasting more wharves that you can shake a stick at, and just as many pubs! It is also renowned for its ties with historical piracy.
At high tide, I waddle along the narrow streets under the weight of my bag. Wherever possible, I wander through the alleys that lead to the river stairs. These curiously slimy stairs were the pick-up and drop-off points for the watermen - the historical water taxis of the Thames. I chuckle to myself as I imagine what the floating congestion might have looked like here 200 years ago, with rowdy, yelling, sweaty rowers adding to the murky stink and sloshing noises of the river.
Down one of the narrow passages, just beyond 'The Prospect of Whitby' pub, I spy a solitary gallows, hanging over the river from the pub garden. A quick Google search informs me that this gallows stands to mark Execution Dock. For 400 years, this was where many people convicted of piracy were hanged. [36]
Mutiny, robbery, smuggling, kidnapping and ransom were just some of the acts of piracy people were executed for. [37] Piracy is still prevalent today and remains a crime under international law. [38,39] Today, multiple organisations monitor global piracy hotspots, while others provide guidance, insurance, risk assessments and training to the crews and trade vessels that navigate these areas.
When in these areas, deterrents are used by crews to dissuade possible attacks. These include:
Razor wire on the outer railing and key passageways, Strategically placed dummies to make the crew appear bigger than it is, foam spray to make boarding a vessel more precarious and shatterproof windows to minimise the impact of firearms attacks [40] I wander back along the passage, sober and thoughtful.
Thames, The Zombie River: [41]
In 1957, large areas of the river Thames were declared biologically dead by scientists at the Natural History Museum. [25]
This declaration was due to a combination of reasons, firstly raw sewage, chemicals and heavy metals from industries had built up in the sediment of the river bed over many centuries to the point where the water was toxic. Next, to sustain aquatic life, there needs to be a certain level of dissolved oxygen in the water. In some areas along the tidal stretch of the river, “DO [dissolved oxygen] levels weren’t even measurable” [25]
I sit close to Tower Bridge and contemplate how deeply this river has been abused by humans. That we can destroy so much life in order to maintain convenience and turn a blind eye to the destruction brought about by our daily habits. Yet the water is still sacred. Even though it is corseted with concrete and framed with skyscrapers, still it flows. Still, it shapes us. One anchor in history to both the past and future. This civilisation, and my life within it, is nothing more than a blink in the story of this river. The river will always take every chance for birth and life and will continue to do so long after we are gone.
In 2021, the first ‘State of the River Thames Report’ was published. This river “Health Check” used 17 different indicators to measure the health of the river. [42] This report showed significant improvement on most fronts, with the return of many fish and invertebrates and some sea life including seals, sharks and seahorses. [41]
However, with the issue of increasing human populations, sewage discharges and microplastics, there is still a great rebalancing that needs to happen before we humans can once again have a debt-free relationship with this river.
I bow my head to mark the destruction that has been done. I bow my head to the human restoration attempts thus far and the evident fact that the river strives ever to heal itself. I accept the role I must play to honour the lives of my river relations, and I accept that humans are the “little siblings of creation,” [43] that healing does not come from us, but rather is shown to us, step by step when we humble ourselves to the more-than-human world.
Millbank musings:
This is what I want for my life. When I forget to live like water, I become resentful. I become an obstacle to life and love. I get stuck. A river does not resent. Water is the ultimate alchemist. Water takes the shape of whatever passes through it. Adapting around things it surrounds everything it encounters. softening what is hard. cleaning what has been poisoned. keeping everything safe in its embrace. Builds all, destroys all and refuses nothing.
It swallows all the pain and abuse, gives back life and flows on.
I want to live my life like water.
Today’s route will go from Putney Bridge to Kingston on Thames. The weather has thankfully cooled and I am feeling my body adapting to the weight of the bag.
Rain and atmospheric rivers:
The air is moist this morning and the tide of clouds has rolled in after the sunny days. Scattered showers make me smile. The river in the sky is replenishing the river on the land and, under the clouds’ protection, the heat is no longer debilitating. The air is thick, like soup.
The term “atmospheric river” is a new one to me. But, as the name suggests, they are huge bodies of water vapour in gas form that flow through the skies. They are the “largest and most important transport mechanisms of freshwater on Earth.” and play a vital role in distributing fresh water across the planet. [44] When an atmospheric river encounters cooler air, the water vapour gets squished and then falls down as rain, snow and other forms of precipitation. [45] The amount of water vapour in the skies at any given space and time varies widely but can make up anything from nearly 0% to 2% of the gases in the atmosphere. [46]
The water we see on land is only one part of the wider water cycle. Rivers flow on the ground, through the ground, under it and over it. It sits as ice, grows as plants, and wanders around as humans and animals. It takes all shapes, solids, liquids, and gases. The ultimate shapeshifter.
The building blocks for everything.
I notice a lovely riddle spray-painted on the underpass near Hammersmith station:
What runs but never walks?
Has a bed but never sleeps?
Has a mouth but never eats?
I arrive at Kingston station. The end of my first leg. I was not able to afford to take holiday to do the walk in one go. So I head home from Kingston to work the Friday and Saturday. I will return here on Sunday to continue.
I arrive back at Kingston station and will begin walking from here tomorrow morning. I took an evening wander along the river by Kingston Bridge, I came across two people loading a loot of rusted and barnacle-clad trolleys and bikes into a white van. I wandered over and asked what they were up to. They chuckled and said that they had had a lot of curious people asking. They had been magnet fishing. Dredging up metallic objects from the river bed. Today's catch was going down to the recycling plant, they said.
I woke up chirpy despite sleeping badly and was walking by 0730. Today’s walk would take me from Kingston On Thames to Chertsey. I feel more confident about this second leg. I am getting the hang of better managing myself and my body, my bag is significantly lighter than the first leg and I know a little more about what to expect. I am aware that I still don't know a lot. But I feel more confident.
Tree barks and watermarks:
I am amazed by the old trees. Their bark mimics water patterns. I can trace ripples on their branches and the gnarled bark swells into knots as if a pebble has been thrown right into the trunk. The grooves and ridges undulate like a breeze over a lake or the sand as the tide turns.
A tree is like a vertical river and, like humans, they breathe out water into the air.
The amount of water a tree can hold and utilise varies greatly depending on its size, species, and environmental conditions. For example, willow trees can absorb 40 gallons of water a day, [47] while a mature oak tree is able to absorb more than 109 gallons daily. That is an average of 40,000 gallons of water in a year. [48] Water enters the roots through osmosis and travels up the tree bark, carrying nutrients with it. To the leaves where much of the water is released back into the atmosphere. [49]
Tree bark is yet another reminder of the universal presence of water in all that exists, spiralling out and mimicking itself in the things it creates and sustains.
Today’s route takes me from Chertsey to the seasonal ferry that runs from Runnymede to my next stop in Windsor. Once again I discuss with myself as to whether to take the ferry when I should be walking. I revolt at the word ‘should.’ Once again, I remind myself that journeying up the river and attending to it is the most important thing, not the flex of doing a physical feat. I get up earlier, at 0500, to make sure I will make the ferry.
Wider context:
For the last few days the backdrop of my walk has been protests and riots. The catalyst for these events was the Southport knife attack. [50] In the aftermath, misinformation about the attacker's nationality spread rapidly, igniting demonstrations laced with racism and Islamophobia. [51] Reports detail violence, looting, riots, and widespread hate speech.
Watching news coverage and interviews with protest participants, one phrase recurs: “British values, British values. We're trying to protect British values.” Yet each group defines it differently. For some, British values seem synonymous with Christian values. For others, they evoke nostalgia for bygone social structures centred around the nuclear family. Alarmingly, for a vocal subset, British values appear to mean: “England for the English.” [52]
I find myself grappling with the term. If someone holds a British passport or is born here, are they not British? The protesters’ statements are not values but opinions, rigidly presented as fundamental and non-negotiable. They fail to accommodate the realities of the richly diverse society or address its most pressing questions.
When I think about British values, I am unsure what they truly mean. Historically, England may have had a codified set of values, particularly among the aristocracy, with rigid hierarchies dictating social conduct. However, over centuries, movements have sought to dismantle those hierarchies and advocate for greater equality. Documents like the Magna Carta or more modern legal frameworks attempt to enshrine values like freedom and equality, yet their enforcement often requires actions that undermine those very principles. Moreover, our definitions of these values are not static; they evolve with time.
As I walk along the riverbanks, surrounded by land I am deeply proud to belong to—not its politics, but its natural beauty—I wonder what it might mean to trade being English for being Indigenous. What values would we fight for if we allowed the land to guide us?
In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer defines being Indigenous as “to take care of the land as if our lives, both materially and spiritually, depended on it.” [43] With this perspective, I approach the Thames to learn the names of plants, observe the water’s ways, and connect with the land beneath my feet.
If we embraced an Indigenous mindset, I wonder what values we might march for instead. Would we prioritize stewardship over ownership, sustainability over exploitation, and interdependence over dominance? Perhaps, in listening to the land, we might rediscover a more profound and enduring sense of belonging.
Today’s walk takes me from Windsor and Eton to Hurley. I decide that this is the perfect day for a Deep Time Walk. The Deep Time Walk Project, a collaboration of experts, activists, and institutions, explores Earth’s 4.6 billion-year geological history through an audio- guided 4.6 km walk. As I take the walk, audio reflections from a scientist and a fool narrate the Earth’s evolution. [53]
Deep time walk and the origins of water:
Many years after the solar system's formation, the earth's temperatures were too hot for liquid water to collect without vapourising. It was not until around 4300 million years ago that the Earth's temperatures reached the point where water could condense and fall to the earth as rain. It is up for debate how water ended up here in the first place. The formation of our oceans is thought to have been a culmination of many factors. But the prevailing theories are that water came from meteors and asteroids with both ice and the chemicals that make up Earth’s water crashing into Earth in the period known as the Late Heavy Bombardment (though this period’s existence is also debated-.) Other research indicates that there may have been water trapped inside the earth that was released by volcanic activity. Howsoever that may be, this fabulous threesome of Hydrogen (H) and two Oxygen (O2) gave birth to life as we know it today. Life that relies on water and photosynthesis. Although it would take life a few million years of birth, death, tinkering and rearranging to get to that point. [53,54,55]
It’s rare that I experience human existence placed into perspective. Humanity has built many systems that serve to convince ourselves of our species' dominance, power and control, distracting us from our smallness. These systems teach us to prioritise comfort and convenience over the lives of all other beings on Earth, to consume and acquire as much as possible, as quickly as possible. But Deep Time is different. Deep Time is the progress of existence outside of human clocks and lifespans. Outside of this rat race, we have created. Deep time is when nature takes hundreds, thousands, millions of years to build, decide, destroy and regrow itself. If the march of Earth’s timeline is mapped out across 4.6km, then humanity’s presence occupies just a few millimetres - the width of the nail on my pinky finger. The systems we live by occupy a tiny amount of space, and my lifespan within that is all but negligible.
I came to the end of the Time Walk, sat down, and cried. Sobbing into the deep vastness, all my overwhelm, all my awe, my simultaneous joy and fear at the knowledge that I have no control over my world, my anger at anything that asks more of me than to simply exist…It all poured out.
I woke with a start about 20 minutes later. Somewhere in that emotional release, I must have fallen asleep. A curious swan had honked close to my ear and was staring at me. We held each other’s gaze for a moment before I slowly sat up, not quite sure what had happened. I tried to reach back to the feelings I had before falling asleep, but I found them distant. I decided not to push it. Whatever needed to happen had already been absorbed by my intuitive memory. It would return when the time was right. I stood up and returned to my walk along the Thames.
Today’s route will take me from Hurley to Henley on Thames, where I will head home to work and return on Sunday to continue.
Witness:
I used to think I understood the power of witness. Like everyone, I’ve witnessed many things—both intentionally and unintentionally. It’s part of life. I thought witnessing this river would be no different. But it is. It feels strange to try to witness something that doesn’t need to be witnessed, something so vast and indifferent to my presence. The river exists whether I’m here or not. It doesn’t care, and in a way, that’s the point. When we witness human things—violence, healing—there’s a clear purpose. Our presence feels like it matters. But with the river, my witness is so small, so insignificant.
And yet, paradoxically, it means everything to me. So I wonder: if the river doesn't need my witness, am I truly witnessing at all, or just shouting into my echo chamber, calling it "witness"?
Then I realise that in this thought process, I’ve already separated myself from the river. I've forgotten that I’m not separate from it at all. "Witnessing" is just a word, a concept, for something more fundamental: coexisting. So, do I need to witness the river? I simply need to exist alongside it. Perhaps that, in itself, is enough
Today’s route takes me from Henley on Thames to Tilehurst. This leg of the walk is within reach of my home in Oxford, so I will be commuting home each evening after walking and returning the next morning. Today, my Dad was kind enough to give me a lift to Henley on Thames station and I was walking by 08:30.
I had walked just under an hour when I came across a closed bridge deemed unsafe to cross. There were many signs informing me of this a kilometre or so back, but I ignored them. Unable to cross this bridge, my options are to take a longwinded detour, not walking by the river, or double back to Henley on Thames and jump on the train, one-stop, to Shiplake. This was a more economical idea than wandering the suburbia of Henley, so I retraced my route back to the station.
Shade and Trees:
Trampling across the fields now, I remember the marshlands of Purfleet and Erith, and how different it feels here. How integral tree cover is to comfort! How many trees humans must have rested under over the generations! In the marshes, There was no escape from constant sunlight. I got dehydrated so easily and just had, all in all, an incredibly grumpy time. But here, under the trees’ protection, everything is easier. Many habitats are sparse in the way of trees naturally, but these musings lead me to think about human deforestation or clearcutting forests. Where the land and its inhabitants are bereft of the tree cover that I am currently so thankful for. Without trees, the land floods or dries out, CO2 that was once held in the ground is released, and the oxygen powerhouses are gone. [56] Perhaps, in my grumpy dehydration in the marshes, I caught a glimpse of what it might feel like for an animal, wrenched from a disappearing tree home. Perhaps now, I have the other side of the story. A happy creature, protected and thankful for the shady and humid tree home.
As I am within travel distance of Oxford, I hop on the train to spend the night at home. I will begin walking again from the station tomorrow.
Today’s route takes me from Tilehurst to Cholsey. I take the train, arrive at Tilehurst station, and begin walking by 0900
Trains:
Due to a diversion on the path near Pangbourne, the easiest way to continue the walk is to take the train one stop from Pangbourne to Goring and Streatley. While waiting at the station, many goods trains passed, rocketing through the small station and setting my teeth on edge. I thought back to Southend on Sea and Erith. All those metal containers that were being shifted by cranes from huge barges are now being transported on slats by trains.
It is staggering to think about the immense work it takes to move goods across the world. To ship something from the Port of Shanghai in China to London Thamesport, the cargo covers roughly 11,866 nautical miles, before it even begins its UK journey to the consumer. [57]
"international traffic accounted for a staggering 334 million of the 425.8 million tonnes of freight handled by major UK ports in 2023".(chart 1) (chart 2) with the London ports alone accounting for 12% of that figure. (chart3) [58]
Once on land, freight is moved from ports to its final UK destination by a mixture of rail travel, road travel and domestic barges. [59]
Standing at the station, I wonder if the containers I saw being unloaded a few days ago are part of today’s train freight haulage.
Our society’s huge dependence on imports has grown from a variety of factors including population growth, our demand for both variety and cheapness of goods, and our gradual loss of self-sufficiency. We now outsource many of the skills that were once part of daily life.
think about my life, my possessions and my skill set. I work hard to create time for crafty play, and I adore learning practical skills. In theory, I could make many of the things I use if I put my mind to it.
But the truth is, I am still part of the larger system. I am fortunate to live with my parents, paying only a part of what I would pay should I live alone. I am lucky to benefit from the gift economy, trading skills and goods. Yet, I still find myself working six or seven-day weeks some months just to feel like I am thriving rather than surviving. This takes much of my time and energy.
Making quality possessions- whether food, clothes, or household items- takes time and energy, things I often don’t have enough of. Regardless of whether I have the skills to be more independent of the system, I have to learn to liberate my time. I have to seek out and contribute to communities that have liberated their time and skills from the endless cycle of consumption. I have to re-evaluate what possessions I consider essential and focus on those.
But what about others? Many people work 80-hour weeks in order to eat now, how can they possibly reclaim the time to grow their own food? This is the trap of the system and a vicious cycle.
The bigger questions are: How do we re-calibrate our notions of what is essential for life? How do we reclaim our time, rebuild our communities and become less reliant on faceless, nameless systems for our daily essentials?
How do we regain the skills we have outsourced and the time to practise them?
As of yet, I do not have a full answer. However, cultivating connection and purpose in my own heart might be a good step in becoming useful to those outside of the system.
Public footpaths:
Much of this walk consists of single public footpaths, hemmed in by a patchwork of private land.
Throughout the majority of history, people travelled from place to place on foot. These travellers carved out a network of pathways between destinations that were used regularly.
The pathways were used for generations and the public right to walk them was enshrined in Common Law. [60] Our current legal notion of “Public Rights of Way,” [61] began here.
However, throughout history, many enclosures occurred where land was divided up into plots and sold off. In many cases, where private individuals took ownership of previously common land and denied travellers access to the paths. [62]
It took many protests, campaigns, political lobbies and pieces of legislation to get to the current system of “Public Rights of Way” and still there are many legal battles taking place to keep footpaths, commons and green spaces from becoming privatised or built on. There are also those who seek to keep the history of common land alive in the public through story and song. They remind folks that the current system we live in was not always as it is today. The OSS, Ramblers Association and Three Acres and a Cow are just some of the organisations that do this.
1973 the idea of creating and reopening a public path along the River Thames was first proposed. After over 20 years of surveying, working with landowners and campaigning, the Thames Path opened in 1996. [63]
I take a moment to thank those people whose dream it was that I should be able to walk here. As their work nourishes my life, I also hope to live in a way that serves.
I remember as well that the human concept of ownership applies to humans alone. No one can own a river. No one can claim to own anything alone. This is because nothing is the result of a single creative effort. Everything that exists is the result of bundles of lives and processes acting together.
Bike:
Today’s route takes me from Cholsey to Culham station. I was contacted last night by work and called into a meeting this afternoon that I felt I couldn’t say no to. This was deeply irritating and threw me into a last-minute logistical frenzy. How can I both fulfil the day’s walk and go to work?
My Dad was kind enough to offer to both drop me off at the start point and pick me up at the end point so I wouldn’t have to negotiate trains, and instead of walking along the path, I would have to use my bike.
I was up and out and began cycling the day’s waking route. I periodically get off and push the bike seeing as cycling is technically not allowed on public footpaths and there are some places where it too muddy. This doesn't feel right at all. I am going too fast and I cannot attend the way I want to. I couldn't see the plants and their quirks, or the mesmerising water patterns, I was riding over rocks that I should be studying. I did not have time to comprehend what I was seeing. All in all, It feels like a hurried love-making session where I am just going through the motions and end up feeling dissatisfied and a bit icky.
This walk is not a chore to be done as fast as possible and then ticked off. I will reorient myself to the original purpose tomorrow.
I am so often overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of information I receive. If I don't consciously slow down, my observational discernment does not get space to cook conclusions from the things I see.
After a while of this, my ideas become starved and shallow, my opinions neutral and flavourless.
Rushing around today on my bike, I get from A to B without taking the time to understand the point of my journey. If I continue doing this, what can I hope to learn from the destination?
I made the meeting at work and it was pretty unfulfilling. I went to bed that evening with a renewed resolution to slow down, attend, and better learn how to prioritise, set boundaries and say no.
Today’s route takes me from Culham to Oxford. I was dropped off in the morning and was underway by 0800.
Dew:
It is raining this morning. Dew-spattered spider webs cloak all the Nettles and Teasels, and hang down like baskets from the clustered dock. The night’s cool fingers have reached into the dark and plucked these water beads from the air to condense on the grasses. By noon they will be gone, evaporated and tugged back into the atmosphere once more. Transient but never gone.
Due to multiple diversions on the path, I walked as far as Culham Science Park before needing to double back to Culham train station and hop over to Radley to pick up the river again.
I wander through Radley and make it to my stop in Oxford. I have walked back home.
Today’s route takes me from my home in Oxford to Witney. I take the early bus and am walking by 0800.
Port Meadow:
So here I am in Port Meadow [64]. I have spent a lot of time by this part of the river. As a child, as a teen, as an adult with the horses, with beloveds and friends. I thought about skipping this part of the pilgrimage because I know it so well – and with my body beginning to feel the strain, to make sure I can make it to the end - but no, actually, that's not what's needed. This is the area I know the best, I have made countless memories here. This is the area I personally have used. My sewage, my rubbish most likely ends up in this area of the Thames. Rather than skipping over it, this is the place that I need to honour the most. I must walk this part with extra reverence. We so often take the familiar for granted and forget to value what is dearest to us.
Today starts the final leg. The final push. I am dropped off at my start point in Witney and begin walking by 0830. Today’s route will take me through to my overnight stop in Lechlade.
I begin to contemplate the end of my journey. I feel like I am only beginning my council with this water. I wonder what my subconscious intuition makes of all this. No doubt she will tell me in time. But not before this walk has finished.
Human and Non-human names:
I've been thinking about names. I've spent some of this trip trying to learn the names of different plants as I see them. And this feels like a really useful thing. But I want to note that learning a plant’s human name(s) is just the beginning, just an introduction. While the plants and I have always had a deeper connection, woven together and interdependent as we are in the complex patterns of our lives, I know that much more is required of me in order to build and sustain a conscious relationship. In human terms, I might learn that the gent who lives down the street is called Gary, but this information doesn’t tell me who Gary is, his pursuits, his life path, his purpose, his beauty or his difficulties. To know these things requires attention, passion and patience from me. Similarly, I might have a nodding acquaintance now, with the plants along the river, but now I must give time to know their role, their needs, their symbolism and significance.
Pillboxes:
I noticed many hexagonal structures dotted along the Thames at intervals between Abingdon and Lechlade. I learned that these structures are Pillboxes from the Second World War. These structures stood sentry over the waterway as gunning towers in case the UK was invaded and marked one part of the network of defences to be manned by the home guard. [65]
I do not wish to enter or go too close. They are too cold for this hot summer day, the stone is too thick, the walkway inside too narrow and the air too still. Even from the outside, I feel claustrophobic and that the coolness inside would be oppressive, rather than offering refuge. The imaginings of the horrors of war stop me dead. Even though these particular structures were never used in a war, [66] many were. Many are still used today.
I know that if I had been born a few decades earlier, it could have been me standing in there, or my father, my mother, or my brothers. Dying or dealing death. The leaden feeling in my stomach exchanged for real leaden bullets. I know that an accident of birth and geography means that I have avoided personally experiencing war thus far. I give a moment’s thought to those who will experience war today, to those who will be forced from their homes by conflict, who will no longer have a river to walk along. I say a prayer for myself and all I hold dear and renew my intention to stand in solidarity for peace. I send a jovial message and a silly photo to the family group chat in an attempt to shake myself out of these thoughts. But really, I am reaching out to those I love: “Are you safe?” ….. “Are you still with me?”
Old Father Thames:
I did not make it to see the statue of Old Father Thames at St. John's Lock due to a diversion. This feels rather fitting as I have spent many weeks attempting to visualise and illustrate the spirit of the river but I would always lose steam in it and never finish.
In popular depictions, he is portrayed as naked or half-naked to show off an impressive six-pack, holding a shovel or a trident and attended to by mythical and/or aquatic creatures. Later on, he was portrayed in newspapers as clothed in slime or peasants' clothing, stinking and attended by diseases. [67,68]
None of these depictions, though amusing at times, seemed to quite hit the spot of my understanding until my beloved friend Shaun read me the poem: “Sometimes a Wild God” - by Tom Hirons [69]
This poem shows a creature that unapologetically strips the frippery of humanity away and reminds us of the instinctual reality that flows under the surface of all our conditioning. I know in every fibre of my being that Old Father Thames is a Wild God such as this. He is raw and bleeding, breeding madly and forever singing as he is drugged and castrated in preparation to come obediently out of our taps. But he shows himself when he wants and in his own time.
I did not see him on this walk, most of the things I have been preoccupied with thus far are human-related. But I know I cannot schedule interactions with wild spirits. Perhaps it is enough right now to know he is there and to hope that when a wild god comes to visit me, I have instinct enough to meet him and to be gladly humbled by him.
Today is the penultimate day. My route will take me from Lechlade to Cricklade, just 16 km from the source.
Underland:
Most likely today, the river will stop being a clear body of water that I can follow. Bits are already running underground, into the Underland. The Underland is what Robert Mcfarlane calls the dark spaces underground. [70] Past the deposits of sediments through which the tree roots reach, to the caves and caverns under our feet. Some call the Underland Hades. It is the realm of deep time. Of stillness and darkness with no direction. The place to which all surface dwellers are consigned when they die. It is in the Underland that water takes its time. It sinks into the earth where it wears away great porous rocks into open spaces and creates lakes and rivers without skies. It works in drips, taking millions of years to build intricate formations of minerals into stalagmites and stalactites. From the source spring, the water comes crashing out, fast flowing and awake after many years of meditating in the dark. The ‘sources’ of rivers, then are the meeting points of the Underland and Overland, with the stones that mark them Standing as shrines, guardians and gatekeepers between the realms.
It is in this part of the walk that I begin to contemplate my own death. The river is beginning to branch off into smaller streams and I feel my strength dwindling also. I know that there will be a moment when I will die and pass through into the dark. And to know and honour the spirits of the in-between, of which the Source stone is one, feels like a rehearsal for a graceful death.
Beginnings and Endings:
I meet a young gentleman walking with a bag like mine, in the opposite direction.
He stops and we chat. He asks if I am walking the Thames path, I said
“Yes!”
"Oh! You have not so far to go then!"
“Not too far!” I chuckled.
I ask him likewise. Yes, he started from the source yesterday. For him, in the youth of his journey, those streams which dwindle for me, will be his energetic beginning. The brooks will gather strength alongside him, and flow, mighty to the sea. It makes me smile to think about what processes he will now go through. What he will see and what he will think along the way. In many cultures, life moves in spirals, [71] in a great wheel that gives all and takes all in time. Life follows death follows life, and seasons wither and bloom. As this man and I walk our paths, the beginning and the end of the cycle, meet once again, greeting each other as they trade places.
I made it to Cricklade by evening time.
Today is the last day and my mind feels numb and empty. Not knowing or thinking anything else other than that for the last time, on this journey at least, it is time to walk.
Flower Ceremony:
As I head out from the Inn in Cricklade, I find a begonia flower on the street, fallen from a nearby window box. It lies directly in my path. I will bring it to the river. Set it afloat as a gift for the gods that be, like a candle being set afloat on the river Ganges during Dev Deepawali, the Festival of Lights. [72]
At this moment, I hold in my heart the phrase: " I have nothing to give that is not already yours". I do not remember where I first heard it, but it feels particularly apt. Here are three manifestations of nature: a flower, a river and a human. Each has nothing but is part of the never-ending wholeness of existence. Nature uses these three pieces to honour itself and to celebrate. I set the flower afloat and watch as a crayfish shakes itself free of the shallow bed and scuttles after it. The gift is accepted.
After taking a wrong turn, I ran into a gentleman with a heavily tattooed face who owned the stables in the next field over. He kindly gave me directions to jump his fences and walk through his field to get back on track.
The horses in the field approached me one by one. I entered their field so I needed to introduce myself before carrying on. Each came towards me in succession to smell me, one asked for closer contact and a stroke. We stood for some minutes contemplating each other..her large fly-ringed eyes and my small brown ones. Introduction over, they all wandered away, and I continued.
North Meadow Nature Reserve/ hay:
The next fields were adorned with hay bales, most likely gathered by tractors to provide feed for the neighbouring horses and cattle. A few days ago in Runnymede, I saw a homage to traditional hay-making: Large willow sculptures depicting scenes from when hay was cut by hand. [73] In the Middle Ages, harvesting hay for animal feed happened in early Summer and was a time of both backbreaking work and celebration. [74] scythes, wooden hay rakes and hay forks were the tools of the trade. The hay had to be cut, dried and stacked for the winter. [75]
Living attuned to the agricultural seasons and planning one’s food months in advance to avoid starvation, is a far cry from the convenience culture I live in today. Having a small family allotment helps me a little in understanding the rhythms of the plants, and foraging brings a wonderful supply of tea and herbs into the house. But if a crop fails, or if I do not go out and forage, I will not go hungry. Supermarkets supply food from large industrial farms. More than can be eaten and more than nature can sustain. I stand staring at the hay bales for a moment, pondering what it would mean to restore my reliance on nature and its cycles, in the age of tractors and supermarkets.
The Thames has now branched out into a series of brooks, running clear and shallow. The bulk of the water is running in the Underland. It is not easy to definitively say which of the brooks is the real Thames River at this point, but they’ll converge again downstream. Rivers with large watersheds, like the Thames, “can have many springs that drain into the main river.” In fact, each spring’s location varies according to the level of groundwater, making the idea of a single fixed source perhaps appropriately fluid. The source spring, or springs, can move around. [76] I wander forward, trying my best to follow the Thames Path signage, but I end up crossing my own wake, following brooks that lead to dead ends or private fields.
This whole area is veined with gullies and lakes. They are mostly dry at this time of year, which is useful to me in the moments when I lose my bearings and need to scramble through them to get back on track, but the water shows itself in the green: the Grass, Nettles, Blackberries and Hawthorn trees. They grow in the lowest parts of the ditches and flank the banks. These areas will flood during wintertime.
The Thames path officially ends at the Thames Head Stone, marking the ‘official’ source. But there are debates as to whether the true source is actually Seven Springs, located 11 miles away. [77]
For scientists who monitor pollution and water levels, it is important to know exactly where a river begins, so they can ensure that issues upstream, do not cause problems downstream. [78] For me though, My journey is less about scientific precision and more about a spiritual connection to the river. I am content to end my pilgrimage at the Thames Head Stone.
Preparing an altar:
Throughout my journey, I have been gradually making things and collecting items to build an altar at the source. Things that want to be on that altar have gradually made themselves known:
A small bowl of water from the tap, represents water that has passed through human hands and the element of Water more widely
A stone from the beach at Southend on Sea, which I carried throughout the walk from end to end, represents the journey and the element of earth. Perhaps the stone will make the journey back to the beach someday.
A seed from the path, which I believe to be the case of a Walnut seed, represents the plant life, abundance and growth
A feather from the path - there were many feathers directly in my path on the journey, perhaps they were trying to tell me something, but on the altar, the feather represents the animal life and the element of air. Photo
A stick. I used many sticks as walking aids throughout my journey, they have been a great support. This stick represents interdependence, kindling and the element of fire. photo
A stone from the nature reserve of my heart in Oxford from which I carved a human face. This represents me, the work I do, and humankind photo
These items I bring to the source as a gift, a closure, an opening, and an acknowledgement of the relationship between all things.
The source:
The water pools in fits and starts now. The shallow puddles give way to the dirt bed.
I pass through the final gate. In the next field stands the stone, flanked by trees. I walk slowly along the path and flop on the ground in front of it. The stone. A birthstone and a gravestone. A gatekeeper. A spirit. Holding the space between the Underland and the Overland. I quietly greet it and build the altar.
And all around us, the world sings its cyclical life-death-life song. [79] And there are no more words.
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