Hills of the North Rejoice
Hills of the North Rejoice. A cycle through North London
It’s strange how songs ambush you. My head had been empty for a while as I ground up the hill, but near the top as the view unfolded, a song had burst into my head. At the top we sat astride our bikes and as we recovered from the climb the god-daughter and I, the song in my head burst out and covered the view with its words and notes. Whilst I sang, she ignored me and stared at a silent city far away in a lowland valley, its grey towers glanced by sun. The topless towers of Ilium could not have been more alluring.It had been the god-daughter who’d suggested that we come to this summit.‘Take me to the hills’, she’d said, ‘I want to see a view’.
She’d been new to London in March just as the pandemic increased its hold. She, like so many others, had been furloughed and had time to play with. Once the restrictions had eased we had set off each week in a series of rides, with each taking us to a new corner of town. This week, it was the north of London and we were atop the highest hill she’d ever ridden up.To start the day and to giver her strength for the hills ahead, I’d promised breakfast in the Victorian splendour of the Old Midland hotel at St Pancras Station, (now called the Renaissance). But when we arrived attired for warm weather cycling, we felt rather under-dressed for the opulence of the place so we had a take-away croissant from the station’s concourse instead. Filled and refreshed, we had set off on the entirely segregated Cycleway 6, through the gracious and well-healed streets of Islington to the foot of one of London’s sharpest climbs.
Swain’s Lane is a narrow road which runs uphill for 800 metres, topping out at 20%. In London’s cycling lore its a ‘big thing’. Iconic and feared.‘There’s only one way up here’, I said., ‘and that’s to go as fast as you can. You’ll either get to the top in record time or die in the process, in which case there’s a cemetery for your convenience behind the wall there. No feet on the ground, that’s the key’.If anything was to goad the poor god-daughter up the steepest hill in London, that was it. Off she went, panting like fury. I gave her a head start.
And the gap never closed.
At the top, she turned to see where I was.
I had both feet on the ground as I did the walk of shame.
‘Gears got stuck’, I explained.
“Yeah, yeah’, she said. ‘Sure you don't want a lie down too? The cemetery’s just there.’Once recovered, we twisted and turned through unremarkable streets, near Arsenal’s Emirate’s stadium and we stopped outside Sergeant and Co, vendor of vintage bikes.
“Oh wow, look at that!’ I said pointing to a pre-1970 vintage bike in the window. ‘Isn’t that a dream machine’?‘What? That clunky old metal thing with super skinny tyres?‘The paintwork’s all scratched. I’d not be thankful if you gave me that’, she added and pedalled off, once again leaving me behind.
Soon we were in Stoke Newington.‘Stop!’ she shouted.’Stop!’She had dismounted and was staring dewey-eyed at the curvaceous and shiny form of a double bass.‘Now that,’ she said, ‘is beautiful. ‘That is a real work of art. I think I’ll have to get one for the next lockdown. Bridgewood and Neitzert, she said looking up at the shop sign, ‘Famous’.
I took her to Abney Park after that, one of London’s Magnificent 7 Cemeteries. The final resting place for over 200,000 bodies and now a nature reserve. Gothic in its splendour, mysterious and beautiful.Too many dead people’, she said, ‘and too many trees’.
So we continued entirely on traffic free cycle paths into Finsbury Park and along the rough-under-tyre Parkland Walk, once an extension of the Northern Line, before arriving at the summit of Aly Pally, filled puffing cyclists stopping to admire the whole of London laid out below them.The next 15 kilometers alongside Pymme’s Brook , was through parks, wild flower meadows and ancient woods. The glories of London’s countryside shone around us and we felt as if we were in one of those posters usually seen in train stations, where the English countryside is bucolic and the riders cycling through it have huge smiles across their faces.And so we rode on, to the top of Hadley Common, the hill where I had burst into song.
‘What’s that song?’ she asked. ‘Another one of your 70s hits?’, she mocked. ‘The Clash or The Who? Or have you moved onto U2 this week?’
The Little Conrad's with Charles Oakley, and Martin Shaw’. I replied.
‘Who?’ She said, furrowing a brow.
‘Big hitters in the 1870s’. I said.I got the rolled eye-balls by way of reply.‘No really - Hills of the North Rejoice. It was a big hit’.I sang, ‘Hills of the North Rejoice, river and mountain spring. The song’s all about this ride’.‘I’m not sure about the rejoicing on the bloody hills’.She paused as she found her pedals. Before setting off, she turned and said, ‘Really did he write that song about here’?
She was off, long before I could explain about one of the most famous tunes in the English hymnal.
A little further on, past beautiful grand English houses, and an ancient church we stopped. Around us were seriously old oak trees, two village ponds with ducks, and open grassland. It could not have been more tranquil on this lovely summer’s day.
Between mouthfuls of homemade pickle and cheese sandwich, I asked the god-daughter,’Did you learn about the Battle of Barnet when you were at school?‘No’. She said. ‘Should I have done?’‘Not sure about the ‘should’, I replied.‘Go on’, she said. “I can see you’re dying to fill in this gap of my historical knowledge’.And between bites of cheese, I told of thick mist on an Easter day in 1471 when 23,000 men and three kings of England fought for the wealth and power of a throne. It was a bloody and brutal affair.‘It’s hard to imagine’, she mused - ‘all that fighting in that armour. It’s amazing they knew who their enemy were. I mean they all spoke the same language and wore the same stuff. They didn’t exactly where team kit.’‘You’re right, they didn’t.' I said. ‘In the confusion of the battle made worst by the thick mist, the Earl of Warwick’s men started killing their own side’.
History lesson finished we spun down the shared path along Dollis Brook., This too had been a battle-ground between the competing interests of walkers and cyclists. For so long cyclists had been banned, but in 2015 Barnet Council paved the muddy path and allowed two wheels to enjoy the 10 kilometre route alongside the river and through its woods and fields.‘A dangerous nightmare’, fumed a resident. ’It makes things very dangerous’, said another octogenarian.’ wrongly predicting carnage.Five years later with no reports of casualties, walkers and cyclists had found a harmony. It was idyllic cycling.
Which is more than can be said of Hampstead Heath.
‘Why is it that the three largest open areas in Greater London have the greatest antipathy to cyclists’? I asked the god-daughter rhetorically. `The cycling provision on Wimbledon Common, Richmond Park and Hampstead Heath is subject to a set of bylaws which make the Laws in Leviticus seem mild by comparison’, ‘Look’, I moaned on, ‘in this whole heathland there is just this miserable sandy track for cycling’.We struggled on. We rang bells at walkers who must have been deaf for they held their centre ground. We were barked at by unleashed dogs. We uttered our thanks for the grudging inches given to us, and snarled once we’d passed those ‘bloody walkers’. Actually the god-daughter called them something else.‘That was grim’, the god-daughter said once we had finally crossed the heath. ‘Not sure I want to come here again, even though the views were lovely’.
By the time we arrived in Regent’s Park, some kilometres later, our spirits had been restored. We stopped at the cafe for lunch - we were certainly too dusty and sweaty now to even contemplate the Gilbert Scott Room at St Pancras’ station hotel. The god daughter returned with a tray of drinks and bars and caught me humming that tune again.
‘Hills of the North Rejoice’, I said‘Certainly’, she said. ‘I rejoice now that I’ve done them. The views were lovely’.‘River and Mountain’ spring I continued.‘Yeah, we saw those too’.‘Valley and lowland sing’.‘Well it was just you doing the singing, but yes I get the point’.‘Did he really write that song about this ride then?’
It seemed too silly to explain that it was an Advent hymn which had burst upon me in high summer, so I just smiled and shrugged.
’Maybe’ I replied.
