Irene Wilde
New Member
Following our discussion on the sins and virtues of London, I thought I'd share this with you. It is one of the "post cards" I write for friends from time to time.
Irene Wilde
So, I’m sitting here, avoiding the nightmare of unpacking and doing laundry, exhausted but oh so happy, and more relaxed than I’ve been in about a year trying to think were to beginning the retelling of my latest adventures. Beginning at the beginning almost doesn’t do it justice, so I think I’ll begin in the middle and see which path I take first. Chronology isn’t important here. Each adventure is its own tale, but the first tale shall be Waterlow.
Those of you familiar with the song understand why it would be so important for me to make this visit. For the rest the lyric* will be included as an appendix. For the non-English, Waterlow is a park in North London --more rustic than Regent’s Park, but not quite as wild as Hampstead Heath -- the footpaths each take you on a different journey, so I imagine you could take many trips through Waterlow and each of them would be unique.
Now, not being familiar with this part of London, but knowing it was adjacent to Highgate Cemetery, I thought to take the Tube to Highgate and find my way from there. This was a good thought, an intelligent thought, but since I seem to lose all sense of direction in England, in the end it didn’t serve me very well, except to make the adventure longer, for instead of heading straight out of the station, which would have probably set me right at the doorstep, I decided to head down the hill. Checking the maps at the bus stops along the way, it seems like I’m going the right direction, but instead I’m heading the opposite way. A quiet Saturday walk on a cloudy but warm enough day is its own delight though, so I’m thinking the stretch of the legs will be fine and I’ll get there eventually. 30 minutes later I spot the sign for Archway, and that’s when I remember the guidebook in my purse, which told me to exit the Tube at Archway, not Highgate! Oops!
Now, the guidebook remains in my purse, but I find the station at Archway and the road that obviously leads up to the park. Well, I say road, but that’s not quite right. It’s more, well, you know those structures rock climbers practice on, a sort of concrete slab with hand and foot holds built into them? It’s more like that, without the hand and foot holds! This straight up vertical climb that goes on so long I can’t even see the top! But up I go, past Dick Whittington’s cat and on until I’m completely winded and being passed by little old ladies who must make this walk daily and are quite comfortable with it. “What a wimp!” I’m thinking as I pause to catch my breath by leaning against a street lamp. But the journey is finally made and park appears on my left, green and lush and filled with the sounds of unseen song birds perched high in the trees.
On a bridge spanning the pond, it feels as if I am alone…that the park is deserted…only the echoes of “Waterlow” reaching me from a long way off. The sadness of the lyric, the gray sky, a lone goose gliding across the pond, and silence broken only by the liquid notes of a single bird in a nearby tree create such a sense of stillness that I’m not even breathing. A willow reaches its gnarled branches out over the pond; in the distance trees a dozens shades of green, some mossy, some vibrant and vivid, others almost silver, all spreading further up the hill to touch the soft gray clouds. England touches my spirit in so many ways, but here was the collective energy of England’s lost souls wandering to find this place of solitude where they can hear their hearts’ cry, and feel the yearning to belong to find an end to the loneliness. Here, star-crossed lovers can feel the impossibility of their love and weep for what they don’t have, will never have, and Waterlow will embrace them in her greenery, absorbing their pain into the collective pain of all the lost loves, into centuries of heartbreak and loneliness. Waterlow understands, and so she remains still and tranquil, ensuring those who have loved and lost will still have a place to call their own. I sigh, for it is a place of sighs, and leave in the pond a few tear drops in the still water. Waterlow is keeper of many private heartaches. It is only right that she keeps one more.
*The lyrics --
Waterlow
(Ian Hunter)
I followed the night till the morning sunlight
And I thought of the changing times
And I followed the child with the evergreen smile
And the blue broken tears start to cry
Blue broken tears hide away the years
Misty highway seems colder today
And I saw a Waterlow where the evergreen grows
And the wise man knows why he crys
And I heard a child call me away from this all
And the blue broken tears start to rise
Blue broken tears ain't nobody here
Lost in the sun my only young one
Blue broken tears our love disappears
The evergreen dies drowned in my eyes
Irene Wilde
So, I’m sitting here, avoiding the nightmare of unpacking and doing laundry, exhausted but oh so happy, and more relaxed than I’ve been in about a year trying to think were to beginning the retelling of my latest adventures. Beginning at the beginning almost doesn’t do it justice, so I think I’ll begin in the middle and see which path I take first. Chronology isn’t important here. Each adventure is its own tale, but the first tale shall be Waterlow.
Those of you familiar with the song understand why it would be so important for me to make this visit. For the rest the lyric* will be included as an appendix. For the non-English, Waterlow is a park in North London --more rustic than Regent’s Park, but not quite as wild as Hampstead Heath -- the footpaths each take you on a different journey, so I imagine you could take many trips through Waterlow and each of them would be unique.
Now, not being familiar with this part of London, but knowing it was adjacent to Highgate Cemetery, I thought to take the Tube to Highgate and find my way from there. This was a good thought, an intelligent thought, but since I seem to lose all sense of direction in England, in the end it didn’t serve me very well, except to make the adventure longer, for instead of heading straight out of the station, which would have probably set me right at the doorstep, I decided to head down the hill. Checking the maps at the bus stops along the way, it seems like I’m going the right direction, but instead I’m heading the opposite way. A quiet Saturday walk on a cloudy but warm enough day is its own delight though, so I’m thinking the stretch of the legs will be fine and I’ll get there eventually. 30 minutes later I spot the sign for Archway, and that’s when I remember the guidebook in my purse, which told me to exit the Tube at Archway, not Highgate! Oops!
Now, the guidebook remains in my purse, but I find the station at Archway and the road that obviously leads up to the park. Well, I say road, but that’s not quite right. It’s more, well, you know those structures rock climbers practice on, a sort of concrete slab with hand and foot holds built into them? It’s more like that, without the hand and foot holds! This straight up vertical climb that goes on so long I can’t even see the top! But up I go, past Dick Whittington’s cat and on until I’m completely winded and being passed by little old ladies who must make this walk daily and are quite comfortable with it. “What a wimp!” I’m thinking as I pause to catch my breath by leaning against a street lamp. But the journey is finally made and park appears on my left, green and lush and filled with the sounds of unseen song birds perched high in the trees.
On a bridge spanning the pond, it feels as if I am alone…that the park is deserted…only the echoes of “Waterlow” reaching me from a long way off. The sadness of the lyric, the gray sky, a lone goose gliding across the pond, and silence broken only by the liquid notes of a single bird in a nearby tree create such a sense of stillness that I’m not even breathing. A willow reaches its gnarled branches out over the pond; in the distance trees a dozens shades of green, some mossy, some vibrant and vivid, others almost silver, all spreading further up the hill to touch the soft gray clouds. England touches my spirit in so many ways, but here was the collective energy of England’s lost souls wandering to find this place of solitude where they can hear their hearts’ cry, and feel the yearning to belong to find an end to the loneliness. Here, star-crossed lovers can feel the impossibility of their love and weep for what they don’t have, will never have, and Waterlow will embrace them in her greenery, absorbing their pain into the collective pain of all the lost loves, into centuries of heartbreak and loneliness. Waterlow understands, and so she remains still and tranquil, ensuring those who have loved and lost will still have a place to call their own. I sigh, for it is a place of sighs, and leave in the pond a few tear drops in the still water. Waterlow is keeper of many private heartaches. It is only right that she keeps one more.
*The lyrics --
Waterlow
(Ian Hunter)
I followed the night till the morning sunlight
And I thought of the changing times
And I followed the child with the evergreen smile
And the blue broken tears start to cry
Blue broken tears hide away the years
Misty highway seems colder today
And I saw a Waterlow where the evergreen grows
And the wise man knows why he crys
And I heard a child call me away from this all
And the blue broken tears start to rise
Blue broken tears ain't nobody here
Lost in the sun my only young one
Blue broken tears our love disappears
The evergreen dies drowned in my eyes
It's very well written, you almost make me like London lol 
