London Blogger Turns His Back on the Thames

Mavis and I went for a little car-ride through our old neighbourhood last Saturday morning on our way to buy ridiculously over-priced produce at Sunripe Groceries over on the East Side. We toured the Kipps Lane area where we spent the first three years of our marriage about thirty years or so ago.

Some things remain the same. The fish&chips place in the plaza at the end of our street. Our old apartment building on Arbour Glen Cres. is still standing along with its twin. The space-age era canopy over-top the entrance is gone but the building is still covered in those tiles that looked like the coating on Frosted Pop-Tarts.

And, the view remains the same. That view was the best thing about living in that high-rise building. From our eighth floor balcony we faced the big lawn out front and the communal swimming pool. To the left were a group of townhouses in which every individual unit was outwardly different from the others.

But best of all was that the view to the north beyond the parking lot was nothing but wild field, the woods and trails that lined the banks of the Thames River which meandered along as only the London version of the Thames can meander.

The trails that follow the river was where we'd often go walking. In the summer, once the hot weather arrived we'd actually hook up with friends and cool off in the Thames. Our swimmin' spot was sufficiently far enough away from the Greenway Sewage plant that city officials assured us that we need not worry about getting ill from downsteam pollution.

Well, they may or may not have known what they were talking about. But the truth was, that three decades ago, the most dangerous thing about visiting the river beyond Kipps Lane was the chance of losing your manhood to a snapping turtle while you were swimming. Or drowning in one of the whirlpools.

You could walk those trails without worry. And this past Saturday, Mavis and I both thought it might be nice to go back some time and do it again.

Then we heard about how the very next day, a father, fishing with his young daughter and one of her friends were threatened by a gang of young punks carrying sticks and golf-clubs. And that one of them pulled a gun on them. The father was later beaten up in the parking lot of one of the slums as they left.

So much for our plans of a nice romantic walk along the banks of our old swimmin' spot.

I had heard reports for years about how the walking trails were not safe due to the marauding local gangs. But there used to be a code - even amoung young punks - you don't harrass someone who is with their kids. You don't pull a gun on children. Oh, sure, it may happen in the comic books and that's why little Bruce Wayne became The Batman, but it didn't happen in real life. Not in London, Ontario anyway.

... there are other scary stretches of the river that you won't read about in the current 'Glorifying La Trench' series in the London Free Press.

Last summer, every day I rode the bike paths along the river from my street at the forks of the Thames to Adelaide street. On the stretch between Ridout and Richmond and then between Richmond and Wellington was where you felt the most vulnerable, populated as it was by the ne'er-do-wells and motley crue of crackheads who were just released for the day from the Salvation Army's Centre of Dope. They roamed that stretch of the river in packs - bombed and shouting out at anyone around and all you could do was keep your head down and peddle fast when you came near them. Pretty scary.

Once you hit Wellington you felt safer. Between there and Adelaide the bike path ran through open field (such as where I saw a deer one morning,) and the river paths seem pretty well ignored by the rest of our population, both riff-raff and well-to-do.

But on the other side - the north side of the river, just to the west and in back of the old Victoria Hospital is a stretch of riverbank that is pure hillbilly country. We're talking 'Deliverance' territory here. As soon as you venture down those trails, the radar kicks in and the hair on the back of your neck goes up immediately. Do not go there. I repeat, DO NOT GO THERE!

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not blaming the actual Thames for this increase in crime. I'm not of the opinion that a river should be judged by the company it keeps. But, put it this way - there are now certain parts of the Thames that I will not venture near without a gun.

Thankfully, the above-mentioned places are just a couple of the rotten apples who ruin it for the rest of the bunch. I walk over the Thames every day. I walk along its banks every morning. In the winter-time when the temps are sub-sub-zero and I am feeling immortal, I will even walk on it. And that's just in my own neighbourhood.

So far no gangs have infiltrated the fields and woods along the Thames beyond Wharncliffe which is my favorite part of London. Despite it's closeness to downtown London and the railway which runs along the top of the river-bank across the way, even the tramps and hobos have not made it there own.

It's a big patch of country in the city. And all within a 15-minute walk from downtown. When you are in the heart of it, you can't even see downtown and the only sign of civilization are the occassional train that runs by across the river. Once in a while on those same tracks you will see the kind of sight that inspired Neil Young to write, "See the lonely boy/Out on the weekend/ Trying to make it pay./Can't relate to joy/He tries to speak and/Can't begin to say."

Even the locals seem to ignore it. You go for a walk in the realm beyond Cavendish and all you will find are the occassional father and child out playing 'Davy Crockett' and neighbourhood people walking their dogs. Unleashed, of course. Curse them for making the area unsafe for me to walk my own dog there.

It was 'Pops' who introduced me to The Spot some thirty-five years or so ago. The Spot (referred to in some circles as 'The Gilligans Island Lagoon,) is a post-card looking crest of riverbank just across the crick and round the corner from the giant Ant-hill. Underneath a stately Oak (or Poplar or Maple or something,) there is a giant slab of rock on the riverbank where the Indian squaws (part of the Neutal tribe, of course,) who lived in that area used to do their laundry, slapping it onto the rock so hard and for so many centuries that it has been worn down into a nice lawn chair. A little hard perhaps but along with a sister rock (which some teenage punks had pushed into the river about 20 years ago,) made The Spot, the perfect location for a two-man party. The ideal place for a bottle of wine, half a deck of smokes and a KFC snack-pack.

We were fishin' the first time we went there. Actually, it was Pops who was fishing and I was watching and doing the play-by-play commentary. Afterwards we left and joined up with friends at the nearby Shitty-View Restaurant, and when asked about the fishing, Pops pipes up, "Well, I caught a carp. And Sonny caught a buzz."

Oh, that Pops! What a card!