Indian summer in Metroland
A walk along the River Chess, a unique chalk stream habitat with crystal waters, just a short ride along the Metropolitan Line: where patchwork countryside meets suburban paradise
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In the last heat of the Indian summer we ride the train out to Rickmansworth. I actually recently looked up the origin of the phrase ‘Indian summer.’ The ‘Indian’ part appears to be a reference to Native Americans, rather than the subcontinent I had always thought it evoked. Its etymology is uncertain, but apparently it could be to do with the prevalence of unseasonable spells of warm weather in Native American areas after the first frost. In which case, this isn’t a true Indian summer.
The River Chess near Latimer.
When we alight the train we are in true Metroland, that tract retained by the Metropolitan Railway and used for bucolic suburban development in the early 20th century. In a triumph of marketing, the Metroland guide, published annually by the railway until 1933, trumpeted “the good air of the Chilterns” and the beechwoods that awaited aspiring homeowners just a short rattle along the world’s first underground railway. I have never read the Julian Barnes novel of that name, but it’s safe to say this swathe of suburbia: purpose-built, stretching from Swiss Cottage to deep in Hertfordshire, has long secured its place in the national psyche.
The River Chess, a chalk stream. Chalk streams are a unique habitat, noted for their biodiversity.
And with good reason. I have only been to this part of the world once before, to stay with friends of my parents when I was sixteen doing work experience in London. I remember sitting on the Metropolitan Line for the long commute to the city with the husband, who is a journalist at a major paper. Back then, it was sweltering, light catching the dust through the windows at the start of the journey whilst the train was above ground. London, for me, was almost overwhelming: burgeoning with possibility. Being from Birmingham, I was used to the city: but here everything was a little too loud, too big, too dirty. The house was on a quiet suburban street in Amersham, a small commuter town with a station. But in my head, it was all the same thing. (Until I moved here, everyone who lived in the southeast was ‘from London’, to me). I’d come home in the evening to lie on the spare bed and read The Second Sex (I remember this, because the book was so heavy), my blouse clinging to me, sweaty with city dirt.
The River Chess near Rickmansworth.
Now, coming the other way, I have quite a different view, as we disembark and cross over a suburban carriageway into mellow green parkland. We are doing the Chess Valley Walk, which follows the River Chess, a chalk stream. Chalk streams are unique habitats because chalky soils more readily absorb rain, meaning rivers are not formed of surface runoff, but rise from deep within the ground. This means their waters are uniquely mineral-rich and clear. I have recently learned about these due to many people on Twitter saying how they are endangered.
A weeping willow on the River Chess near Rickmansworth.
A sign tells us the river is home to Brown Trout, Grayling, Moorhen and Mallard. We see a fat electric blue dragonfly hovering above a cove in the riverbank. The irises rise lush on each side. You can see every tiny pebble on the riverbed. Water-weeds float leisurely. In the trees, I think I catch the smudge of a kingfisher. Weeping willows trail their fronds.
Crossing the M25 near Chorleywood.
There is a rather dull section marching alongside the M25, choking on the fumes, a tall fence on each side. But eventually you get to cross it, over a motorway bridge, and my husband marvels at the splendour of the tarmac gleaming in sunshine. He has never been on one of these before. This would be hard to believe, but I suppose there are no motorways in the part of Wales where he lived.
Fields near Chorleywood.
Afterwards, the path meanders through the rather more pleasant parkland of Chorleywood. Here landscaped lawns give way to giant, noble trees. We are travelling upriver, and the waterside skein of countryside is ravelling into a richer cloth. We cannot always see the river, but the path winds rather reliably along the valley, taking in fields and farms and offering occasional glimpses of sunlight glinting on the water. Part of you cannot help thinking all this greenery really ought to be turned into affordable housing; whilst part of you is also grateful, at least today, that it has not.
The steeper sides of the valley near Sarratt.
At Sarratt the crowds thicken: lots of people out for a Saturday ramble like us. We pass a group who chuckle and say, “young people coming through!” We explain we are just hungry for lunch. The sides of the valley steepen: green velvet leading up to where cows cluster around a solitary tree. It’s worthy of a postcard. The river here plays host to watercress beds: the last commercial watercress farm in the Chilterns. The midday heat is making us sluggish. I’m assured we’ll stop in the pub at Chenies, the next village.
A flock of red kites in a field near Chenies.
But before that we enter a parched field, and from the stubble rise tens of red kites; a great horde of them, whirling and wheeling on the thermals. It’s a spectacular sight. We think we’ve seen them all, then with each step we take along the field, more rise from the dirt. Some are huge, swooping close enough to clearly see the white chevrons marked beneath their wings. My husband is awed: he grew up in Powys, and remembers going to the Red Kite sanctuary on a school trip as a child to see the last few breeding pairs. To think, he says, that just a few years ago, these were nearly extinct. Apparently in Tudor times they were seen as vermin, and hunted accordingly: even Shakespeare has King Lear describe his daughter, Goneril, as a detested kite. At the same time, it was also acknowledged they kept the streets clean of carrion and rotting meat. Thanks to a breeding programme over the last decades, they are now a common sight along the Thames Valley and west towards the Severn, Wye and Wales — a heartening conservation success story. Perhaps we can do something similar for our chalk streams.
The Chenies village green.
We arrive in Chenies, a charming village laid out around a triangular village green, rather like The Village With Three Corners of childhood memory. There is a village sign, bearing a swan of uncertain significance, a black-and-white timbered pub and several charming brick cottages of early 19th century date. Apparently the village gets its name from Thomas Cheyne, shield-bearer to Edward III, and a keeper of the royal hunting-box nearby which played host to Edwards I and II.
The River Chess near Latimer.
We have an excellent lunch at the Bedford Arms, enjoying the sun on the terrace and the kites wheeling overhead. Stuffed, we embark on the short distance to our final destination: Chalfont & Latimer station. The river widens at the bottom of the steep valley near Latimer: strange, perhaps, as we are travelling upstream. On the right looms the 19th century redbrick Latimer House, which looks rather wonderful today, its colours blazing in the sun. Originally home to the Barons Chesham, it’s now a hotel, with its fairytale turrets and chimneys. But we entertain ourselves with imagining it’s home to the Duke of Chalfont, as in the classic Ealing comedy Kind Hearts and Coronets. Perhaps Ascoyne D’Ascoyne lies waiting, blissfully unaware of his impending murder.
Latimer House, built in the 1830s, formerly home to the Barons Chesham.
Crossing the river, we mount the other side of the valley and poke about in the field for a bit for the remains of a Roman Villa, of which, in this ploughed field, nothing is in evidence. But you can see why a Roman chief would have chosen here: looking across to Latimer House, it’s an idyllic valley — rich fields, the lush vegetation in the water meadows by the river, barely a modern building in sight. The extent to which this view has been preserved is obvious when you climb through the steep beechwoods, and come out right out onto a Chalfont street, the suburban hush of brick porches, box hedges and 4x4s: mock-Tudor frontages rolling away to the railway. It’s extremely nice here, I think, as we walk along the pavement, a tabby cat brushing by. It reminds me of where I grew up, a hundred miles away on the same railway line. The hard juxtaposition of suburbia and pastoral bliss. If you had children here, they could play in the woods. I have a sudden vision of myself getting up on a summer morning, leaving my front door, walking down the road to get on the train. I even load up Rightmove, for stalking on the journey home.
A Roman villa once stood in this field. Looking across the valley to Latimer House.
I hope you enjoyed this week’s adventure! Please get in touch with me to let me know what you thought.
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Sincerely,
Ruth
For background on this article, thanks to: