The Search For Another Arthur

When: Tuesday, 17 July 2012

Where: Cockfosters Station and surrounds. Cockfosters is the northern terminus for the Piccadilly line on the London Underground.

 

At the end of a day in the 'City' I left Bank station at around 4:45 changing at King's Cross onto the Piccadilly line for the assault on the Cockfoster. The tube train that I got on was one of the older rolling stock that rattled along on a muggy, damp early evening in what is supposed to be summer in this merry England. As we passed through stations on the line passengers departed for their own suburban lives in Southgate or Arnos Grove, leaving the carriage more and more deserted until finally on leaving Oakwood, the penultimate stop, the  carriage was all my own. And the next carriage too. It was solely occupied by a young Spanish couple who proceeded to Lambada up and down their new found freedom all the way to Cockfosters.

 

Cockfosters is probably ten miles from the city centre, a slice of genuine sweet suburbia. The station opened in 1933, and is in that thirties red brick modernist style common across the London network but lacking the mass of some more ostentatious stations or the avant-garde flourish of others. The tarnished concrete platform canopies greet you like a welcoming smile, though when all's said it has a homely lustre. On the platform it appeared there were more staff than passengers. As this is the end of the line they were cleaners in hi-vis vests armed with cleaning cloths and gargantuan plastic bags waiting to pounce on the innocent train. I exited the station through the connecting concrete bound subway under the Cockfosters Road. Coming out of the subway before I set off on an extended foray into the surrounds one last look back confirmed the comforting suburbanism of the station and its situation. 

 

Abutting the station is Trent Park, a large rambling public park of the kind that we in England are masters of. What did the Victorians ever do for us? Large rambling public parks that have formal gardens,  lakes of measured tranquillity and undiscovered quiet secluded corners that drip with magic and drama. The walk from the station to the park entrance passes Trent Park cemetery which would normally be a must for me. Photographing in cemeteries and graveyards always throws up some great images but not on this evenings sojourn. This evening was about hunting for dragons. Let me tell you the tale. A very good friend of mine who a has a passion for the most contrary mythologies said, "...head for the end line where you may find a real Camelot." and that was the inspiration for me dripping a little sweat on a camera lens, gasping at the simple beauty of a meadow cut field in the summer evening light and the trickle of calls echoing through the rich green deciduous trees. And those calls could have been the chatter of juvenile, playful dragons but alas this time no, merely student orienteers with a  mislaid  sense of direction. An English wood is an easy place to get yourself lost but not for the small group of teenage schoolboys who came tearing past me along rain muddied paths, dirtying up their school uniforms without a care for how they look tomorrow or the parental outrage when they eventually arrive home. The potential for rain that had threatened at the start of my journey had given over and the sun was gently filtering through the trees creating that dappled light that always suggests that magic is just around the corner. Suburbia seemingly a long way behind me now I eventually came out of the wood into a dip bearing one of those lakes I've mentioned previously offering a feel of utter melancholy. A solitary fisherman casually casting his fly, letting the silent world float by. On approaching him to ask about taking his picture it turned out that he was a proud fellow, fallen on hard times fishing for his supper. Supper's ready. He caught one. 

 

From the lake in the dip it was clear that I would be working up a fresh sweat on the climb up to this new Camelot. Although hidden by yet another small woodland it was clearly the highest vantage point around and the prime site for a commanding view of all surrounds. It was as if I'd stepped through a portal, as I climbed the noises slowly slipped away. I met no more people, no more dog walkers, no more lost or foundlings. I was alone, approaching a myth. I needed no map, no directions. A little in the distance a fox crossed the path, paused stared cautiously at me and as is their way slowly trotted off. I still needed no direction I simply followed the fox. Deep into the wood there was a smell, a memory of the wisdom of angels. The sweat dripped into my eyes blurring my vision softening the light further and then I came to it. A greened moat surrounding what the lumps and bumps suggested was a long gone site of occupation. I found a way to cross the moat, worked my way to the centre of this new Camelot and found a place to rest. As with all such places if you sit quietly and let it, the magic, the drama will blow through you and tickle the marrow in your backbone. I sat for some time sipping from my sweet fizzy reminder of the real world happy that I'd made the journey to the end of the line. 

 

Had I'd found a new Camelot? Had another Arthur held his court in this ancient place? Maybe not. I had found place of solitude and serenity a short distance from the bulging centre of one of the worlds most populous metropolises. I found that making the time to look into the hidden corners gives generous rewards. And had I found dragons? Yes I think that I did. I didn't see them but they were there. Unlike the simply cautious fox they were far too quick for human eye to catch. How do I know? The next morning I awoke with a trio small playful bites, a payment for venturing into a secret place.