I used to think the garden at my parents’ house in Surrey was small, mostly because the surrounding gardens were all so large, that our little patch of lawn seemed to be ringed only by things you would keep at the far end of sizeable property chunk, smugly out of view of the actual dwelling. Compost heaps whiffed, horse flies flew forth from trash piles and bonfires billowed noxious smoke from burning branches across our drying sheets. Nevertheless, it now lives on in my mind as a patch of heaven.
Living in a flat means no garden. Not even a balcony, unless you count the rusting shell of a fire escape which juts from the kitchen door, still harbouring, after ten months, the rotting junk we cleared out the flat’s every nook and orifice on moving in. I suppose I could fashion a chair out of the recycling box, crack open a tinny and stare out yonder over the scene: a scratty row of garages, a ventilation shaft from the Northern Line, a number of patronisingly primary-coloured council blocks and there, behind the tree, a Camden streetsweeper simultaneously weeing and drinking a Fosters.
Luckily, being a stone’s throw from Hampstead Heath means I have thus far avoided such a vista. But even this happy proximity can be cause for complaint. Whereas at my parents’ I can roll down the stairs in my boxers and be on the grass and in the sunshine within moments and whereas, at college, each quadrangle had a lawn meaning you were never far from a green space, getting to the Heath needs to be an orchestrated experience. Alternatively, I can sit and pose in the shade on the pavement at any one of the cafés downstairs, sipping a bargain £18 coffee for the privilege.
What I’m jabbing at is that with a garden, taking the sun is a split second wish which can be fulfilled a split second later. Without one, getting to the Heath or nearest green space often involves a level of kerfuffle akin to making a purchase in Primark on a Saturday afternoon. Nevertheless, many’s the time we have found ourselves making the most of all the Heath has to offer. Apart from the cruising.
One weekend, after many phone calls and organisational emails, a crowd of us met for a picnic. The sun was coyly toying with its first summery weekend of the year and we picked a spot near the Hampstead Ponds from which we could marvel at the constant stream of visitors in estival clothes and ladened with hampers and wine bottles marching along the paths like an invading army. Within view and earshot were a large group of large Beryl Cook-esque Hispanic ladies, guffawing in Spanish and drinking beers.
We played Frisbee. Harmless enough, until I managed to gouge out half my wrist skin on a sharp edge. My friend’s daughter was incredulous that someone could draw so much blood with a Frisbee, in spite of my explanation and reconstruction of the rapidly spinning disc tearing up my flesh like a combine harvester in a field as it spun past my open hand and up my arm. Left with wounds suspiciously resemblent of self-harm, my only solace came from watching some girls with muffin tops having their dispoable barbecue put out my a Heath ranger, their offers of a free Tesco-value chipolata falling on deaf ears as they were ordered to extinguish. This in fact did remind me of college, where the porters would rock up and confiscate any item with which someone might be observed to have fun within the hallowed gardens: frisbees, balls, Pimm’s. The worst part was that we were dobbed in by the gardeners so frequently. On the Heath, the rangers tear around in tiny trucks and so are able to cover more infractions per minute than on foot.
Next on the agenda was a dip in the Mixed Bathing Pool. I looked at my open wound and hoped any nearby rats were decent enough to get out of the water to go to the toilet. Apparently you should pay to swim in the pool, but everyone just walks past the ticket machine, ignoring it as if some elderly relative. The enclosure was crowded with laddish blokes and foreign students. We ditched our shoes and clambered onto the pebble-dash jetty where the lifeguards stand. A dipped toe confirmed the water temperature as ‘inhumane’. My flatmate stood on the steps up to his knees and then got back out. I took his place and slid in at once, eager to get the process over with, gasping with eyes a-bulge as the icy brown water rose up my body, each inch a ballshock worse than the one preceding. I floated there treading water before bobbing off as one by one my internal organs shut down. My flatmate had reassumed his position on the steps, edging slowly into the water, only for some ‘lad’ in the pursuit of ‘banter’ to begin splashing him with vigour from the side and showering him in oafish handswipes of chilly chilly liquid. It was a situation in which screaming like a girl was the only option and flatmate gamely followed protocol.
The ‘lad’ lost interest and my flatmate dived in, the pain barrier having been broken. We later remarked that said ‘lad’ never managed to man up enough to get in the water and felt suitably self-righteous as a result. Another friend joined us and we sploshed around among the ducks, the swans and the floating detritus: fowl down, tree seeds and the odd lifebelt, to which I clung intermittently to stave off asthma attacks. I was obvioulsly no longer the swimmer I had once been and was utterly exhausted, hopping out after less than ten minutes with shrunken everything and chattering gnashers.
As an out-of-towner, it has been eye-opening to see the Heath as it really is: a place for everyone. Ugh this is getting a bit sentimental, but I have a point. Normally, to the outside, tabloid-reading world, the words ‘Hampstead’ and ‘Heath’ conjure up ideas of rummaging in bushes and lost MPs. In my experience, it’s all family outings, couple holding hands, dogs gallivanting and lycra-clad joggers running.
We’ve taken to dashing up there with the Aerobie of a weekend. Fewer sharp edges on which I can take my own life. I did however once throw it so hard it sailed off and eventually came into land in an unsuspecting pram. Suspecting infanticide, I cringed from afar, only to realise with joy that the baby was having its bottom wiped on a nearby changing mat. Another time, we were in a clearing of lawn, flanked by other groups of bare-chested young men throwing around Aerobies and kicking footballs, smugly aware we had the biggest Aerobie I hasten to add. A male tourist was walking past, chaperoned by some sort of local. Taking in the scene of me and my friends, he enquired of his guide, “Oh, is this the gay area of the Heath?”
I chuckled inwardly. Some people should stop reading tabloids.
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