One – Ken’s Events

I looked at the time.  It was half past six.  I was at home so this meant I had to choose the first group that had an event that started at half past seven.  I started the app and scrolled down.  I saw, ‘Ken’s Events – Discovery and Enjoy London with New Friends’.  Ken was apparently running a ‘Twilight Stroll – (Primrose Hill and Regents Park)’.  If I didn’t mess about and got myself organised, I could do it.  Interestingly, I had heard about Ken before.  When chatting with other Meetup people (or Meetupers, as I call them), they invariably said, ‘have you been to one of Ken’s events?’  ‘Not yet!’ I would always reply.  Not only did this mysterious Ken advertise the event, but apparently he was going to be there too.

I grabbed something to eat and fished my hiking boots from the depths of my cupboard.  I consider hiking (or ‘strolling’, or whatever it is) to be an intrinsically dangerous activity, especially after coming a cropper on a mountain path once, ending up in hospital with a broken arm.  I think it was these memories that caused me to spectacularly over prepare.  After sorting out two layers of clothes, a fleecy jacket thing, stout walking shoes, a rucksack that contained a bottle of water and a pointless energy bar, I was ready to head off to Swiss Cottage underground station (an area of London that isn’t particularly mountainous, despite what its name suggests).

I arrived fifteen minutes early, and loitered around the environs of the Tube station looking suspicious and furtive.  Minutes later, I caught sight of a tall gentleman who was clearly eyeing me up and down.  Like me, he looked equally suspicious and furtive.  Also like me, he wore sensible shoes (but not hiking shoes), and had donned a rucksack. 

‘Are you Ken?’ I asked.

‘I am Wojtek’ he replied. 

‘Are you here for the walk?’  Apparently, he was, which meant that we could both be suspicious and furtive together.

Wojtek was on holiday in London for a week and he had apparently met Ken in a pub, and he had encouraged him to come along.  This was his second Meetup.  Next to arrive was an Italian woman whose name wasn’t Ken, followed by middle aged woman called Chris.  Ten minutes later, there was a good crowd of us.

Ken turned out to be a smartly dressed bespectacled sixty year old city gent.  ‘Insurance or something’, one fellow ‘stroller’ later told me.  Ken said that I could join for an annual fee or pay a couple of quid for the stroll.  After saying that he was a ‘legend’, I gave him two quid, not knowing how many meetups would pass between now and seeing Ken again.

Ten minutes later, we were off, picking a route past Hampstead Theatre.  I soon learnt that my new Italian friend was from Sicily and my new Polish friend was from a city called Wrocław.  Within minutes we were walking along a road that was populated by some shockingly expensive looking houses.  Although I work not too far from where we walking, and I had been to Primrose Hill a couple of times before, this was a part of London that I had never properly explored.

We soon entered the north side of Regent’s Park and climbed a hill towards one of London’s most spectacular views.   We collectively made our way to the viewing area and looked across London.  I could see St Paul’s Cathedral, and quickly found London Bridge which is, to me, a symbol that ‘my home’ isn’t too far away.  ‘That’s the cheese grater’, someone said.  I then wondered where the gherkin was (or the Swiss:Re building), and found it being slightly obscured by another big building.  The London Eye, the Ferris wheel that was erected to celebrate the millennium, could just about be made out.  On the right, there was a mystery building that might have been a council estate of some kind.

As I looked out at all these buildings of the city, I asked myself, ‘I wonder where I’m going to end up’, and, ‘how much of this place do I really know?’

‘Was it Blake who wrote Jerusalem?’ asked Chris, interrupting my thoughts, referring to an inscription that was embedded into the fabric of viewing platform.  ‘I think it was… I have no idea who wrote the music, though’, I replied, recalling that great hymn of Englishness, whilst at the same time gently chastising myself for being a bad patriot.

Chris, it turns out, was originally from Cheshire.  As well as having a friendly smile, she also had a strong northern accent.  As we looked out across London, she mentioned the Regent’s Canal, which I’m gradually exploring during my lunch hours, since it is also close to my office.  It turns out that she is a keen sailor, owns her own narrow boat and can navigate the Thames, presumably in a different vessel.  As we descended from the viewing area she said, ‘I’m always interested in finding new deck hands, you know?  You can’t do it on your own…’

Chris was an experienced traveller.  She spoke about a cycling tour where she was riding eighty miles a day.  Next month she was going on a trip to Tajikistan.  ‘I don’t know where it is, but I’m going’, she said firmly.  I said, ‘that’s erm, one of the former Soviet republics, isn’t it?’ attempting to bluff my way through.  ‘See, you don’t know where it is either, do you?’

On our left we passed London Zoo, a place I’ve not been to since I was a child.  On the right was a vast expanse of open grassland, where I think a game of cricket was being played (this is another sign of being a bad patriot; I know bugger all about cricket).  We followed a path which was increasingly covered by a canopy of trees.

Minutes later, we found ourselves in a formal rose garden.  It was springtime, and the roses were just beginning to bloom; the air was scented.  Although I had been to Regent’s Park about three years ago when I got lost whilst on the way to work, this was yet another part of London I had never been to before.  Ken led us through a maze of narrow paths and up towards an astonishing viewing area, where we were presented with an idyllic alpine scene.

‘You okay, mate?’ I turned around.  Someone else was tired and had decided to take a seat.  My new walking friend was called Andy.  He was a big tall man, in his thirties, and very happy to talk. It turned out that we both work within the technology industry. His was currently a software developer, and I used to be a software developer. We talked about contracting, the craziness of deadlines set by people who don’t know what they’re talking about, the uselessness of advice from human resources departments, and the nonsense talked by management consultants.

The walk took us past an open air theatre; again, something new.  Why didn’t I know this was here?  ‘Look at those fucking prices!’ Andy ranted.  ‘I went to a Shakespeare comedy there once - there wasn’t a bloody laugh in it!’ 

Just as we were approaching the finale of the walk Andy told me about his conspiracy theory about the diamond industry, and this led onto the subject of engagement rings.  ‘I bought one of those once’, I said. 

‘Once?’

‘Yeah, I don’t have it any more.  My ex kept it’ I was still bitter about it.

‘You were married?’

We discovered we had even more in common.  Not only were we both computer programmers and thought a lot of modern art was nonsense, we also had both been married before, both for a period of ten years, both to ‘Slavic’ women.  What’s more is that both of these Slavic women had buggered off with other fellas who were considered to be better prospects than us. 

‘Men are like Dogs… we’re loyal’, Andy ranted.  ‘Women are like cats, if they see another opportunity, they do what the hell they want!’

We found ourselves standing by a lake.  Ken had timed it perfectly.  It was twilight.  As we looked over the lake and the sun was setting, geese waddled between us.  I could hear the chatter of other ‘strollers’ talking and laughing.  The stroll was filled with surprises.  I’ve heard it said that London gives up its secrets slowly, and yet I was presented with three in a single evening.

As we left the park, I continued to chat to Andy.  As we exchanged stories, it stuck me that he was deeply hurt and embittered by his impending divorce.  I thought of what I could say to him, to offer some ‘man to man’ reassurance, and quickly came to the conclusion that anything that I might say could easily sound trite.  Instead, I continued to share more of my own story with him, with the hope that he would take solace from the fact that other people have to work through the same crazy nonsense that he had to go through.

The stroll ended up in a pub.  Shod with hiking shoes, I felt hideously overdressed.

‘What is this place?  It’s brilliant!  This looks like some kind of old masonic hall, or something’ exclaimed Andy. We pretended to give each other silly handshakes.

After ordering a pint, I chatted with Andy and my new Sicilian friend who, using her smartphone, showed me some renderings from a Danish ecological architectural competition she was entering.  They looked pretty impressive.  Ken then came over and asked whether we would like to join him at a table (he is an excellent event host).  I gracefully declined; my time had come to head off home.

As I made my way to London Bridge station, I regretted leaving so early.  I regretted not having a chat with Ken, to find out more about him and his group; to learn what motivated him to set it up.  It was then I decided a new rule was needed, rule number ten: ‘you must stay until the end of an event, irrespective of how much you might hate it; if you leave early, you might miss something that changes either your perspective or your life’.   Rule number ten is also known as ‘the bitter end’ rule.

One down, ninety nine to go.