Hampstead Heath

Having grown up in Muswell Hill, she was as well versed in North London landmarks as I was in my hometown's seafront arcades.  I had no idea what the Heath was, or where in relation to anything else. At that time London existed for me as Archway, where my college was, and Old Street, where I lived. Six years later, my horizons have expanded and I can now regale you with tales set all over the city. It was not until today, however, that I finally made it to Hampstead, to explore its celebrated Heath.

15 minutes after boarding the Northern Line in South London, I hopped off the train at Hampstead. Turning right out of the station I begin the ascent up Heath Street, passing boutique cosmetics stores, shrines to interior design, commercial art galleries and luxury estate agents. Glancing in the window I discover a 4-bedroom house in the area would set me back £4,495,000.. I arrive finally at the summit of Heath Street and turn down Upper Terrace.

The Pergola and Hill Garden is hidden just behind Inverforth House. Completed in 1906, it began to fall into disrepair after the death of Lord Leverhulme, who had the structure built in order to hold extravagant Edwardian garden parties.

As long as Canary Wharf tower is tall, on the day of my visit the pergola sits beneath a bright blue sky. Though restored several years ago, a slightly eerie atmosphere remains; plants, shorn of their leaves by winter, crawl up the pillars and trellises. I pass two separate photo shoots taking place, it's easy to understand why – the pergola is part English stately home, part abandoned fortress from Lord of the Rings. It’s crying out to be photographed, it’s crying out to be visited. Aside from the photographers and their models I saw but one solitary girl wandering the arches with me. 

This city is many adjectives; bustling, multicultural, dynamic, effervescent, but very rarely peaceful. So wait until a crisp winter morning, or a scorching summer afternoon and stroll along Leverhulme’s fantasy, discover the unique tranquillity and beauty quite unlike anything else you’ve found here.

Crossing over into Springett's Wood, I pass a man walking seven dogs. It's a part time jobs he tells me; he spends four afternoons a week on the Heath with his furry companions. Earning money from walking seems like a dream to me. I walk a lot, a habit I picked up living in Canada for a year where, thanks to some spectacularly bad planning by the city's transport network, it took twice as long to bus to work as to walk. I've grown to love it, wandering aimlessly along the Thames whenever any unexpected spare time pops up. But there is a pragmatic side to it as well - walking, for me at least, is a necessity. My house in Kennington is situated within 40-minute walking distance to my work. It has a chronic mouse problem, metered gas and electricity and the room costs me double what I would pay for a three-bedroom house in North Yorkshire but I deal with it because my travel bill is basically zero. For now though, let us put pragmatism aside and continue exploring the Heath.

It is filled with dense patches of woodland. Walking through the thick trees, leaves crunching underfoot, I hear birds but can’t see them, lost in the dark branches above. Continuing on I happen upon a group of Jewish schoolchildren being reprimanded in a clearing. They’d charged off ahead and their accompanying teachers, two familiar faces from earlier in the day, have only just caught up with them.

The wide meadows, as open and exposed as the woods are sheltered, are bordered on the East side of the Heath by a chain of six ponds. 

Known as the Highgate Ponds, these freshwater pools are fed by the headwater springs of the River Fleet. Highgate No. 1 Pond has drawn a small crowd of toddlers throwing stale crusts at the ducks, none of whom appear to have noticed the sign next to them warning of the dangers of ducks eating bread. Apparently we must bring seeds and lettuce to the ponds instead. So the Heath is a free day out, unless you want to feed its wildlife. I opt to feed myself instead and headed down to the Parliament Hill Café.

Summit reached, I finally arrive at the view I have been waiting for – London in its glorious, sprawling entirety. The view from Parliament Hill is protected, meaning that nothing can be built to obscure St. Pauls Cathedral or the Palace of Westminster from the top of the hill.

I take a seat on what I suspect is the best bench amongst the 800 acres – smack, bang at the top of the hill, looking straight out over London. An old man with grey hair, a black wool overcoat and black leather gloves is sitting next to me.

"What an amazing view"

"Oh I live close by and come often so it isn't always as spectacular to me", he replies, informing me that the best time to see it is at sunset, when the colours glinting off the windows make the city look like it's on fire. The view has changed a lot in the 19 years he has lived in Hampstead. 

"You used to be able to see hundreds of ships all along the river then container ships came along and the whole industry was wiped out. They're changing all the old warehouses along the river into flats which is quite impressive."

There are no ships on view today, just miles of rooftops leading down to the City, a district, which my new friend tells me, is almost an independent state.

“It goes back 600 years and has ended up with an awful lot of power it doesn’t wholly deserve, especially after the mess they made of our economy. There are a lot of men down there who ought to be in prison.” 

I sit and ponder our conversation. He's right, the economy is a mess. I'm walking round Hampstead Heath on a Wednesday afternoon with trainers full of mud because, yes I like walking, but ultimately because my rent is due next week and walking is free. London is a city like no other, it has the history of Rome and the modernity of New York, the dirt of Paris and, in places like the Heath, the serenity of the countryside. It's my adopted home - six years in and I'm still discovering places to explore, today being a prime example. But living in such a dynamic city with no money to enjoy it is pointless and frustrating. 

I learnt to love walking in Canada, but in the Canadian capital my rent was £400 a month less than it is in London with comparable wages. So I could enjoy walking to the pub to buy a few below par Canadian ciders, saunter along to a museum glibly purchasing my entrance fee or eat poutine and beavertails until my waistband would allow it no longer, patting my newly acquired stomach declaring "it's all bought and paid for." Two years later and I'm actually still working on losing those extra pounds so I get moving, picking up the pace, aware the light is dropping and there is one more sight yet to see.

The first version of Kenwood House was built in 1690 by John Bill, King James I's printer. The house that stands today was largely conceived by David Murray, Viscount Stormont during the 18th century. The Iveagh Bequest Act mandated that the house open free of charge to the public and 'its contents preserved as a fine example of the artistic home of a gentleman of the eighteenth century'.

I turn a corner towards Hampstead Gate, one of 10 entrances to the Kenwood Estate, and walk straight into the group of school children I had seen getting told off earlier. "Do you know where the Stone Bridge is from here?" one of the two wellington booted teachers asks. It’s become bitterly apparent they have no idea what they're doing. When I walk in unfamiliar places I prefer to do so aimlessly, with no set route to follow or destination in mind and it’s encouraging to see a teacher employ the same technique.

I wonder why the school group had chosen the Heath as their destination, I really should have asked but I was too absorbed in my own pensive ramble, it was probably just to get some fresh air into their students, or the science syllabus had led them on a hunt for deciduous leaves. Let us return instead as to what brought me here, a crippling inability/impossibility to save any money. Please don't misunderstand me, I'm not for a second suggesting I'm living below the poverty line (unlike 860,000 private renters in London in the year 2014) I've even been known to throw down the occasional Costa soy hot chocolate. I'm also aware that pointing out that London is expensive and not having any money isn't fun are hardly revolutionary arguments. But what I have noticed in the past six years is that living in this city is getting exponentially dearer, and I don't see when it's going to slow down. A cocktail in Covent Garden has always been expensive, but the property market in our capital is out of control. The average rent for a one-bedroom place in Tooting in 2015 was £996 a month, and Tooting is miles away from anywhere, so slap on another £146 for a monthly travelcard.

Fortunately, thanks to good old Viscount Stormont, I don't have to pay to get into Kenwood House. The gardens are an attraction in themselves, manicured to such an extent I'm afraid to go near them lest my, now disintegrating, muddy shoes ruin the topiary. There is a Marie Antoinette inspired dairy to peruse, the architecture is breath-taking but the real hidden delight is the artwork. Bequeathed alongside the building were the paintings it houses, including a Rembrandt, Gainsborough, Vermeer and Turner. Who needs Tate Britain? 

Roughly eight kilometres and five hours of walking later, my legs are tired and my feet are soaked but I reflect on a brilliant day as I plod, very slowly, along the road. Approaching Spaniards Inn I spy a group of equally tired boys huddled on a fence. As I pass, eavesdropping as always, I learn that they've walked to the wrong car park and can’t find the minibus. I’m hoping they all returned to school alive but wouldn’t place any large sums of money on it.

Besides, as I've already hammered home, I don't have any large sums of money to place. There's a charming man living in Southwark who might, he's been draining my bank account on the first of the month for years, he's my landlord. Housing organisation Generation Rent has put forward a proposal, backed by Dianne Abbott, under which a monthly rent cap would be set at half annual local council tax - although landlords would be able to charge over this as long as they're prepared to pay a 50% surcharge on everything above the cap. Sounds reasonable to me.

There is much debate over rent controls, those not in favour are keen to point out that caps could encourage increasing discrimination when landlords are selecting tenants, that there isn't the same amount of social housing as there was in the 70’s (the last time London had a rent cap) to house those left without a home. But looking at the situation rationally, it’s obvious that some change has to happen. Since 2001 the UK’s private rental sector has doubled in size, now standing above 9 million. Largely due to idiotic house price rises (think back to the £4,495,000 4-bed I mentioned earlier) and less people being able to afford to buy, but also due to a chronic lack of social housing. So rent caps may help the private tenants to rent, but realistically we need house prices to drop and more social housing to be built. I don’t know if I can stick it out until then. I love London, I really do, but if I’m going to spend my leisure time walking, I’d be much wiser to do so in my home county, God’s own county, where there are Dales and Moors and I’d have the odd tenner to spend on a pub lunch. It boils down to quality of life, and I don’t want to still be living like a student when I’m 30.

Just before Heath House I notice a flash of red through a break in the trees. The sun must be beginning to set and one of Canary Wharf’s neighbours is shining amber. The old man was right again, it does look a bit like it’s on fire.