The idea of Regent’s Canal came to life in 1802, to create a link between the newly-opened Grand Junction Canal, which ended at Paddington Basin, and the River Thames in Limehouse. That’s a pretty good opportunity for a long walk, unfortunately spoiled by three tunnels – under Maida Hill (now known as Little Venice), Lisson Grove and under Islington. The canal’s main purpose used to be ferrying commercial traffic, and goods shipped via the canal ranged from lead and iron to the raw ingredients used to make Britain’s iconic HP sauce.

I first fell in love with the Canal while living just next to the Whitmore Road Bridge (number 43), just next to the Kingsland Road Bridge and Basin. Living in the heart of the hip and trendy Shoreditch often required a moment of calm and that’s exactly what the canal was giving me: an opportunity to walk under the sun, with my headphones on, and sink into my own thoughts. I’d often pass cyclist – as the canal became a very good alternative to commuters after the London bombings in 2005 – joggers, dog walkers, 24 party people, couples snogging on the benches… A great people spotting place. I soon discovered that from where I was living, I could easily stroll down to my favourite Broadway Market, to get a bit of the East End hype, shop for bargains in Miki Fukai’s jumble sales, drink cheap beer in London Fields and run into Facehunter. But if I went the other way, I would get to my beloved Angel with all the tiny boutiques, great pubs on Essex Road and my favourite charity shops (highly recommended in this area – wealthy residents!).

What I love about the canal is the feeling of freedom from the rest of the world. The water instantly makes you calm down and look into yourself – I had some life-changing conversations with my mum while walking there. It seems like along the canal people stop pretending – like the elderly couple on the bench. London’s canals give you the freedom of expressing yourself – an opportunity often taken by Banksy. But the most free and inspiring are all the people actually living on the boats – you get to see many of barges moored in the basins with their residents sunbathing on the docks. When you’re lucky, you get to see the boats go through the lock – the most famous is the Camden Lock. It’s simply addictive to watch the water levels even to let them go through.

Taking a walk along the canal is like taking a walk on the wild side – so often needed in a city ruled by the routine of the daily commute, grey city suits and the never-ending rat race…

For the real canalcoholic a couple of hours at the Canal Museum is highly recommended (follow them on Twitter), whilst Jasons and Walkers Quay offer barge trips on the water if you can’t resist a cruise.

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“They know what I’m doing but they don’t talk about it.” These are the words Richard Reynolds uses in one video to describe his preparations for a “strike” on a busy area of central London. He is dressed in non-descript clothing as he slips on a pair of gloves. On his choice of location he says, “We need somewhere that is going to have maximum impact, maximum disruption.” A small group gathers around him, ready for the task ahead. What is this nefarious activity he describes and exactly what trouble has Urban Travel Blog got me into this time? Guerrilla gardening.

Criminal damage

We met at the heart of London’s Elephant & Castle, not the most attractive part of London but a fine place to demonstrate the spirit of the endeavour, since Reynolds himself is accountable for many of flowers you see growing there. The crowd were a mixture of seasoned gardeners (guerrilla and otherwise), aspiring beginners plus a good number of the merely curious. London being London they came from up and down the country and a not a few from other shores. I certainly wouldn’t say that the party was buzzing, but everybody had purpose, everybody had a smile and a number of people had trowels.

Digging in...

In small groups of six or eight we set off on our quest to make London a little greener. So far the highlight of my gardening career had been killing my mother’s streptocarpus through excessive watering so my hopes weren’t high. I soon found out that though that planting sunflowers is not the most complex of manoeuvres. All we would do was walk along keeping half an eye open for any ugly pieces of dirt. The planting involved nothing more than scraping away whatever garbage was in the way and dropping a seed or two into an inch deep hole in the dirt. Rain was forecast for later in the day so we didn’t even need a watering can. All in all it seemed as much a chilled way to get outside in the sun with some friends as it did a neighbourhood crusade.

By fair means or trowel

For a few hours we wandered the streets of SE1 until, not far from Kennington Park, we parted company. Some headed home, some to the pub but all carried away a small sense of civic pride. An inch below the surface seeds were waking up with thoughts of germinating.

Bloomin marvellous!

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I’m going to the pub tonight, specifically the Inn on the Park in London Fields. I’m going to ride my bike there, sink two or three pints and then, at about nine pm, point my bike north east and keep going until I reach the sea, somewhere past Ipswich. Then I’ll have another pint and maybe a fry up, as it’ll be early morning by then. Thankfully I won’t be the only one idiotic enough to do this, there’ll be over a thousand others doing exactly the same thing…

This is the Dunwich Dynamo and has been the cause of many a sleepless night and panic attacks for me of late. Legend has it that, in 1993 on a balmy Friday night in July, a group of cycle couriers went to the pub after work and decided to cycle to the sea. Since then it’s become a bit of an institution, with more and more cyclists joining in on the none-too-bright idea each year. At 120 miles it’s twice the distance of the ever popular London to Brighton bike ride with the added bonuses of:

· Taking place at night
· Having no backup or organisation whatsoever – you break down, you’re on your own
· Ending up in, err, Dunwich

Sounds great, right? For some reason, I’ve decided that this will be a ‘fun thing to do’ and ‘an experience’ – I then proceeded to mention it to everyone I knew so that I couldn’t chicken out without feeling a bit of a tit. I’ve done a bit of preparation. I cycle to work every day – about 10 miles each way, and I’ve bought a big bag of Haribo and a massive torch. The most I’ve ever cycled in one go is about 40 miles, and that was quite a while ago. Oh dear…

What could possibly go wrong?

So, at about 5:30pm I bundle on to the train to Cannon Street and stand conspicuously opposite another guy with a bike. “You’re not going to Dunwich by any chance are you?” It turns out he was. David is a fellow commuter who had been egged to do it by his mates. He has a lot less stuff than me though. Just a tiny saddlebag with some tools, a water bottle and a couple of energy bars compared to my mountain bike with rack and rucksack containing a tonne of tools, food, drink, clothing and water. David is now worried that he’s under-prepared. I’m now worried that I’m over-prepared and lugging around a load of pointless weight. Not the best start.

We cycle from Cannon Street to London Fields (couple of wrong turns – this will become a bit of theme for the night), picking up a few more stray cyclists en route. Once we arrive, we all go our separate ways to meet our mates and settle in for a couple of warm-up beers. My crew consists of George, who arrives with his hybrid, Stuart who has a cyclocross bike that we all want to steal from him, and Justin and Suzanne, who have both turned up with proper bikes. Racing bikes. Quick bikes. Even before we start the rest of us make a decision not to bother trying to keep up with them. The simple fact of it definitely not being a race really does change the atmosphere of the Dynamo. Sure, there are the few super-fit nutters who’ll arrive on the beach at 2am, but the vast majority will get there when they get there.

Responsible pre-ride preparation

The atmosphere in the park is great; hundreds of bikes and people in bright clothing sitting around, having a Lucozade/beer and filling their faces with bananas. A sneaky look around reveals that the majority are riding on racing bikes, with the rest being hybrids, mountain bikes on slick tyres and a few nutcases on fixies, Bromptons or rusting Halfords-specials with big knobbly off-road tyres. One guy is there with a sandwich delivery bike and a very excited spaniel in the front. Even if it’s not a race, he definitely wins in my opinion. There are people from all over taking part, including a cycle club who have ridden down from Cambridge, a couple from the south of France (why are they here when the Tour is on back home??) and Marco, an Italian guy who has booked a holiday around this. “It’s not too bad for me,” he explains, “once we get to Dunwich I don’t have to worry about getting back to London, I’m just going to carry on.” Marco is a nutter.

People start getting on their way at about 8:30pm, which catches me by surprise as I have to neck the remaining half in front of me and don’t have time for a pee break. Five minutes in, Stuart and George take a wrong turn, but they catch up a few minutes later. Although the photocopied route guide is pretty clear, reading it while cycling is a bit tricky and following the person in front doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to right way. Riding out of London is fun because of the oddness of being in such a huge group, but the traffic is a pain. As we start nearing the outskirts of the city, I start getting into a nice, steady rhythm, but I’m dying for a wee. First pub stop it is then. Justin and Suzanne carry on while we drain a cheeky Foster’s and buy some more Haribo. Back on the bike and as the sun starts to set, it feels like the ride really begins. This is what it’s all about, a big adventure in the dark. It’s nice to see the line of flashing red LEDs snaking off into the distance and people are now starting to be able to ride side by side and have a bit of a chat. Spirits are still high and everyone’s eager to get some miles behind them. I’d been warned about how dark the country lanes are, and that a decent light is essential, so am glad to have the powerful torch I’d strapped to my handlebars (even if it did keep switching itself into strobe mode). People flock to those with lights like moths, eager to avoid any potholes hidden in the shadows.

Responsible refuelling

We decided that we’d try and get another beer in before closing time, so when we see a country pub packed with cyclists emerging out of the night at 11:00pm, we pull over for our second stop and last bit of alcohol for the evening. Probably a good thing – if the pubs were open all night along the route, I doubt I’d get much more than half way. When we’re about a third of the way into the route, we stop on a village green and I tuck into the cheese sandwiches I’d brought along. They taste heavenly after all the bananas and sweets. The man with the dog is there and I feel faintly embarrassed that I’m not quicker than him, but then remember it’s not a race. I chat to a guy who has a nasty cut on the palm of his hand. He stacked it at the edge of the road, taking two others out with him. It’s the only accident that I heard about on the run thankfully – other than when I clipped my right foot out of my pedal and leaned to the left, falling straight on to a grass verge.

The next stop is about an hour down the road, the fabled feeding station at the half way point. Spurred on by the idea of a cup of coffee we head to the entrance, see the massive queue and have a lie down on the lawn instead. Elton, a friend of George’s sits with us, we bump into him quite a few times over the rest of the trip as he speeds off into the distance and we then catch him up. He has pick ‘n’ mix sweets, so quickly becomes my new best friend. It’s strange, even though there is estimated to be around 1,400 people doing the ride this year, we find ourselves passing the same people over and over again. As we leave we’re joined by a bloke who has done this before and feels the need to give us a running commentary. We go through a village about 10 miles later and he points out the town hall where last year’s food stop was. “So hang on, which one is half way then? This one, or the one we stopped at?” I asked worriedly. “This year’s is at 52 miles in,” is his crushing reply. I decide I don’t like him anymore and pull ahead.

The next few hours go by like a very surreal dream. It’s very dark as, even though there’s a full moon, the cloud cover is very thick. On the flipside, this means it’s pretty warm, so I’m still fine in shorts and a t-shirt. My left crank had started to develop a weird ticking noise – I wasn’t worried about it falling apart, but after an hour or so, my mind has warped this into a strange Richie Hawtin-style minimal techno track that I can’t not listen to. Top tip if you’re planning on doing something like this – make sure your bike has a tick, it really helps. “Hold on for the best downhill of the Dynamo,” a voice shouts out of the dark. A mad descent into a village for a few minutes really lifts my spirits. My computer clocks us at over 35mph. The lights turn red at the bottom of the hill. Bugger.

Hallelujah!

At some point around 5 o’clock it starts getting lighter. We’re three quarters of the way there and the sun is coming up. I’m feeling great, we’re so close that I can almost taste the fry up in the café. Oh, hang on, no we’re not, we’ve still got 30 miles to go, and that’s a good couple of hours in the saddle. It’s safe to say that the last part was the hardest for me. It was now daylight, so my mind thought we should’ve finished but we were still chasing down endless (albeit beautiful) country lanes. A smattering of people cheering us on from the roadside cheers me up immensely, but not as much as a sign saying ‘Dunwich Dynamo Bacon Rolls’ outside an enterprising family’s house – without a doubt the finest tasting plastic cup of tea I’ve had in my life. After a good rest, we press on with what now must be my tenth wind. Elton joins us for the remainder of the ride, having met up with us again at the bacon sandwich stop. I also see David again, his lack of luggage doesn’t seem to’ve hindered him, but then all the crap I’ve brought with me hasn’t bothered me too much either, so we both needn’t have worried.

Sand of hope and glory

A few short but fairly brutal hills later and we come across the sight I’ve been dreaming of for the last hour. A simple road sign stating ‘Dunwich 7’ – beautiful. I have a pee behind a bush to celebrate. The last miles fly by and soon we’re coasting down towards the sea. I count at last 40 people cycling back the other way – some are off to the train station to get home and others are cycling all the way back to London. I don’t even consider joining them, 120 miles is enough for me. We pull into the car park and collapse in a heap with Mars Bars and Red Bull. There’s a café and there’s a beach, other than that it’s just bikes and happy, tired people. We meet up with Justin and Suzanne who finished a good hour and a half before us, even though Suzanne had two punctures – I’m glad we didn’t try and keep up. The ride couldn’t have gone any better for us. Not one puncture and the only thing that snapped off was the left arm of my glasses. The weather was good and the wind was behind us the whole way.

The sea that launched a thousand bikes

We chuck our bikes into the furniture lorries and head down to the water. If you’re going to ride 120 miles to the seaside overnight, the least you can do is go in for a swim. The chap with the dog arrives and they both enjoy a splash about too. After a sleep on the beach, a fry up and a bottle of cider, we’re on the coach back to London. It’s all very efficient and we easily pick our bikes up at the other end, and have a chat with Barry, the man behind the whole thing. He’s pleased with how it went and isn’t worried about it becoming too popular and getting out of control, what with the ever increasing numbers taking part year on year. “Cycling makes people better. I don’t mean that in some gushy way, just that doing something like this makes a person brave. And if they’re brave they’ll be more respectful.” We strap our stuff back on our bikes, say our goodbyes and head off to our respective train stations. At London Bridge I’m welcomed with the news that there are engineering works on my line. Sod it, it’s only another 10 miles, and everyone knows commuting is quicker by bike…

More info on the Dunwich Dynamo, what to bring, how to prepare, tips and FAQs here: www.londonschoolofcycling.co.uk/dunwich.html

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London is a vast and versatile city, which makes picking out things to do an easy task – Tower Bridge, Big Ben, London Eye, Natural History Museum, St. Paul’s Cathedral et al. These are a little obvious though; nothing wrong with that of course, but if you’re a frequent visitor or hard-to-please resident you might crave something a little bit quirky or different. The five places below probably wouldn’t rank very highly on most tourists ‘to visit’ list (that is unless you have a penchant for police stations, interactive archives, tombs, trains or magic), but at STA travelbuzz, we kind of love them. Read on…

Petite Police Station

Dr. Who designs new London police HQ

Movie Buffs’ Booth

The BFI Southbank’s Mediatheque is simply brilliant. I admit that placing yourself in a sound proof booth to watch documents from the British Film Institute’s archive might not appeal to all when it comes to visiting a city. It is though an amazing resource. My own discovery of it was somewhat by chance. After a day spent marauding the streets of London on a sunny afternoon, the need for a seat had led me to the BFI complex. I then found myself relaxing for the best part of two hours while watching Withnail and I. Oh, and did I mention that it is completely free?

Address: Belvedere Road, Southbank
Website: www.bfi.org.uk

Tent of a Tomb

Camping for all eternity

Address: 61 North Worple Way
Website: www.stmarymags.org.uk

Death Train

The London Necropolis Railway Station, despite it somewhat fantastical sounding name, did actually exist and still does. It opened in 1854 and took coffins and mourners from Westminster Bridge Road to Brookwood Cemetery. Trains ran everyday until 1900 when they were then reduced. The station was hit by bombs during the Second World War and never reopened, but the entrance still stands to this day.

Address: 121 Westminster Bridge Road
Website: Wikipedia

It’s A Kind of Magic

How Gandalf got started

Address: 7 Charing Cross Underground Arcade, The Strand
Website: www.davenportsmagic.co.uk

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“How do you murder the King of England and get away scot-free?” Boomed a deep voice from above a flowing black trench coat. This was the dilemma facing me and around twenty others in a dark corner of the City of London. Huddled together on a freezing, gusty evening perhaps was not the ideal time to contemplate such a scenario, but, nevertheless, we listened intently.

Feeling the chill on the Ghost Walk

“How do you kill the head of the English royal family,” the voice continued to quizz us, “in such a way that would not show up long after his death?” There was a pause and a ripple of curiosity ran through us. No, we were not fresh recruits in a subversive anti-monarchist movement – armed with a Tardis and vial of Polonium 210. We were the captive audience of the London Ghost Walk and our guide, the author Richard Jones, was gleefully recounting one of his favourite tales. The wretched King in question was Edward II… the method of execution a red-hot spit, rammed up His Royal Highness’ arse by two assailants, killing him outright.

This wicked deed was ordered by none other than his very own ‘trouble and strife’, the enchanting Isabella who craved Blighty for herself and her native France. However, despite her impious behaviour, Isabella was a devout Catholic and, concerned that the murder would not fly with St. Peter come Judgement Day, she demanded to be buried as a monk in attempt to fool God’s loyal doorman. Her vengeful son Edward III had other ideas, however: he buried his mother in her wedding dress and threw the preserved heart of his father in the casket for good measure – thus scuppering her hopes of eternal rest.

A capital of creepy courtyards

“And here on misty autumn mornings,” Jones’ bellowing voice sings to a crescendo, “You can often see a beautiful but angry ghost, skulking amongst the tombstones, clutching before her the still-beating heart of her murdered husband…” Yikes!

Those well-versed in the history of the capital will tell you that tales such as Isabella’s are not unfamiliar. London has always been a ghost town – a city of great tragedy, loss and constant upheaval. As historian Peter Ackroyd wrote in London: The Biography, “London is a city perpetually doomed. There have always been epidemics and waves of death within the metropolis.” Plagues and pogroms, blazes and blitzes… for Jones it’s natural that claims of lost souls wandering the streets of modern day Londinium abound, and why his walks are so popular.

On misty autumn mornings...

“They’re great stories of things happening in history that have come back to haunt London,” he tells me, as we sit supping our pints in a local pub following the 90-minute tour. “The past and the present mingle nicely. For example, right next to Newgate Street, a busy main road, overlooked by Merryl Lynch’s towering modern office and you’re surrounded by old railings, antique gaslights – you are standing on centuries-old gravestones. An ancient burial ground.” It was over this street and others that we had obediently followed Jones through the dark, gloomy, late-December streets of the City, hearing a series of delightful tales along the way. We learnt of Scratching Fanny on Cock Lane (yes, really), of the anguished screams of human experiments emanating from the Royal College of Surgeons, and the friend of Charles Dickens who scared the spock out of Patrick Stewart when he was appearing in ‘Waiting For Godot’ (incidentally, Jones’ favourite scary anecdote).

But, tales aside for the moment, I wanted to know how and when Jones’ obsession with the paranormal began. “I used to have an old Irish uncle that used to tell me ghost stories as a kid. I loved it.” he tells me. ”But what got me into the really spooky stuff was the original ‘Great Expectations’. I can still see that image to this day, when little Pip goes into see Miss Haversham for the first time….”

A clandestine gathering

As somebody who has shaken and stirred his way behind the bars of the West End, I didn’t find the London Ghost Walk particularly frightening per se. (For me the frenzied rush before closing, during which cocky drinkers would down a Jeroboam of sambuca in 10 minutes, would usually result in the city’s most terrifying transfigurations -Isabella’s ghost had nothing on Big Trev from Billericay!) However, the Ghost Walk was very informative, and, thanks to Jones’ well-honed gift for storytelling, highly entertaining, as well as a great way to get out and experience hidden parts of the city other tours (and locals) tend to ignore.

Nothing on Big Trev

But as I prepare to switch of my digital voice recorder, I decide to ask our guide a final question he has no doubt heard countless times before. “Yes, I believe that there’s something there, and the term ‘ghosts’ is as good a name as any,” Jones says. Although he doesn’t believe it’s the dead haunting the streets of London, he sees it as a collection of ‘place memories’; spaces where people once experienced strong emotions. “I think they leave an imprint; something certain people can hear, smell, or feel. But they don’t have to be sorrow or terror,” he emphasizes. “They can be happy emotions, too.”

Unlike a terrified, convulsing Big Trev. Last we ever saw of him, at All Bar One in Leicester Square, he was on the floor by the fruit machine in the foetal position – where he was heard, smelt, and stomach-pumped, by the wonderful people from St. John’s Ambulance. Now that was a truly scary London encounter.

For more information, tour/ticket prices and booking check the official London Ghost Walk website.

More Creepy Crawlies & Terrifying Tours!

Looking for other scary London attractions? Here’s a run down of some more frighteners…

Jack The Ripper Tour
Richard Jones is your guide again… this time following the footsteps of the notorious serial killer ‘Jack The Ripper’. History buffs with a taste for the macabre will love this gruesome walking tour of the East End and the chance to see original Victorian photos relating to the crimes.

It was more scary before CCTV

London Dungeons
A more visceral than cerebral scare, the London Dungeons offer a theatre full of fearful rides and recreations… such as the Drop Ride of Doom and the Boat Ride to Hell. Encounters with Sweeney Todd and Jack The Ripper await the brave-hearted.

London Bridge and London Tombs
Two terrors for the price of one. Lavish special effects and actors bring London Bridge alive through the ages in this interactive adventure, complete with pick pockets and criminals. And prepare to don sword and shield to repel a Viking invasion! Meanwhile you may wish to brush up on zombie lore before entering the London Tombs… watching Shaun of the Dead won’t be enough to save you!

The Tower of London
Famous for Beefeaters, ravens and the Crown Jewels, this notorious prison has seen more than its fair share of executions in its 900 year history. Sir Walter Raleigh and a headless Ann Boleyn are amongst the A-list of ghosts who continue to haunt this tower of terror.

Ghost Bus Tour
If you thought London transport was a nightmare at the best of times, then you should definitely avoid this hellish ride. Your creepy conductor acts as guide for this sinister sightseeing tour, which takes place in the only surviving bus of the Necropolis transport company which ran hearst services in the capital until 1967.

Pasaje Del Terror
Yet more theatrical scares await at the Pasaje del Terror in London’s Trocadero. First opened to the public in Bilbao (hence the Spanish name!) this international interactive attraction will expose visitors to some of cinema’s most chilling baddies… but is it scary? Hell yes… at least according to Radio 1’s Scott Mills who screamed 18 times.

If you prefer to be petrified over a pint, then check the Fluid Foundation’s guide to London pubs with horrible histories.

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