My trip to see Dulwich Hamlet play Harrow Borough on Saturday took me through Northolt Park, a singularly characterless suburb of north west London.
It didn’t help that the rain never ceased, but apart from the pleasant oasis of Alexandra Park, the walk to the football ground took me through a bleak rolling landscape of relentless, soul-crushing suburbia.
Almost every front garden had long since been paved over, with multiple shiny cars replacing the rose bushes and carefully tended lawns. Barely a soul was seen on the pavements, with motorised transport – even for the shortest distances – seeming the norm here.
Feeling peckish, I popped into a Londis mini store and had what I can only describe as a wet cheese sandwich. The label said ‘cheese and onion’ but it turned out to be a bizarre and thoroughly inedible semi-liquid mush peppered with bright orange bits.
Sorry, Northolt Park, but I hated you. All I could think of was this poem and this song.
Speared cans on the walk from the station.
Closed business.
Skewers.
Station Parade.
Rusting mail box.
Dry cleaners with signage that appears to have come from the 1950s.
Always good to know.
Both old and new Chung Wah have left the building.
Harrow Nail post box.
Spicy nights for Northolt Park.
A walk around the deserted Alexandra Park raised the spirits.
A lone cyclist passes by.
Autumnal hues.
These trees looked startled.
Empty baseball court.
This was just about the only house that had anything left of its front garden.
Every garden paved over for miles.
Discarded fridge.
Not sure if the idea of a ‘messy church’ appeals.
Station sign at Northolt Park. There’s only one train every hour and I’d just missed that, so I walked up to the bright lights of South Harrow.
South Harrow. It was still raining when my train came in.
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