To Cockfosters and Beyond

Into The Mystic

I estimate a 50 minute journey time to travel the length of the Bakerloo from Elephant and Castle north to Harrow and Wealdstone. This would give me plenty of time for a spot of sightseeing before meeting Dave at the Weald Stone Inn. I had naively failed to factor in a delay for the inevitable shooting in Harlesden. My initial estimate turns out to be 60 minutes shy of the actuality, allowing time for nothing more than a couple of quick snaps of the traditional red-brick station which dates back to 1837.

I hastily head north up High Street, briefly pausing outside the bookies to confirm directions with a punter sporting a long facial scar (over the course of the evening, I discover this look is de rigueur in these parts). I am assured my navigational skills are spot on, although I am strongly advised to take a bus. ‘It’s a long, long walk to the Weald Stone Inn, mate’. ‘How long exactly?’, I enquire. ‘Ten minutes’. As a proud holder of the Duke of Edinburgh Silver Award, I decide to brave the walk.

I pass the Carousel amusement arcade, displaying a range of Egyptian-themed prizes for the few who strike lucky. A little further on is St Joseph’s Church. I fail to detect the bomb damage which a work colleague assures me is visible on the huge white crucifix over the main entrance.

After a long ten minutes I arrive at the Weald Stone Inn. Pre-trip research had revealed this to be the site of the Weald Stone, a standing stone used in Tudor times as a boundary marker. Julian Cope aka the Modern Antiquarian wonders if the stone may once have possessed magical qualities. Strangely, the stone vanishes from historical documents between 1549 and 1834. To one-time Teardrop Explode, this suggests the stone could have been one of a number of ‘wandering stones’. I would propose more sober theory that no-one bothered writing about it for a while, but I bow to the modern mystic’s superior knowledge.

A couple of smokers standing outside the pub’s entrance seem amused by the sight of me carefully photographing the rather anonymous-looking stone which now lies flat at the base of the pub sign outside the front entrance. Inside, Dave is patiently waiting. He has discovered that local history isn’t an area of huge interest to the easy-going barman who believed the stone to be located ‘somewhere round the back’.

We quickly decide that the Wealdstone Inn won’t be our only port of call this evening. Although the staff are friendly enough, the establishment suffers from a distinct lack of atmosphere. After a couple of quick pints of Guinness, we head back down the High Street.

A night of beer drinking on an empty stomach isn’t looking like a sensible course of action. Tesco Express beckons. Dave lines up the pints in Fordes, an intriguingly threatening-looking Irish pub with blacked-out windows. I enjoy a tuna and cucumber sandwich al fresco. The culinary options offered by Wealdstone pubs extend to nothing beyond a packet of KP nuts.

Every seat in Fordes is carefully positioned to ensure that customers are directly facing one of a number of large-screen TV’s, tonight showing Spurs taking on the might of Milan. Conversation isn’t what this place is all about. We decide to check out the smoking area which turns out to be a dingy back alley with piles of metal beer barrels which handily double as tables on which we carefully balance our pints. We are joined briefly by an Irish fellow who gives us a useful potted history of ‘The Paddies Arrival in Wealdstone in the Mid-seventies’.

We manage to visit another two authentically Irish venues before the end of the evening. They are certainly cosy and welcoming but rather quiet. Dave and I make up the majority of the clientele in both. It seems that Wednesday isn’t a going-out night in this part of the world.

With thirteen termini down and nine to go, a feeling of confidence pervades the EOTL camp.