I never meant to get to get stuck at Staines.
When I arrived there on a hot Sunday in July 2021 I fully intended to be back within weeks to pick up the Thames Path and chalk up the next stretch to Windsor. But somehow things got in the way. The weather for a start. It was too blazing hot. It was too blasted wet. When it finally looked like Goldilocks weather was on the way, well, then there were the train strikes. And then when I tried to work out the logistics – which weren’t at all complicated but I made them so – I saw that this next section of the path runs jammed between main road and river for quite a chunk of the eight miles. Yes, there was Runnymede which promised to be a wide open space with a tea room (always a good sign), but otherwise the route was not enticing.
And so I was stuck at Staines.
For two years.
And then came the lightbulb moment. This Staines to Windsor stretch – I didn’t have to do it. There is no Path Police. I could leave Staines (no doubt charming) to be charming all by itself.
Whew.
Tally ho for Windsor to Maidenhead then. Seven miles of much more promising walking and hey, why not do it in the opposite direction – downstream from Maidenhead to Windsor?
Giddy with possibilities I even signed up a walking companion.
Thanks to a very generous lift to the start, we set out from below Maidenhead Bridge.
The late September sun was shining, the birds were singing and it was an all round good day to be back by the water. A little way along we came to a railway bridge, one of Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s constructions. Here’s an artist’s impression
JMW Turner, first exhibited 1844. National Gallery collection.
This splendidly wide bridge has three high arches, the main one over the river plus smaller ones on each side, plenty wide enough for vehicles to pass through. I had heard that the acoustics under the arches were spectacular so I was determined to try them out.
My fancy for shouting in echoey spaces has been rekindled by my grandson’s equal delight in the practice. People smile indulgently when you’re yelling into the void if you have a two year old with you, but I’m not so confident with my echo, ECHO, ECHOOOOOOOs solo. But of course, I wasn’t alone. No one was going to bat an eyelid at a woman calling a dog’s name. I had a good look around me. There was absolutely nobody about on land or water. The coast was clear. A few tentative Huws proved that the railway arch did indeed create a wonderful sound. Along with a confused dog who was firmly attached to his lead and troubling no one. So then I let rip. ECHO, ECHO, ECHO. ECHOOOOOO. Gosh, I made a glorious noise under this chancel roof.
Of course, tucked away behind a parked van, awaiting the arrival of the rest of the team and all decked out in Railtrack hi vis kit (not hi vis enough, I posit) sat an engineer quietly enjoying the sunshine. Very graciously she said that she hadn’t heard me at all.
On our side of the bank, the town was petering out with some very pleasant Edwardian suburban style dwellings. The sort of houses you find in the swankiest parts of town, generous in size inside and out but evidently still family homes, albeit for families with deep pockets. Across the river it was a different story.
These were stratospherically swanky properties. Beautifully tended but sadly bereft of life. Didn’t stop me passing a pleasant half mile picking my favourite though. (I’ll take no. 2 please.)
What can I say about the Path at this point? It’s green, it’s pleasant, it’s all you could ask for in a Path – but it’s ever so slightly uneventful.
After my Postcode walks, where there was something to see on every corner it took a while to relax into the pace of the riverside. But Huw was in his element. Once in the woods he discovered that in places the bank sloped gently down to the water and he was straight in.
The first time, he charged across the narrow shallow river beach and found himself swimming downstream as if in some canine duathlon. Thereafter he took a more cautious approach. A friendly couple passed us mid dip. We used to have a Lab like him. Ours used to do that too, ha, ha, ha. With them was a very small dog with no interest in getting wet.
Bray lock came into view. Nothing much going on there but a fantastic array of dahlias blazing away on the far side next to the lock keeper’s house.
I complimented the man on his garden. He was taciturn. Not my garden, I’m just the relief lock keeper. Huw soon had him on side.
Somewhere along the way, Huw picked up a stick.
A dog trotting along with a stick – could there be a more cheering sight?
Except for Huw a small stick is nothing more than an amuse bouche, something to get his teeth into as he warms up for the main course. Small sticks were soon jettisoned for whatever the undergrowth could offer and – more excitingly – whatever the river could provide.
He went to greater and greater lengths.
We met that nice couple again. Ours used to do that too, ha, ha, ha.
I’m not particularly animal minded but I do know that dogs as a species can be pretty bright and that Huw-he’s-not-my-dog’s mixed Lab/Collie heritage does probably put him quite high up the intelligence chart. Except when it comes to sticks. Specifically regarding just how much of a hazard a dog with a great long stick can be to everything around him.
Walkers, runners, cyclists – they were all out and about to be downed, taken out below the knees by the whack of a speeding bough.
There followed an interlude of what it pleases me to call stick curating. Huw dragged his latest find out of the bushes, I hurled myself at it to stand on one end and bend the other end up to snap it while he attempted to pull it out from under me. What fun one of us had. 
Words may have been exchanged. Possibly loud enough ones to reach the elegantly reclining guests of the Waterside Inn on the opposite bank.
Bet they wished they were over with us though. There’s only so much elegant reclining in the elegant grounds of an elegant three Michelin star restaurant with rooms that a person can take.
What else did we see as we walked along? The M4 motorway,
some pleasant river views and a few rather nice riverside houses every now and then.
a school rowing lake
ok, so it belongs to Eton College and they held Olympic events here in 2012, and a pretty much defunct school boat house and landing jetty.
Then came Boveney lock where the lock keeper was busily helping a narrow boat through
and where, though they were lax on dahlias, they were tip top on maps.
Somewhere between the lake and the lock was the church of St Mary Magdalene.
Cared for by the Friends of Friendless Churches (oxymoron anyone?), this unexpected treasure dates back to the twelfth century and is utterly lovely.
Back off his lead after a quiet look round the church, Huw bounded over to that nice couple (again) who were sitting on the bank having a picnic. I don’t know what he did – I can guess – but I heard Ours used to do that too, ha, ha, ha. Their immaculate little dog looked on appalled.
The waterside began to get busy with live aboard boats which meant that we were nearing Windsor. Suddenly we rounded a bend and there was the reason we’d walked downstream, and not up.
This view.
@huwfrombristol essayed an influencer pose (he’s got more followers than me, dammit).
There was a handy sign to show the way, which would have been helpful had I seen it before I headed in the opposite direction and had to come all the way back,
and suddenly we were in town. The bridge from the Eton side to the Windsor side is pedestrianised and is clearly well trodden by visitors.
We’d arranged a lift back from pretty Eton and Windsor Riverside railway station so, as we waited, we shared a bottle of water and watched Windsor go by.
A tide of elegant women flowed past and then returned with a shoal of small children in archaic school uniform, weighed down by schoolbags and expectations. Huw deployed his dapper mode.
And was admired in several languages.
Of course he was.
Woman, walking 