Wedged into a tiny train, far too small for the surprising amount of Sunday travellers, it's easy to be cynical about travelling around the UK by rail. Of course, I've spent a fair portion of my life doing so - but on the series of revisits in company which are now taking place, a little comfort seems far more important. I'm getting older, and wiser perhaps - and I'm very aware of the value of the little disposable income we have just now too. But that's not meant to detract in any way from an almost perfect weekend spent in my home county. Indeed the train up here yesterday was smooth, quick, relatively quiet and direct. Arrival at Foregate Street station recalled earlier visits for me - indeed one of my earliest trips in the 90s was a complicated set of connections to enable me to get here, then to head for Birmingham via the less travelled road to Snow Hill which had just re-opened. That set off a series of track collecting activities which brought together my love of geography and railways in very dangerous ways.

Alighting and heading down to the bustling streets is always a bit of a strange surprise. Railway stations are so often not in city centres, so to be plunged directly into one is both pleasant and strange. We soon met our friends and wandered the city. For me it was recalling how much or indeed, how little had changed since I was last here. For others it was a more novel experience. We stopped into a small pub with sloping timbers and erratic floors and found great food and even better beer. A rainstorm passed over, and we headed out into the city again, working our way towards the impressive Cathedral. It was a good while since I'd been here, and it was a delight to experience it again in newly appreciative company. We spent a good while examining the memorials, marvelling at the statuary and paying respects to Elgar, linked strongly here by music and history - a name introduced to me early at school not far away, but still not dimmed by over-familiarity like some early influences. We decided to walk out to the suburbs to our bed for the night. Out of the Cathedral precinct and down stairs, noting the historic record of flood levels as the stone walls developed a green coating of river weeds. We emerged on a broad lawn beside the Severn - the weather had brightened and the youngsters of Worcester were lounging happily. We set off along the river path - and I felt suddenly and strangely content to be beside water again. After a short walk, not entirely easy with a rolling case in tow, we arrived at the junction of the Worcester and Birmingham Canal with the River. A flight of wide-beam locks raised the water level to Diglis Basin - houseboats and barges moored alongside old industrial buildings, the sun shine now picking out the brass and bright painted designs. We slowed and entered a canalside pub, enjoying the fading evening in good company.

Today was a gloomier, overcast proposition but we set about finding Elgar's statue - and unexpectedly a plaque honouring his enthusiasm for cycling. Next we headed for good coffee and watched the world go by. Worcester is one of those cities which manages to stay resolutely bustling on a Sunday - not unlike Gloucester where I would often find myself heading in the winter. The city centre is blighted by unwise development and curiously bad modern buildings, but enough remains to make it a charming and resolutely English part of the world. Our travels just now are often swiftly arranged and based around limited resources but slowly we are working our way to the spots that I've loved - and some indeed that I've never visited. Long may our wandering continue...

The difference today was that I had at least planned to be here. My year planner is peppered with these trips to London in the safe knowledge that they will find me exploring some new geographical obsession or other, and that I'll have a reasonably relaxing journey on the rails. Sometimes, they become little excursions beyond the city - but even then there is always the luxury of an early arrival and perhaps a bus ride. With the world of railtouring changing considerably there have been more trips than I ever quite planned, but this has lead to walks across the eastern side of the city I'd probably not have countenanced before too. In this sense at least, the fractured and haunted summer has been a success in retrospect and I look back fondly on those walks which sometimes didn't seem significant on the day, but which have clicked into place later. I could only hope today would do the same for me. Because, today I had half a plan.

Today was, essentially, a completion. I'd read online that the towpath along the Hackney Cut was open - if still patrolled by G4S around the Olympic Park perimeter. But it was open nonetheless, so after a lazy breakfast in welcome late summer sunshine I set off east on my usual bus route. It was quiet, a cool but shining morning as we headed around the arc of the bus route. I saw it through almost to its end, hopping off near Bow Garage for the walk to the Church. I stocked up on water too, it looked like later when the sun was high it was going to be hot. I dodged traffic at Bow Interchange and found the footbridge down to the towpath just how I'd seen it on that excursion months back. I pondered what that had started: campaigns, obsessions, imaginary love affairs, endless wanders. I descended slowly, savouring this progression onto what had become hallowed ground. A battle fought over a strip of scraggy land beside a turgid canal, walkers and cyclists uneasily united. It was good to be back. Quickly, The Fence is alongside. Beyond it? Nothing. No movement. The occasional distant crash or scrape as unseen contractors strip back "the overlay" from the park. Empty staff buses circuit, the contract outliving their usefulness. Occasional security cars emerge. Overhead, a helicopter constantly drones. Crossing and recrossing the park. Even now it's a focus for paranoia and concern. I walk on, past the Northern Outfall Sewer carrying the still off-limits Greenway, past Hertford Union Junction, White Post Lane. I'm on the stretch which was guarded when a small orange boat called "Vigilance" passes by. They're not interested anymore. I stop, take a picture, watch the sun bounce of the gilt lettering of Formans, speculators on the Olympic dream. I could oppose Lance Forman's take on the Games, but he's still here in the Wick, his modern but organic new headquarters swooping gracefully and cheekily nodding at the Orbit across the water. Finally I reach the closure point - further than I ever managed on this side. The little brick circle still allows cyclists to pause and read maps. The boat ties off here, the lime green shirted guards head into the park. I make a decision - I'll press on out of its gravity - I'll get free of this place at last...

Under the Eastway bridge and into the unknown - except it's far from that, I've studied and reviewed this part of the world endlessly over the last few years. There is a gate here where the river can be closed, and on it scrawled in pen strokes which my camera can't pick up some graffiti about the Games - ending in "No Locals". The path broadens, a flat screed of yellow stones leading onwards. Almost immediately to the east the terrain is wooded and scrubby. Flats and boathouses hug the western bank, with occasional glimpses and shouts of dismay or protest from footballers on Mabley Green beyond. Boats are lazily moored once again, and I find a curling notice from British Waterways advising what should be done if birds nest on boats which need to move for the Olympics. Both British Waterways and the Games have passed into memory over the summer of course. The world has changed immeasurably down here on the river. Marshgate Bridge looms, jutting half the width of the cut and carrying Homerton Road. Buses fly back and forth and I think that this could be the place to return to civilisation. I always do this - worry about the return trip, experiencing pointless range anxiety. I don't of course. I press on by the colourful block which has replaced the defunct Lesney factory. I rather want the factory back - and while the building itself isn't entirely bad, it feels insultingly out of place in the greenery of the Lea Valley. It also looks rather empty, a woman almost nervously picking her way onto the riverside terrace with her book. Uncertain of her rights on private terrain despite living within it. I've decided now - I'll walk to Tottenham. I've no idea how far it is, but I know the escape routes there, so I'm safe to head on. To my right, the land opens out into the flat, endless football pitches of Hackney Marsh. I divert briefly to look at the expanse of grassland. Games are underway in the distance. I consider an improvised urinal in the bushes, but dog walkers emerging unexpectedly convince me otherwise. It's back to the path again, regarding what appears to be an abandoned youth facility or community centre at the end of the footbridge at Mandeville Street - the Paralympic mascot's moniker not even ironic here. Looming on the west bank is the opened carcass of Millfields Power Station. A huge, forlorn brick shank with the ribs of a great roof still extant. It broods oddly in the shimmering heat. Midges flit and the trickle of cyclists and joggers seems to die out. I feel very alone despite civilisation being mere metres away. This place has a strange, empty pulse - perhaps emanating from the overhead high voltage lines?

Just before Pond Lane bridge, where the towpath crosses the former structure of the tidal stop gates, I duck into a gap in the high municipal looking wall and find myself in the Middlesex Filter Beds. I'd read only a little about this site, so it was truly a voyage of discovery as I marvelled at how nature had been allowed to reclaim these vast lagoons. Picking my way along the central conduit carefully, stepping over cracked concrete and abandoned sluice winding gear, I made for a distant bench and rested. Above me, wires crackled - heading for the ghost power station which still towered over the river. Few people passed. I was alone, silent in the middle of the vast urban sprawl. A text message arrived, and I found myself composing a reply standing right at the centre of the huge concrete hub. Perhaps it was some sort of locus of microwave leylines? I headed back to the canal, crossed the bridge and pressed on to Lea Bridge where the natural river rejoined the route at a substantial weir. For all its communications importance, the bridge seemed tiny and insignificant. It wasn't right to stop here so I pushed on once again. I was tiring, and needed to keep moving. The river curves here, around the derlict emptiness of Essex Wharf and the rather pleasant new developments surrounding Millfields Recreation Ground. When the river straightens it enters a long, slow moving straight section. East of the water is Walthamstow Marsh - deceptively rural, land for grazing. It seems a world away from the buzz and clatter of the Olympic Park. I rest a while, wishing I'd deviated into the park to find a toilet. Swilling cool water and thinking about the headswimming heat. There's plenty to wonder about though - railways cross and recross the marshes here. I've seen this terrain from above so many times, and sure enough I soon pass the Anchor and Hope pub. I'd often thought I'd like to visit here one day - and almost head inside the cool, dark building. But common sense and my ability to complete the walk check me from doing so. Another time, maybe in company I mutter - though I've no idea who or when I'm thinking about. The path here deviates from the water, edging around Springfield Park. The official route of the walk is on the other bank, skirting the marsh, but I want to stay on this side for reasons I can't put a finger on. The park rises steeply away, and I think heading for the other, higher edge for facilities might just use the energy I've reserved to press on. So I do, and suddenly after a tangle of adventure play schemes and allotments, the river curves back in at my right and I'm back on course.

The last stretch is hard going - but is oddly rewarding. Busy boat houses provide a home for the canoes and rowing vessels which have passed me all morning, receiving commands from bicycling captains with loud-hailers. There has been a post-Olympic surge here, the junior section in particular is busy. Whatever the skepticism I might hold about the Games and this swathe of London, it's genuinely heartening to see this. On the east bank Springfield Marina is full of a different kind of vessel - a life on narrowboats always seemed a corny cop-out, but now I see it's attractions more clearly. Is this another mid-life crisis looming? I pause to finally empty my aching bladder at Markfield Park Cafe, in the shadow of the great Beam Engine. This one dealt in the pumping of sewage - part of the scheme which cleansed London of its filth, now regenerated into a rather fine little corner of the parkland with a museum, a cafe and places to relax and play. It felt positive and well-used. I considered lunch here, but again thought that stopping might be final. I returned to the path for the last push. Under the railway again, the curve to South Tottenham breaking off just feet from the river and the Cambridge line passing directly overhead. The river turns north and the Gospel Oak to Barking line crosses on a low bridge. Some young black guys explode from a side gate swaggering and yelling. I glance at one and with little interest he utters "Yeah. Come on then? What you gonna do then?". It's momentarily startling, but empty. He rails against everyone I guess, but fat white middle-class guys tramping river banks must be appalling to him. I press on, waiting for another walker to pass me before checking they headed in the opposite direction. Its the one time I've been even mildly concerned for my safety on the riverbank I realise. Finally, Tottenham Lock hoves into view - but just before it does, the path rises over a side-stream. Curving away in a concrete culvert is Pymmes Brook. It's an inauspicious little rivulet. Dirty and slow-moving in it's stony gully. But this leads onwards towards Tottenham where the tiny trickle of the Moselle River joins it. I have linked up with an earlier walk and it's strangely triumphant to think how there is coherence to my ramblings. I ascend to civilisation with some regret...there is more river to walk ahead, but not today.

I realise I'm hungry and thirsty, and raid the newly opened Tesco near the station. Its a strange corner of public-private land here with fine new flats, a gym and a supermarket all protected by an ugly 1980s security kiosk - unmanned of course. No alcohol allowed. I munch pastries and glug fruit juice, wondering if this is allowed. Finally, dusted off and replete, I head for a train back to Liverpool Street and welcome coffee. I also realise that I booked a much later train than usual home - so there's no hurry, and I decide to use the buses to cross and recross the territory I've walked. To get a different slant on the land I've carved through by river. Thus I find myself crossing Lea Bridge and looking down on the spot I regarded it from earlier before arriving at Walthamstow Bus Station. A drunk has stumbled into a slow moving bus, an ambulance in attendance. Ill-governed crowds crush and flock to buses. I make the back seat of a 69 to Canning Town, wedged up against a tiny but pretty Polish mother. This bus takes me via Leyton, the eastern edge of the Olympic Park pushed up against the homes and shops of the borough. It's another circle complete - and another set of possibilities and gateways opened. What started with uncertain rail journeys before the bid, turned into a curious regard for this strange strip of land, and now manifests itself as an urge to walk, has come full-circle. This is now a voyage into post-Olympic London. Legacy delivered or reneged on? I find myself already wanting to be back here.

You can see more pictures from the walk here. As an experiment, you can also follow the route on the map below - the blue line is the walking route.

My introduction to Slow Club occurred on what promised to be another glum night in Crewe back in 2009. It's fair to say I've spent a fair few similarly dull nights there over the past decade or so, but rarely have I been quite so surprised. A remarkably glamourous, young looking duo took the stage against the drab backdrop of a Crewe pub, delivering a short but spirited set of songs which couldn't decide if they were pop or folk despite the flyer trying to pass them off as some sort of dreadfully serious anti-folk act. It didn't really matter - I was immediately intrigued. So, almost two years, an album which I listened to almost obsessively for months and a triumphant Homegame set later I find myself in the tricky position of writing about new music by a band I've enthused almost stupidly about everywhere. I'm sometimes accused of sycophancy here, but the mission is to write about things I like, not to act as some sort of arch, journalistic reviewer. Even so, sometimes it's far from easy to stay even slightly objective in the face of music you know is going to become very important to you as it grows more familiar. Yes readers, it's going to be another of those unfocused and incoherent pieces for which this blog is gaining a reputation...

If Slow Club's fine debut album 'Yeah, So' was an uplifting cry of defiance, then 'Paradise' is a somewhat darker and more complex beast. There is a brooding atmosphere from the outset, with almost the entire record drenched in reverb, and with the generally uncomplicated instrumentation echoing around a sparse, empty room. There's also a pervading sense of loss, regret, even bitterness perhaps here. But the songs still manage to fill the vast space with warm, human emotion - and Charles and Rebecca can't entirely avoid the involuntary outbursts of pure, unashamed enthusiasm which made their first record such an instant success for me. Familiar from a recent single release which was coupled to an understated and classy video, 'Two Cousins' is a drum heavy, swaggering and soulful stomp. Strange washes of orchestration punctuate proceedings, and a piano-driven chorus provides one of those definitive Slow Club moments when you're grabbed and lifted up on the giddy spirals of vocals. A word is appropriate here on the metamorphosis of Rebecca Taylor. Universally portrayed in the music press as some sort of disinterested indie ice-queen since the first record, her personality shines through the vocals on this record - childlike glee in it's highs, growling anger at the world's injustice and a soulful ache of regret elsewhere. The clarity of her voice is unchanged, but its range and character have grown immeasurably into something truly amazing.

There is a lightness and simplicity about the plaintive 'Never Look Back' which has become an early album highlight for me. It starts by tackling an incredibly challenging, emotive event in a remarkably honest way. Charles Watson leads the song in with a somewhat incongruous swinging, jazzy intro until huge drums and surprisingly thunderous guitars enter for a soaring chorus where Rebecca's voice reaches for the stratosphere. This is a genuinely affecting, heart-stoppingly frank song which will leave even the most seasoned musical campaigner moist-eyed. A blast of relief from the tension arrives with the opening war-cry of 'Where I'm Waking'. A sultry, swaggering come-on punctuated by epic tumbles of echoing guitar and Motown drumbeats. Parts of this wouldn't be out of place in a seventies soul classic, while other sections belong in a twanging Johnny Cash-era country song. This ability to adopt and adapt pop history but still remain as fresh and modern as a Hoxton haircut seems a theme throughout 'Paradise'. A stroll in East London over last weekend sets 'Hackney Marsh' in some personal context and, like the place it's named for, this is an open, spacious quiet place punctuated by surprises and incongruities. Leading in with the simple observation that 'currency can ruin friendships/a mattress can do it too', this builds to a soaring howl of a chorus, which gives way to a perfectly placed saxophone solo. It's another of those moments - vintage Slow Club in many ways, but the focus on bittersweet reflection suits the theme. As the marshes disappear under shopping centres and the Olympic Legacy, this song captures the quiet ache of the bruised landscape and dust-covered spaces remarkably well.

It strikes me around the middle of the album how the duo's confidence in their art has grown since the first album. There is a sense, looking back that some of that record relied on happy accidents and an innocent belief that there was really nothing they couldn't pull off if they tried - and it worked almost flawlessly too. But here on 'Paradise' there is an assurance and a more concious understanding of the process. Charles' guitar veers deftly from chunky riffing to a sweet sixties-infused twang mid-song without a second thought, a wider range of instrumentation is deployed and Rebecca switches characters on a whim, playing Dusty on 'Beginners' switching effortlessly to Janis on 'Half Drunk' with it's Twin Peaks Theme bassline. 'You, Ash & Earth' is a dreamlike swoon of dark smoky vocals and an echoing piano. It sounds like an AM radio era pop song picked up decades later on a distorted radio, while a faint electronic pulse locates it in the present. A deliriously fine, shuffling chorus with gorgeous layers of vocals follows, before a soaring and spine-tingling climb where Rebecca's voice reaches impossible new heights. Charles manages his own vocal highlights too, as at the end of 'Horses Jumping' where an orchestral sweep and an aching piano melody supports his emotional, broken stretch for the sadness tinged notes. Another highlight - another moment banked to be revisited again and again. Finally, 'Palms' arrives to close proceedings. Brimming over with enthusiasm and joy, redeemed from the darkness with jagged rockabilly guitars and dizzily infectious vocals, the spirit of generations of girl groups is invoked from the 1950s right down to the present day - pure, almost annoyingly catchy pop to bookend the record.

This is a sprawling album, maybe even a bit confusing at times because it's so utterly packed with ideas, perfect pop snippets and surprisingly toughened-up tunes. It's the sound of a band confident and happy to be doing it their own way and not playing to a crowd who would probably have been content with a carbon copy of 'Yeah, So'. This is brave, dark and earthy but also beautifully brittle music which sometimes confounds and never quite plays to expectations. If you're looking for an easy listen, Slow Club aren't offering it on 'Paradise' - but if you don't mind digging in and living with a record there is a wonderfully reward awaiting you here.

You can purchase "Paradise" in a Deluxe Edition including videos and extra tracks at iTunes, at Amazon or your local independent record store.

Slow Club - Never Look Back

I'd booked time off for London Open House months back. Just like everything else these past few weeks I didn't get around to organising things until the last minute. Managed to get a cheap first class fare for the journey up, and booked a slightly more expensive than usual hotel. I could probably realistically have travelled up tomorrow, but I wanted to recapture some of the spirit of my first Open House a couple of years back, where I made a series of epic treks. This time, I planned to use this afternoon for a railway ramble, then walk tomorrow. Sunday would be a chance for a lazy breakfast and the journey west around lunchtime.

A fairly smooth start to proceedings. Dealt with some domestic bits and bobs and set out for the 0945 to Taunton. Changed and had only a brief wait for the 1031 to Paddington. This train calls at Reading and London Paddington only, and originates deep in Cornwall. Fairly busy, even in first. Settle back to read and doze through the journey along the Berks & Hants route. Gave very little thought to how I'd kill the time until check-in at all.

Arrived on time at Paddington, and glanced at the Departure Boards whilst shouldering my pack. Noted the 1255 Chiltern Railways service to Princes Risborough. This train runs once a day on all weekdays except Wednesdays, and this and its balancing inward journey are the only way to cover the short stretch of line from Old Oak Common West to Northolt Junction. I recall being somewhat obsessed with this bit of track, along with the Stalybridge Parliamentary some years back, but I'd never attempted it. Perhaps in fact it was a Friday only working back then? Took the opportunity to grab coffee and food, and to trudge over to the furthest extremities of the mainline station at Paddington. Sure enough, there was a Chiltern class 165/0 ticking away with at best two other passengers onboard. Decided to cover the route as far as High Wycombe - partly to maximise my options for the return, and also to honour the excellent Remapping High Wycombe project.

Once we've swung across the mainline just beyond Old Oak Common depot, the line plunges into a cutting. Soon the Central Line joins on the left, alternating between being a little below or a little above us. The disused Park Royal branch from the Guiness Brewery swings in from the right, and soon we're at Greenford where the Central Line is high above us, along with the single line trailing in from the Great Western Main Line. Beyond this, it's a long straight dash into the suburbs, with a fairly regular procession of southbound units passing us now we've joined the line into Marylebone.

It's a long time since I've passed by High Wycombe station. A strange, staggered layout with an additional longer platform literally bolted on to the down bay. Decide not to stay long. There's a air of menace about the station - mainly due to the Revenue Protection goons who are eying me suspiciously for not leaving the station immediately I'm off the train and scribbling in my notebook. Note a fast London train leaving soon, so I head under the lines and onto the less busy up platform. Soon on a wedged class 168 heading south again, listening to an inane conversation a seat or two back. Its turned out a hot and sticky day, and its nice just to sit in the air-conditioned unit for a while. All too soon we arrive at the always strangely captivating Marylebone station. Wander a bit, but the evening rush is beginning to start, and bits of the station are closed for extension.

Head out of the station and underground at Baker Street for the short hop to Euston Square. Exceptionally lazy of me - its a fairly short walk to Bloomsbury, and I'll still need to walk part of the way. However its partly laziness and partly tradition to arrive this way - passing Senate House, skirting the British Museum and crossing Russell Square. Locate the hotel and check in, before heading out for a brief walk around old haunts, some food and beer. It's good to be back here, and for the first time in weeks I feel relaxed.