On my visits so far, I have met a few of the local residents who’s gardens back onto the Crane. We have conversations about herons, ducks, kingfishers, high tides. One woman told me about the writer A G Linney who took a skiff up the River Crane at high tide 91 years ago. He paints an idyllic picture:
…During one summer I made a voyage up the River Crane of an evening about high water in a skiff. It was wearing to the close of a sweltering day, and the cool, green tunnel which the mouth of the little stream presented was captivating. Tall grass hung down over the rough camp-shedding on one side, and trees swept their branches on the other, right down to the water.
About a hundred yards from the river the road to Richmond passes over the Crane, and immediately beyond it one was astonished to come upon a flourishing boat-building yard, of which no hint appears until you are close up to it. Squeezing our way past the boats, we went forward up the next section of the stream, here, perhaps twelve or fifteen feet wide. The (Port of London) Authority’s jurisdiction ends, I believe, at the bridge where Talbot Road passes over the Crane River; and I suppose that the Middlesex County Council here takes over.
From here we were moving slowly along between ends of back gardens belonging to modest middle-class houses. The gardens, as we saw them in the golden light of a hot summer evening, were fully appreciated by their owners for whole families were sitting in arbours or on the turf enjoying the end-of-a-day rest… People came running down, calling, “Look, here’s a boat!” Family bathing was in full swing from every back garden; youngsters were splashing around, full of glee; City typist daughters had hustled back from the office to don their chic bathing suits and gay rubber caps, and were either swimming seriously, or posing for admiration on the banks; even respectable papas had got out their bathing suits and come in for a dip, so that grey heads or bald craniums showed above the little waves of the little stream.
Just before we had drifted down to Talbot Road Bridge a native was fishing. I asked him if he had ever caught anything; rather plaintively he replied, “Not yet.” He looked about twenty-one years of age.
Emerging into the Thames through the tunnel of green I vowed that I must never even cast an eye at the River Crane save near high water, or should see that Rivulet of Happy Families as a mere trickle in the middle of slimy mud.
– “Lure and Lore of London’s River” by A.G. Linney (pub 1932.)
I’m sure I’ll be looking out for grey heads and bald craniums next time I go – even if at low tide the river is “a mere trickle in the middle of slimy mud”!
