London: the Mecca of Public Investment

Thames Traders: the locus of state largesse and private profit

The Mall

The Gini Coefficient soars on the Mall

St James's Park

Houses of Parliament

Covent Garden

Thames Traders

Blackfriars Bridge serving God and Mammon

Millenium Bridge

St Paul's over Millenium Bridge

Shard peaks out from Globe.

On the South Bank with lots of silly buildings

Golden Hinde and Corporate men

There is no doubt that London is booming again. It is awash with prestige commercial developments in the ever-expanding financial quarter, new housing, and refurbishment of older buildings and hotels. We are told that London generates the highest GDP in the UK, and that is not in dispute. Most of this is generated by the service sector that charges the rest of the UK prime rates for its high-end services - banking, insurance, law, marketing, and other intermediary services. It is easy to believe the rhetoric of Londonphiles and Boris Johnson, the Mayor, who claim the growth is private sector-led, but that would underestimate the huge investment made by the public sector in the capital. Most of which has nothing to do with Boris Johnson; he just hogs the kudos. It is the UK state spending on infrastructure, government functionaries, higher education, sport, and culture that makes the UK so London-centric.

London may be a world megacity and the location of choice for big corporations. Much of this is driven by the fact that 8 out of the 10 busiest railway stations in the UK are in London (only Birmingham New Street and Glasgow Central creep into this list), and they are run by Network Rail, which is state-subsidised. These massively modernised stations bring in commuters, tourists, business trippers and short-break UK citizens in search of culture and big events in their droves. Similarly, five out of the six largest airports are in the London region (only Manchester gets in at 4th), and these were built, if not now operated, by the state. 

Civil service jobs and most of the biggest quangos are based in London. The public expenditure regional tables show that London has the second-highest per capita expenditure after Northern Ireland. London's success as a world city is very dependent upon the regional aid, including London allowances, that it draws in from the rest of the UK. And of course, we should not forget that Arts expenditure by the government is fifteen times greater per head in London than for the rest of the UK.

All of this was brought home to me this week as I walked around London in the April sunshine. London was buzzing and warmed by the pre-Easter sunshine. We went to a debate in the House of Commons and joined the crowds in and around the museums and honeypots like the South Bank, St. James' Park and Covent Garden. We watched the London Marathon, another event that not only generates more revenue for London but also benefits the city with hours of free TV marketing. We walked miles every day, and I was staggered at the level of state investment being pumped into this international city. It was impressive, and the reason why it is one of the most visited cities in the world.

London's transport infrastructure, together with the dominance of government, educational, institutional and corporate HQs, guarantees both customers and sponsorship for its rich and diverse cultural activities. London just drips with museums, theatres, well-tended public parks, galleries and celebrity architecture. They are all dependent on the massive public subsidy that the rest of the UK unwittingly bequeaths to the capital. As an example of the unequal distribution of wealth compared to the rest of the UK,  London has it all.  It stems from government largesse that facilitates private sector investment.

Beinn a' Chlachair

Beinn a' Chlachair summit, cornice collapsing

Saturday, 19 April 2014
Ascent:      1325 metres
Distance:    24 kilometres
Time:          6 hours 58 minutes

Creag Pitridh             924m    2hrs 21mins
Gael Charn             1049m    3hrs 10mins
Beinn a' Chlachair  1087m   4hrs 57mins


The car was frosted over, but the air was still, and the sky was blue; days like this are made for walking. I left home at 6:30am for the two and a half hour drive up the A9 to Dalwhinnie and from there to Luiblea by Loch Laggan. I was walking by 9:00am, and it looked like I had chosen the hills with the least cloud cover. It is a long walk in from Luiblea along a well-graded track towards the cobalt blue waters of Lochan-na-h-Earba. Behind me were the southern flanks of Creag Meaghaidh and Beinn a' Chaoruinn, a wonderful long ridge walk over 5 munros when combined together.  To the west, the Easains and Grey Corries rose above the nearby plantations and were easily distinguished, as was the conical peak of Stob Ban.

In front was the massive northern slope of Beinn a' Chlachair, which would be the third of the munros today. As always, I reflected on my previous visits to these hills; all of them with walking friends, today would be my first solo excursion on these hills. They are a good sample of how my previous Munro rounds have progressed, with round 4 compleated in 80 days over three and a half years. 

• 1990, I climbed the three munros with John on a gloomy November day before staying at the Glen Roy Hostel and then Beinn Teallach and Beinn a' Chaorainn the next morning and Stob Coire Sgriodain and Cno Dearg in the afternoon after hearing the seismic lunchtime news that Michael Heseltine was to stand against Margaret Thatcher for the Tory leadership. 
• In 1998, it was a weekend excursion over these three munros, camping just below the summit of Creag Pitridh after leaving work on Friday with Gregor, Alan and Peter Geddes. The next day we climbed the three munros and then the 4 munros on the Aonach Beag ridge and camped below Ben Alder before climbing Ben Alder and Beinn Bheoil the next day. Peter and I ran back to Luiblea to collect the car whilst Gregor and Alan walked out to Dalwhinnie, from where we collected them.
• In 2003, I collected Mark from Dalwhinnie Station on a Friday evening in September. I had given a talk at a conference in Pitlochry in the morning, and climbed Gael Charn in the Monalaidhs in the afternoon. We walked in and camped below Beinn a' Chlachair, climbed the three Munros the next morning before climbing Bynach Mor in the Cairngorms in the afternoon and then heading up to the Torridons to climb Beinn Eighe and Beinn Alligan the next day and then Slioch on the way home after ten Munros in the Stirling long weekend
• 2007, another after-work excursion with Mark on a glorious  May evening; we drove up to Luiblea, climbed the three munros and intended to bivvy by the burn in An Lairig; the midges were ferocious, so we climbed to the summit of Carn Dearg, arriving at midnight. The slight breeze kept the midges at bay, and the next day we climbed the 4 munros on the Aonach Beag ridge and nipped over to Beinn na Lap and then decided to add Chno Dearg and Stob Coire Sgriodain before walking out to Moy lodge and hitching a lift back to Luib with three inebriated fishermen, a lot more dangerous than the ten munros in 24-hour adventure.

On none of these three occasions had I witnessed conditions anywhere as good as today. It would be a relatively straightforward excursion, and I was equipped in summer gear, including a pair of Gore-Tex trainers. I even had room for an SLR camera in the small rucksack.

After curving round and crossing the outflow of Lochan na-h-Earba, I began the climb up a good path to Bealach Leamhain before cutting off at 470 metres to begin a long but direct climb over heather-strewn ground to Creag Pitridh. It was certainly a lot easier than it had been when I had last taken this same route on a September day with Mark. The cool air persisted despite the sun, and a breeze was providing a pleasant climate for the ascent. On the summit, it felt cold, and I put on a jumper and had some food and drink whilst soaking up the views. 

It is an easy descent of only 110 metres before a steady climb to the long summit plateau of Gael Charn. There were several snow chutes on the north-facing slopes, too steep for my trainers to gain any purchase, but needs must. The cairn on Gael Charn is at the end of the ridge and one of the largest cairns; it provides good shelter from the winds. The high stratus cloud cover had blotted out the sun. I hunkered down and feasted on some cold roasted root vegetables left over from last night.

The walk over the ridge plateau from Gael Charn is easy going, and despite a line of low cliffs to be descended, it is a relaxing walk to Bealach Leamhain. I regained the path to the bealach and eyed the route up the north-east face of Beinn a' Chlachair. There was a lot of snow remaining, and it was a bit of a puzzle climbing up the steepish rocky slopes. I found a small burn gurgling with pure, perfect-tasting water that reminded me how tap water has lost its purity and taste in the quest for 'purification'. The long but gentle climb to the summit was accompanied by perfect views of the Aonach Beag ridge to the south and beyond that the snow-loaded Ben Alder plateau. Nearing the summit, the corrie was hosting a massive cornice that was peeling off in the early afternoon sun.

I was on the schedule that I had set myself and took 15 minutes to eat, photo and chat to a couple from Bridge of Allan who were embarking on a munro round. They were still at the stage of being in awe of their surroundings and slightly agog at the length of days that were needed to access so many of the hills - wait till they get to Fisherfield and Knoydart. I decided that a direct descent to the north would be preferable to retracing my steps to the bealach and set off over the convex edge of the summit. I was in luck; there were three or four snow chutes to speed progress down, and the grass and heathers were largely rock-free. Nevertheless, it took almost an hour to descend the 700 metres to the track by which time the afternoon sun was beginning to scorch me. Then another hour of walking on the meandering track to get back to Luiblea. I stopped at the bridge to take some photos for a Japanese couple framed against the magnificent scenery.

The drive home down the A9 was less busy than I expected, and I decided to continue rather than take the more scenic but slower route through Trinafour. It was a mistake. There had been an accident, and we were held up by two crashed vehicles on the southbound carriageway whilst the Police took statements and left the traffic to fend for itself. As usual, the A9 was a nightmare; I should have gone via General Wade's road to Trinafour. However, I had enjoyed a superb day on Easter Saturday and had topped up my memory with past adventures on these hills.

Luiblea looking west

Creag Meaghaidh

Looking west from the Luiblea track

Lochan na-h-Earba and Creag Meaghaidh plateau from Creag Pitridh

Looking west from  Gael Charn to the Easains and Grey Corries

Ben Alder centre and Beinn Dearg from the Beinn a' Chlachair east ridge

Aonach Beag ridge from Beinn a' Chlachair

Binnein Shuas (left) and Lochan na-h-Earba

Beinn a' Chlachair from Luiblea

Easter Saturday car parking overload at Luiblea

London Marathon

Limb impaired runner in Jamaica Road

Leading Group - too fast for the camera

New London record for Wilson Kipsang

5th - the 18 year old Ethiopian, Tsegaye Mekonnen

No Mobot from Mo, who tags along for 8th place

Palace profiles

I never managed to run the London Marathon, entry was always too difficult, but I managed to watch it live today and quite a spectacle it was in perfect running conditions. The crowds along Jamaica Road were fulsome in their support of the visually impaired and limb impaired runners. The speed of the leading group was remarkable and they looked to be from another planet; not an ounce of spare flesh and not even breathing hard as they cruised past at a 4 minutes 45 seconds per mile pace. Mo Farah had already lost 45 seconds and looked to be in the zone for non African runners and struggling to tail his pacemaker.

I caught a tube from Bermondsey to St James Park and after a long wait to cross the marathon course, we were shepherded across by the platoon of stewards after the elite women had passed. We had a place in the main stand on the Mall and arrived in time to watch the impaired runners and the leading women finish to immense cheers from the crowd. Unfortunately the row in front were armoured with inflatable clappers that made taking photographs a bit of a lottery.

The winner of the elite men's race zipped down the Mall to break the course record followed by a batch of Kenyan and Ethiopian runners, including an amazing 18 year old Ethiopian, Tsegaye Mekonnen, who was fifth. Mo Farah was four minutes adrift as he tailed two more Kenyan's down the Mall without any attempt to show his finishing kick. On reflection I was pleased that he did not manage to beat Steve Jones' 29 year old British record. Steve Jones had been a tough of the track and epitomised the very best of British distance running in the 1980's. Mo is probably better suited to the 5k and 10k and it was only justice that the marathon specialists kept him at bay.

The finish area was well organised with an excellent commentary and the presence of all the major charities, which play such an important role in the success of the marathon and in encouraging mass participation.  This should have been the biggest event of the day but then I decided to watch the Liverpool - Man City game in a busy Brixton pub. I was heartily surprised to find that Brixton was red to its roots as Liverpool inched nearer to becoming rightful champions again.

Brighton Reprise

Bright sunshine arrived today, and we thought wouldn't it be a lovely day if we went to Brighton. The bus across London took an hour as the roads were gridlocked around the Elephant and Castle and Borough. Boris Johnson, the Mayor of London, still has a long way to go to make buses a mode of choice, let alone more environmentally friendly, as they disperse noise and diesel particulates along the polluted London thoroughfares. Tower Bridge station was undergoing a massive refurbishment. It is now spiked by the Shard, and against the cobalt blue sky, it looks like an impressive monument to its Italian starchitect, Renzo Piano and a stark symbol of London's mainly foreign property investors. What benefit it has made to local residents is less obvious, other than a home-finding beacon.

The Brighton train arrived on time and knifed its way through the London suburbs and across the heaths of Waitroseshire to Brighton in less than an hour. We were treated to new carriages and an average speed of at least 30% faster than on similar lines in Scotland. It made the Sheffield to Manchester train that I travelled on a couple of weeks ago look and move like something designed by the Reverend Awdry.

Brighton had not changed much since I was last there in 1971. The beach was still stony and tough on the feet, the lanes still a bit tawdry although pinker than they were, and it lacked the potted shrimps, trams, donkeys and rock that are the essence of 'real' seaside resorts. We sashayed through the morning shoppers, agog at the things that folk buy in this age of austerity (or at least it is up north). Brighton seemed to nurture two economies, one for those on benefits and another for those who are opulent spenders.

Our first objective was the Royal Pavilion, the folly built by the son of  King George III, who was undoubtedly more entitled to the sobriquet 'mad'. He had built the Royal Pavilion during his days as Prince Regent, when he was a noted womaniser, socialite, and epicurean hedonist. The sumptuous interior, decorated in the Chinese style in contrast to its Indian exterior, designed by John Nash, was quite extraordinary and, in its own way, has the extravagance of Versailles.

By the time he had finished his grand designs, the newly crowned George IV had consumed too many gourmet meals, had been married several times and enjoyed a bevvy of mistresses. He was King at last, but too obese to get upstairs and had to build a tunnel to get him to his stables and horses without being seen and lampooned by the Regency cartoonists. His brothers, including the Grand Old Duke of York, were also installed in the Pavilion, but none of them had sired a future monarch. The Crown passed to Princess Victoria, and when she succeeded George IV, she decided to sell off the pavilion and build Osbourne House on the Isle of Wight. All the fittings, including chandeliers and fireplaces, were taken out and put into storage. It was the town council of Brighton that bought the pavilion to save it from demolition and slowly restored it to its former glory, including the retrieval of many of the original fittings.

The beach was coming into season with the easter holidays bringing trainloads of French teenagers. Deck chairs were on hire, the seagulls were scavenging, the pier was open, and the big wheel was spinning cash. The fast-food outlets were doing their best to nourish George IV lookalikes.

Before leaving, we had time to visit the splendid Brighton Museum and Art Gallery in the former Royal Stables of the Pavilion before catching the train back to London. The final flourish of Brighton was the station's splendid iron arches, a fine testament to 19th-century engineering.

Shard from London Bridge platform

Graffiti in the Lanes

Royal Pavilion

Beachcombers

On a Carousel

Vendor optimism

Pier end attractions

Brighton Station

George IV in action

Parlick Hill, Bowland Forest

Parlick in first light

Pendle profile

Parlick from Saddle Fell

Keep Up

Pendle from Parlick

Beacon Fell from Parlick

Mallards posing and reposing

It was an unusual start to the day, after a late arrival the previous evening at my brother's house and overloading on my favourite creamy Lancashire cheeses, we agreed an early morning walk. By 6:30am we were taking two dogs for a round of the hills north of Chipping including Parlick, a regular Friday night jaunt as a teenager after the pubs had closed. It was just above freezing and the light was at its best with the sun streaming in from just above Pendle hill to the east. We walked through the dairy farms that produce the very best of Lancashire Creamy Cheeses and ascended by Saddle End Farm. It was a long steady climb up Saddle Fell with superb views across to Pendle Hill and south to Jeffrey Hill that now seems to go under the name of Longridge Fell.

We let the dogs off their leads when we reached the summit plateau where a new path had recently been laid leading northwards to Fair Snape Hill. The path made for easy going as we were blasted by some sleet. The occasional grouse greeted us with their usual whirring and squawking but there was no one else out at this early hour.

At the summit of Parlick I surveyed the landscape of my youth. Longridge Fell, a long low ridge hiding the Ribble valley, it was the venue for a family walk every Good Friday with a picnic at the top; Pendle Hill is a more strident ridge and home of the Lancashire Witches, a book we had read at Primary School. The river Loud where I had spent my first night camping and freezing in a blanket whilst my father went night fishing. Nearby the Beacon Fell Country Park was being shorn of trees and beyond it the Lancashire Plain dribbled out to the Fylde. I had cycled and walked round these landscapes in all school holidays and my dissertation at university was the geology and settlements of the Loud valley. We had turned a car onto its roof whilst following the Tour of Britain cycle race through the Trough of Bowland but in the days of less flimsy cars we flipped the Morris Minor back onto its wheels and chased the race to Blackpool. On most family special occasions we celebrated in the many local hostelries that served generous portions of local produce and recipes. This largely unknown and unblemished rural hinterland of industrial Lancashire conjured many happy memories.

We descended the steep side of Parlick and followed the mainly well maintained Lancashire local roads back to Chipping. The mill pond was a hive of activity as the birds busied themselves with courtship rituals. A fine way to start the day and made all the more enjoyable when a full breakfast was placed in front of us.