The peaceful haven of Harpenden
December 10th 2009 08:29
Just 40 minutes from frenetic St Pancras Station, lies Harpenden. Although Harpenden is a town of 60,000 people, when the train dropped us at its little wooden station, at mid-morning on a drizzly late autumn day, it seemed completely deserted.
We set off down a sloping, curved and empty street towards the town, pausing in the first lit and populated shop – the Oxfam Store. Racks of damp-smelling tweed and stout shoes, glass cases crammed with one-short sets of sherry glasses and shelves stacked with travel books suggested that the good folk of Harpenden are fond of winter walks and arm chair journeys with a fortified wine. A pile of gloomy oils and faded pastels hinted that Harpenden harbours painters, or at least collectors of paintings and it was here that I came across my first Harpenden character. Carelessly groomed and shabbily chic in shades of peat and moss, with a voice like the Queen, she was commanding a bemused lass to authenticate a dark, foreboding landscape. When the girl shook her head helplessly, she left the shop with an exasperated snort and slammed the door behind her.
We followed her on down the street, past the solid and disproportianately large post office, past rows of small, almost old world shops, where modern village businesses had taken a tenuous hold - Thai, Indian and Italian restaurants, dress shops full of shiny stuff, a gelati parlour and a boulangerie/pattisserie - and from which idle personal stared vacantly at the street.
On the corner of the high street stands the elegant Harpenden Arms. Further along, the church café , offering morning teas Monday to Thursday and lunch as well on Friday, a matron in a floral apron served us piping hot tea and buttery scones. At table near the counter, a tiny old lady, with a booming voice that belied her frail, stooped frame, shared a postcard from Canada with the vicar. A few doors down from church is a survivor of old Harpenden, the tobacconist. Dark, small and with a deliciously exotic pot pourri of smells, its corners were crammed with stands of canes, shelves of cigarettes, cases of cigars and packets of sweets.
Further down the High Street, Sainsbury’s holds half the block. Here, we came across the Oxfam art connoisseur again. She was shouting at a shelf-stacker. Across the road a Café Nero had the corner and a crowd of city suits had Cafe Nero. We headed into the back streets where not a soul stirred among the quiet cottages, greens, graceful manors.
Harpenden, as we had already half guessed from the racks in the Oxfam shop, is the departure point for some wonderful walks. One follows the Ver River, another skirts the Moors and another crosses the Common. They all follow routes marked with fascinating names, like Sopwell Nunnery, Smug Oak Lane, Frogmore Pits and Jack Williams’ Wood. Unfortunately we were unable to tramp out these paths. We discovered them at the Harpenden Library, under the sharp gaze of a stern-faced Librarian in brown tweed and brogues, just before our 5.30 train left.
A corner of Harpenden
We set off down a sloping, curved and empty street towards the town, pausing in the first lit and populated shop – the Oxfam Store. Racks of damp-smelling tweed and stout shoes, glass cases crammed with one-short sets of sherry glasses and shelves stacked with travel books suggested that the good folk of Harpenden are fond of winter walks and arm chair journeys with a fortified wine. A pile of gloomy oils and faded pastels hinted that Harpenden harbours painters, or at least collectors of paintings and it was here that I came across my first Harpenden character. Carelessly groomed and shabbily chic in shades of peat and moss, with a voice like the Queen, she was commanding a bemused lass to authenticate a dark, foreboding landscape. When the girl shook her head helplessly, she left the shop with an exasperated snort and slammed the door behind her.
We followed her on down the street, past the solid and disproportianately large post office, past rows of small, almost old world shops, where modern village businesses had taken a tenuous hold - Thai, Indian and Italian restaurants, dress shops full of shiny stuff, a gelati parlour and a boulangerie/pattisserie - and from which idle personal stared vacantly at the street.
The pub
On the corner of the high street stands the elegant Harpenden Arms. Further along, the church café , offering morning teas Monday to Thursday and lunch as well on Friday, a matron in a floral apron served us piping hot tea and buttery scones. At table near the counter, a tiny old lady, with a booming voice that belied her frail, stooped frame, shared a postcard from Canada with the vicar. A few doors down from church is a survivor of old Harpenden, the tobacconist. Dark, small and with a deliciously exotic pot pourri of smells, its corners were crammed with stands of canes, shelves of cigarettes, cases of cigars and packets of sweets.
The tobacconist
Further down the High Street, Sainsbury’s holds half the block. Here, we came across the Oxfam art connoisseur again. She was shouting at a shelf-stacker. Across the road a Café Nero had the corner and a crowd of city suits had Cafe Nero. We headed into the back streets where not a soul stirred among the quiet cottages, greens, graceful manors.
Harpenden
Harpenden, as we had already half guessed from the racks in the Oxfam shop, is the departure point for some wonderful walks. One follows the Ver River, another skirts the Moors and another crosses the Common. They all follow routes marked with fascinating names, like Sopwell Nunnery, Smug Oak Lane, Frogmore Pits and Jack Williams’ Wood. Unfortunately we were unable to tramp out these paths. We discovered them at the Harpenden Library, under the sharp gaze of a stern-faced Librarian in brown tweed and brogues, just before our 5.30 train left.
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Comment by Anonymous
It is so way out its simply hilarious.
The Harpenden village picture shows a side street leading away from the town. It is by the way a town of some 60,000 inhabitants, not a sleepy village.
The Harpenden Street pic is actually a side cul de sac, hardly the main area of town.
The green is much further down the high street, your picture is just a side section of grass.
But apart from all that, your idea of Harpenden as a sleepy village, populated by eccentrics who walk round in tweeds, is like something out of a novel.
Harpenden is a town of, in the main, wealthy snobby people who care only for themselves.
Comment by Patricia
Travel Stripe
Comment by Anonymous