Park Life: Nudity, death and bears in West Hendon

Sailing boat on Brent reservoir, Wikicommons

Some parks were created for the rich, some parks were created for the poor, but Brent’s Welsh Harp Open Space is different: it was created for THE CANAL. Why that should be the case may not immediately be obvious from a map, the Welsh Harp reservoir that gives the green space sits in the middle of the River Brent, which is notably not a canal – but if you look closely at where the river leaves the reservoir, there’s a thin blue strip labelled Canal Feeder.

By the early 19th century Britain’s canal network was growing so quickly that they’d actually run out of water to fill it well, at least in Camden, where the level of the Regent’s Canal kept dropping below what was actually necessary for e.g. a boat. There was only one thing for it: dam the river Brent and flood a farm in Hendon. The resulting reservoir could then be used to top up the canal, and no more boats would have to risk the unenviable fate of getting trapped outside Camden Market.

When the reservoir was created in 1834, it was actually significantly bigger a return to that level today would see it flood Brent Cross Shopping Centre, which is certainly an interesting idea to consider if you’ve ever been to Brent Cross Shopping Centre. Back in the 19th century, the most significant bit of local commerce was, inevitably, a pub - the new Kingsbury Reservoir (as it was then) had an inn called The Harp on its shoreline.

This eventually became known as The Welsh Harp – it’s not entirely clear whether the reservoir gained its unofficial name (from which the green bit above it in turn gained its official name) from the pub, or vice versa. It’s occasionally claimed that the name stems from the reservoir looking a bit like a Welsh Harp from above, which I guess it sort of does if you squint while really, really wanting it to look like a Welsh Harp for some reason. But the existence of loads of other pubs called The Welsh Harp that aren’t next to plausibly-shaped reservoirs would seem to be a point against it.

Anyway, what is true is that the pub was what made the shores of the reservoir a visitor attraction in the 1850s a bloke called William Perkins Warner returned from fighting the Crimean War to buy The Welsh Harp AND the reservoir’s fishing rights, which at least suggests that Drunk Fishing may have been a more popular Victorian sport than is mostly supposed. Other sporting attractions on offer included: shooting at birds, racing greyhounds and boxing (humans, presumably). The inn itself incorporated a music hall, and at one point a menagerie containing at least one bear, except in 1871, when it escaped (they should bring that back to liven up All Bar Ones).

Popularity waned as London suburbia took hold of the area and people’s option for a fun day out had broadened enough that Hendon was no longer near the top of anyone’s list. But as the 20th century rolled around other activities were offered, at least if you were in the army: testing a brilliant new World War I invention called “the tank”, for one. And, then, after the war: nudism!

From 1921 the area around the reservoir was a regular haunt for members of various exciting new naturist organisations along the lines of the “The Sun Ray Club”. The club’s founder Captain HH Vincent was a fierce advocate for nude sunbathing and had made bold threats of 2,000 strong marches of naked protesters through Hyde Park; in the event it appears the reality of this was him getting arrested for taking his top off, one time, but still.

The relatively secluded fields around the reservoir proved to be safer ground until June 1930, when locals lost their minds over the fact that nude and semi-nude men and women had been spotted NEAR EACH OTHER and there was a small riot, the end result of which was the nudists buggering off to St Albans to leave the residents of London to be angry and confused about something else instead.

The Welsh Harp pub was demolished to make way for the M1, but much of the immediate area around the reservoir has managed to survive various development plans. There was a persistent attempt to build a cemetery on the north western side they even got as far as building a chapel and some nearby allotments are apparently theoretically on ground which was consecrated and no-one had got around to de-consecrating. The attempts to prevent the creation of the cemetery led to the 1965 designation of much of the area north of the reservoir as the imaginatively named Welsh Harp Open Space, which persists today as a bit of a slightly unloved bit of greenery, but one where you can at least definitely count on being unmolested by the bears, the dead, or the nude.


The mountain in North Wales that tried to stop the UK’s blackout

Elidir Fawr, the mountain in question. Image: Jem Collins.

Last Friday, the UK’s National Grid turned to mush. Not the official term perhaps, but an accurate one after nearly one million people were left without power across the country, with hundreds more stranded at train stations – or even on trains (which isn’t nearly as fun as it might immediately sound). 

Traffic lights stopped working, back-up power failed in hospitals, and business secretary Andrea Leadsom launched an investigation into exactly what happened. So far though, the long and short of it is that a gas-fired power station in Bedfordshire failed just before 5 o’clock, followed just two minutes later by Hornsea offshore wind farm. 

However, amid the resulting chaos and inevitable search to find someone to blame for the outage, a set of mountains (yes, mountains) in North Wales were working extremely hard to keep the lights on.

From the outside, Elidir Fawr, doesn’t scream power generation. Sitting across from the slightly better known Mount Snowdon, it actually seems quite passive. After all, it is a mountain, and the last slate quarry in the area closed in 1969.

At a push, you’d probably guess the buildings at the base of the mountain were something to do with the area’s industrial past, mostly thanks to the blasting scars on its side, as I did when I first walked past last Saturday. 

But, buried deep into Elidir Fawr is the ability to generate an astounding 1,728 megawatts of electricity – enough to power 2.5 million homes, more than the entire population of the Liverpool region. And the plant is capable of running for five hours.

Dubbed by locals at the ‘Electric Mountain’, Dinorwig Power Station, is made up of 16km of underground tunnels (complete with their own traffic light system), in an excavation which could easily house St Paul’s Cathedral.

Instead, it’s home to six reversible pumps/turbines which are capable of reaching full capacity in just 16 seconds. Which is probably best, as Londoners would miss the view.

‘A Back-Up Facility for The National Grid’

And, just as it often is, the Electric Mountain was called into action on Friday. A spokesperson for First Hydro Company, which owns the generators at Dinorwig, and the slightly smaller Ffestiniog, both in Snowdonia, confirmed that last Friday they’d been asked to start generating by the National Grid.

But just how does a mountain help to ease the effects of a blackout? Or as it’s more regularly used, when there’s a surge in demand for electricity – most commonly when we all pop the kettle on at half-time during the World Cup, scientifically known as TV pick-up.

The answer lies in the lakes at both the top and bottom of Elidir Fawr. Marchlyn Mawr, at the top of the mountain, houses an incredible 7 million tonnes of water, which can be fed down through the mountain to the lake at the bottom, Llyn Peris, generating electricity as it goes.

“Pumped storage technology enables dynamic response electricity production – ofering a critical back-up facility during periods of mismatched supply and demand on the national grid system,” First Hydro Company explains.

The tech works essentially the same way as conventional hydro power – or if you want to be retro, a spruced up waterwheel. When the plant releases water from the upper reservoir, as well as having gravity on their side (the lakes are half a kilometre apart vertically) the water shafts become smaller and smaller, further ramping up the pressure. 

This, in turn, spins the turbines which are linked to the generators, with valves regulating the water flow. Unlike traditional UK power stations, which can take hours to get to full capacity, at Dinorwig it’s a matter of 16 seconds from a cold start, or as little as five if the plant is on standby.

And, designed with the UK’s 50hz frequency in mind, the generator is also built to shut off quickly and avoid overloading the network. Despite the immense water pressure, the valves are able to close off the supply within just 20 seconds. 

At night, the same thing simply happens in reverse, as low-cost, surplus energy from the grid is used to pump the water back up to where it came from, ready for another day of hectic TV scheduling. Or blackouts, take your pick.

Completed in 1984, the power station was the product of a decade of work, and the largest civil engineering project commissioned at the time – and it remains one of Europe’s largest manmade caverns. Not that you’d know it from the outside. And really, if we’ve learned anything from this, it’s that looks can be deceiving, and that mountains can actually be really damn good at making electricity. 

Jem Collins is a digital journalist and editor whose work focuses on human rights, rural stories and careers. She’s the founder and editor of Journo Resources, and you can also find her tweeting @Jem_Collins.