London Planes

We're back in London and Jamie's got his boots on and the soles are wooden and they clack down the pavement and Jamie says, That's such a satisfying sound. Isn't it? But you probably don't realise the full of it, making the sound is how you get the real satisfaction.

We were on a balcony on the 25th floor in dazzling Hong Kong, and we were talking about the mighty skyline. The buildings are designed using feng shui principles, spiritual balance mixed with a bit of money grubbing and showmanship. IM Pei's elegant tower has spikes on top that pierce the clouds of the money gods. Only slightly more practically, Norman Foster's HSBC building can be broken down into 12 parts and shipped back to London. (It was built during the changeover amidst speculation of financial uncertainty.) Towards the south of the island are the towers with large holes in the middle. Several floors in each are hollowed out. This design sacrifices valuable real estate, in order to allow the dragon to move through, from the mountain into the sea.

Back in London, we're riding the overland through a sprawl of brick and leaves to Richmond Park. We're heading to spot trees. We're mapping it out, guided by The Great Trees of London book.

We've been waiting for a crisp and clear autumn day, Jamie calls that kind of day clement; they're due but there's a lingering wave of summer heat. Which is making everyone jolly but secretly I'm ready for clement.

Our chosen day is right for it. A grey sky cracks open and a bright sun shines through. But at the same time, it's cool enough to wear a wool jacket. Richmond is a postcard, a stately village moist from the waters of the West Thames.

We find thousands of great trees and four official Great Trees. The first is a Stone Pine called The Maids of Honour, a rare species around here, peeking over a wall on the grounds of the former Richmond Palace, off the southwestern corner of Richmond Green. We walk through the palace grounds, now posh housing I suppose, and a kindly sign points us towards the Thames politely. It is only around the bend that we spot the Asgill House Copper Beech, again viewed over a wall, described on a plaque as a perfect tree. It would be nice to be 200 years old and perfect.

Just a bit further along, growing through the deck of a badly decorated restaurant, is the awesome Riverside Plane. The species makes up some half of London's tree population, but they are anything but common. They were brought into the city as resilient warriors of green; their large, shiny leaves wash off the grime of pollution easily in the rain, and their camouflage-like bark peels itself off in chunks in order to keep fresh. The Riverside Plane is the tallest of its kind in the city. "The kind of tree that makes you giddy to look straight up the trunk into the heart of it," says our book. "...You get the feeling this tree could just keep going on and on."

It's impressive without feeling overbearing, incredibly tall and unassumingly handsome. Surely an architect would strive to create a skyscraper with that kind of effortless grace.

Into the park and we march along to what must be our favourite find, the Richmond Royal Oak. For one thing, you can climb inside. You look up through holes in the trunk and it's a wonder. It is short and fat, with a view over a heath and two ponds. It's a storybook tree, a gatekeeper at the edge of a forest, a wise and modest character who imparts warning about the dark secrets ahead, a secret keeper, a friend. There's a bench nearby and when we sit on it together, close and alone on this day, this clement day, I wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

The day rolls on; rooibus tea and veggie pies, even. In the heart of Richmond Park, with its wide vistas and gnarly trunks, you could be on top of the Sierras. But there's signs of flatness, of urbanity along the borders, of Britishness. There's the White Lodge, home to the Royal Ballet School, begging to be used in a horror film.

And I've never seen the Red Deer before. Magnificent; the adult males are ready to rut. Their full antlers and puffed up chests keep us at a distance. A boy crouches in the weeds taking pictures; I hope he isn't too close. He seems to be having a stare down with a powerful patriarch. The stag is sat slightly apart from his grazing herd. The boy seems to be having a moment, a primal feeling perhaps. Surely he's got enough photos by now. Maybe he's waiting for the two stags sat down the hillside to gather up strength for a proper battle.

We're not rutting today ourselves. We're getting on fine. We end the walk with a pint, of course. Ale, outside where you can see the water. The Thames sits elegantly. A week ago, we were looking out on the choppy waters of Victoria Harbour in a near-typhoon. We made it home despite, to this river flowing steadily, almost imperceptibly, through London.