Central Park wandering

11 October 2015

We woke on Sunday morning still reeling from our airport experience but determined not to let it sour our views of New York. Our hotel, the Excelsior is just a block from Central Park on West 81st Street near the junction with Colombus Avenue. This was no coincidence, Commando knew one of the places I most wanted to see was Strawberry Fields in Central Park. This was the morning it was going to happen because Commando had a ten mile run scheduled and he planned to do it first thing in Central Park, followed by a late brunch in one of the places we’d seen when we went in search of coffee the night before. Because of the time difference we were awake early, just before six, and showered, dressed and out of the hotel before eight. In truth, I could have done with a coffee but I thought I might find somewhere in the park when Commando was running.

It was a little on the chilly side when we set off so I was wrapped up in my parka, a thin sleeveless jumper, cardi and my cap but the forecast was for bright weather later so I knew I could strip off layers.  We entered the park by the 79th Strret Transverse, a road that runs roughly across the center of the park, then, to get off the road, headed north. When we came to a large rock, close to the bridge that carries West Drive through the park we decided this would be a good place to meet up later. It had the advantage of being somewhere easily recognisable and, hopefully, easy to find again. Before we went our separate ways we took photos of each other, Commando with the rock as a backdrop, me with the bridge. At least I’d have something to refer to later when I was lost and unsure if I was in the right place. Then Commando ran off and I was left there wondering which way to go.

Of course I’d done quite a bit of research and found a few things in the park I’d like to see but I knew I only had about one and a half hours so there was a limit to exactly how much I could achieve. There was no time for dithering so I set off towards Strawberry Fields. Rather than taking any of the roads that wind their way through the park, I decided to stick to the web of spaghetti like pedestrian only trails. As I skirted glades, rocky outcrops and hills the horrors of the evening before slowly began to recede. A rustic bench high on a dirt mound caught my eye and made me smile, then I came to another stone bridge with a double arch. As far as I can tell this carries West 77th Street into the park. Through the trees I could see water glimmering in the distance so I climbed through the leaf mould up a small incline towards more rustic benches for a better view. It looked like this was the lake which meant I was almost at Strawberry Fields.

Sure enough, within a few minutes I came to an archway made of logs covered with what looked like clematis but, without flowers, it was hard to tell. Beyond was a crowd of people. The park was surprisingly crowded for early on a Sunday morning. For a moment or two I waited and when they dispersed I went through the arch. On the other side I came to a paved pedestrian path lined with benches and a sign telling me I’d reached Strawberry fields. Unfortunately, so had the crowd. It soon became obvious they were a tour group mostly made up of French tourists gathered in a knot around a guide who was telling them about John Lennon.

As I skirted the edge of a group a man in a red hat sitting on the top rail of one of the benches clutching a guitar spoke to me.
“I like your hat.”
“Thank you,” I smiled, glad that at least one American had spoken to me pleasantly.
“Where are you from?” he asked. My accent had marked me out as other than local.
“I’m from England,” I told him. “We’re only here for a couple of days and Strawberry Fields is top of my list of places to see.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said shaking my hand and then proceeded to tell me how he’d met John Lennon and even got to play with him. Whether this was true or not remains to be seen but he was charming and began to play Strawberry Fields Forever on his guitar for me. He played very well and the song drifted across the park as I followed the path away from the tour group glancing at the map I’d saved on my phone trying to get my bearings and find the Imagine mosaic.

The path went in a long loop past a small plaque explaining that Yoko Ono Lennon had donated the money for the restoration of this part of the park. The tour group were behind me, chattering away, I caught a word or two and realised they were talking about John’s murder. The path, now lined with deep purple asters, turned back on itself and I realised I was almost back where I started and still hadn’t seen the mosaic. Puzzled, I carried on, thinking I was maybe in the wrong place. In no time at all I could see my friend with the guitar and another knot of people gathered. What were they all looking at? When I peered between them there was the mosaic, I’d missed it because it had been surrounded by people and now there was no way of getting a clear photograph. Obviously I would have to come back later when the tourists had thinned out. The irony that I was a tourist myself was not lost on me.

Following in part the directions I’d planned out back in England and the park map on my phone, I skirted the edge off the lake. The morning sun picked out leaves turning them to translucent splashes of colour and the water seemed unnaturally green, maybe filled with algae. Through the trees I caught sight of a small white bridge. The map told me this was Bow Bridge and I wondered if it was a copy of the one in London?* Shortly after this I came to one of the roads that runs through the park, probably West Drive where it intersects with the Terrace Drive. Here I saw one of the carriages that tourists take to see the park. It reminded me of the Caleches in Morocco and it seemed a shame we wouldn’t have time to take one.

When I stumbled upon a fountain I thought I’d reached Bethesda Terrace as I knew there was a fountain there. If it was, the park was a lot smaller than I thought, or I was walking a lot faster than I thought. So I carried on along the path with the lake to my left and the tall buildings of Manhatten just visible through the trees behind me. My one path turned into two. A quick consultation of the map told me I needed to climb the hill and move away from the lake so I climbed. This was Cherry Hill, named for the cherry trees that make it a delightful wash of colour in spring and the fountain I’d seen was Cherry Hill fountain, designed as a watering trough for horse drawn carriages of the nineteenth century by Jacob Wrey Mould who also designed Bethesda Terrace. Perhaps I could be forgiven for thinking this was the Bethesda fountain.

The climb gave me a different perspective on the lake and the buildings beyond and, at the crest of the hill, I could see the bridge I’d spotted from the other side of the water. Then I was descending again and there was Bethesda terrace, the ornate steps, the tall arches and the fountain. How could I possibly have been mistaken before?

If I’d been reading my own instructions I’d have walked through the arches to look at the decorative tiles but the sound of gentle music and the fountain, filled with water lilies, papyrus and lotus was so lovely I was transfixed and totally forgot about it. The fountain was built between 1859 and 1864 and the bronze winged angel sculpture, called the Angel of the Waters, with water cascading at her feet was designed by Emma Stubbins, the first woman commissioned for a major work of art in the city. Behind the curtain of water droplets four cherubs represent temperance, purity, health and peace. The music, I discovered, came from a woman, sitting on one of the benches playing a harp. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

From the fountain I meandered down towards the Loeb Boathouse, thinking I might pick up a coffee in the cafe. On closer inspection the waters were marbled with green algae, which, along with the reflections of the sky and trees, made a stunning spectacle. Sadly, when I got there the queues were so long I decided to give my coffee a miss and turned back towards what the map told me was the Trefoil Arch. This seemed an odd name, as far as I could see the arch at the bottom of the steps was just a plain old arch. On the other side I found an oval shaped pond, Conservatory Water, and Kerbs Boathouse with its cafe, Le Pain Quotidien. Behind the cafe were the sky scrapers on the east side of Manhattan, I’d meandered right across the park.

Much as I’d have liked to rush over and get a coffee, I knew the Alice in Wonderland sculpture was nearby and I wanted to tick it off my list before I stopped. It didn’t take me long to find it, in fact I could hardly miss it. Philanthropist George Delacort commissioned José de Creeft to design the sculpture In 1959 and it was based on John Tenniel’s original Alice in Wonderland illustrations so this is the Alice I remember from my childhood. The eleven foot bronze depicts Alice sitting on a mushroom with the White Rabbit, the Mad Hatter, the Doormouse, the Cheshire Cat and Dinah, Alice’s cat. Unlike most park sculptures, this one is designed to be climbed on and enjoyed by children and parts of it have been polished to a shine by decades of little hands and feet. In fact it took a while before I managed to get a photo without at least one child clambering over it.

Finally, I could head for the cafe and a warm drink to wake me up. The Pain Quotidien turned out to be a good choice because there were no queues. In the end I plumped for a hot chocolate rather than a coffee and this too turned out to be a good choice. Apart from the chocolat chaud we had in Paris, this was probably the best hot chocolate I have ever tasted, although the fact I’d had nothing to eat or drink since I got up an hour before may have had something to do with it. By the time I got my drink the place was beginning to get crowded with dog walkers and their dogs, many of which seemed to have been swimming in the pond, so I decided to drink and walk rather than sit at one of the tables. Getting showered by dogs shaking themselves dry is not top of my list of fun things.

My map told me there was another interesting sculpture nearby so I carried on past the copper roofed boathouse, which houses model yachts that are sailed on the pond in races every Saturday morning. In fact this was the boating lake where E B White’s mouse, Stuart Little, sailed his boat to victory. The pretty little boathouse garden, along with the hot chocolate and the ducks cavorting on the pond, really brightened up my morning. The Hans Christian Andersen sculpture, depicting the author with the Ugly Duckling looking up at him, brightened it still further. This is another climbing statue but, as luck would have it, the children in the park hadn’t discovered it yet so there was no waiting around to take pictures. The sculpture was a gift funded by the Danish American Women’s Association to commemorate the hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Andersen’s birth and the summer storytelling sessions are very popular.

A quick look at my watch told me it was time to turn back and, when I got to the Trefoil Arch the name suddenly made sense. From one side it’s just a simple arch but, approaching from the east of the park, the arch is indeed trefoil and the decorative railings above also have a trefoil design. Quite why the arch is different from each side is a mystery but it is also the only bridge in the park made from brownstone. There was no time to hang about musing on this though so I marched back towards the Bethesda Fountain stopping for a rather regretful look at a beautiful rustic bench that I’d have liked to have had time to sit on and ponder.

When I got to the fountain the harpist had disappeared which was a shame as I now had some change to put in her basket. Perhaps I imagined her. Back at Bow Bridge the cast iron urns, filled with tumbling bright red leaves, drew me forward and I decided to cross it and complete my circuit of the lake. The bridge was just too good to resist. This cast iron bridge, built in 1859, is one of the oldest in America and the bridge is considered one of the most romantic settings in the park. What a pity I didn’t have Commando with me!

In the end the bridge turned out to be a bit of a red herring. When I got to the other side I was in an area called the ramble where the trails meander wildly and look, on the map, like a ball of string a cat has been plying with. On a day when I had time to wander at will this might have been fun but when I was racing against the clock to get back before Commando it led to a rather red in the face, out of breath me dashing along paths that ran up and down steep hills through huge stone viaducts, little glades and spinneys and didn’t seem to lead in any particular direction. It would have been easy to get lost, in fact I did get lost more than once but, more by luck than judgement, eventually found myself on the west side of the park by the huge rock and the bridge where Commando and I had parted.

By some miracle I was even a little early, or maybe Commando was a little late. There was time to find a handy stone to sit on and watch the world go past. In this case the world included some young girls on ponies, a lot of dog walkers and several runners. Sunday morning seems to be a popular time for heading for Central Park. Eventually, just as I was wondering if I was really in the right place, there was Commando, his ten miles done. It was ten o’clock and time to go and find somewhere to have breakfast…

*later Googling told me Bow Bridge was actually named for its bow shape and has nothing to do with Bow in London.