A consequence of taking a little break from my Local, my footsteps found me retracing a route back to The Mayflower in Rotherhithe.

The last time I drank here, I ended up with a wet arse; this time, the conditions couldn’t have been more different.

I arrived half an hour before opening time and with the tide on the Thames at its low point for the day.  It was a sunny spring morning, so I went down Hanover Stairs and joined some of the local mudlarkers searching for treasure on Rotherhithe Beach.

I say I joined the mudlarkers, but that isn’t strictly true.  I watched the mudlarkers.  To join them, I would have had to apply for a Port of London Authority permit, and I didn’t think that was likely to be granted in the short half-hour before my first pint would be pulled.

Nevertheless, feeling like a modern-day Lizzie Hexam, I was content to pick my ways across the sand (?), uneven shingle and slippery stones; the old timbers and half-submerged pipework, to stand at the foot of The Mayflower pub. 

The last time I had been here, the river had lapped at its door.  Now, it had shunned it, leaving it standing high and dry, several fathoms above me.

The mudlarkers were plentiful in number; a united community, scouring the foreshore for historical refuse: clay pipes; old pottery; the dream of a gold coin.

It was a Dickensian scene; a corner of London little changed by the centuries, thrown into even sharper contrast by the distant view of the gleaming high-rise Shard on the opposite shore.

I didn’t find any physical treasures on Rotherhithe Beach, but the brief opportunity to step back in time provided something altogether richer for me.

© Beery Sue

Beery Sue reaps the benefits of travelling beyond her local.

Some of Beery Sue’s collected writing can be found in the book One for the Road.