Tyla Fergusson-Platt and Rhyia Clark embark on a perilous adventure to visit every stop on the Northern Line. They will be deep diving on one unique location at each area, bringing you a comprehensive look at the best places to see on the Northern Line.

Hampstead, the playground of rock stars, Orwell’s field of dreams and now the meeting place of niche French comedians…

We arrived in Hampstead and did what any self-respecting tourist would do on the coldest, darkest night of the year; take a sojourn up the murky paths to the Heath. The bitterly cold winds did nothing to dampen our spirits. What we found on the Heath was more full of life than the boujee health food shops and Nisa locals we left behind. As it happened, light wasn’t an issue as the grounds were lit up by a lonely, end of the road fairground, that would look better placed in a tired old Blackpool backstreet.

We milked the rides dry though, which was met with confused suspicious looks from the Eastern European ride master. We continued full of cheer having thoroughly mocked the tacky rides. We seeked the aid of a capped Frenchman, who as it happened was also lost.

We wondered aimlessly to find the famed viewing point. Our new found French friend was called ‘Kev’, and it was at this point we grew suspicious of his story. He told of how he was a stand-up comedian, but when pressed to tell a joke, he folded and mumbled something about only being able to tell jokes in French. In some unknown corner of London, French locals convene to share comedy and merriment, and in a two fingered salute to the English, only recite jokes in their mother tongue.

After some time we stumbled up the viewing platform and were met with the sounds of bagpipes. A lone, shadowy figure sat in a defiant spectacle to commemorate the Winter Solstice. It appeared, to my eyes at least, like a hopeless shaking of a fist to the Capitalist behemoth, London landscape that spread before him. We clapped solemnly, and Rhyia with her influencer cap firmly on, videoed this mans descent into chaos.

Hampstead Heath with a lone bagpipe player

He announced excitedly that he was about to get out his Trumpetina, which we assumed was a musical instrument. A quick Google search rendered no results, and anticipating something unmusical we left with haste.

We said our goodbyes to ‘Kev’ and saluted the Winter Solstice for another year.  A strange ambience collects at this time of year. An abundance of extra weight around the midriff, undigested thoughts and an intense craving for Vitamin D tablets. Was Hampstead Heath all it was cracked up to be? It was, but not for the reasons we expected. Friends were made, good times were had but there was a sense that we only scratched the surface of this mysterious hallowed ground.

We were only at the beginning of our journey, but already we knew that the Northern Line contains mystical qualities that are beyond logic and language.

A trippy journey to Hampstead Heath