Previously known as the Dollis Hill Estate, Gladstone Park became a public park in 1901. It was named after Sir William Gladstone, the former Liberal Party Prime Minister. He loved it there, with its tree-lined pathways, walled garden, duck pond, and abundance of sports pitches, and was a frequent guest at “country retreat” Dollis Hill House, from 1882 to 1886. Another repeat visitor was American author Mark Twain, who wrote, “Dollis Hill comes nearer to being a paradise than any other home I ever occupied.”
Before she died, my mother-in-law spoke fondly of tea dances held at the big house at the top of the park. My husband remembers (somewhat less fondly) the broken glass at the bottom of the lido, where he swam with friends in the 1980s. Incredibly, he also remembers swimming in the flooded aftermath of a rainstorm, when all the drains backed up on Kendal Road.
These days, the park features basketball courts, tennis courts, table tennis tables, two playgrounds, a nature trail, a pandemonium of parakeets and two cafés, one of them next to a walled floor plan of what used to be Dollis Hill House, which was demolished in 2012. But much remains for one species in particular. Echoing Twain’s sentiment, it has become a paradise for dogs. Its nickname is Gladstone Bark. Our dog loves it there.
Dolly, a grey schnoodle (shnauzer-poodle), almost 12-years-old, enjoys the park every day in the company of my husband, who is her routine and preferred walking companion (I, on the other hand, am best playmate, good with her teddies and balls rolled round the carpet). Together, they cover the full route of Gladstone Park, starting at the small playground, going over to the bridge and up to the top, pausing to pick up a pre-ordered coffee, say hello to everyone who knows them, then back down again.
On a walk with me, she’s happy to leave the house, enter the park, sniff around a bit, do her three pees, and then… she leans back, pulls against the lead and plonks herself down on the grass (in quite an obnoxious manner), as if to say, “Nope. That’s it for today with you.”
I call this behaviour “You’re not the human I’m walking for.” As the “other human” is in Ireland for the weekend, she’s having to make do with the spare, and she’s not impressed.
My husband has explained to me many times that Dolly likes to sniff every blade of grass at the entrance, then stop to greet other dogs, accept treats and compliments, and generally enjoy her celebrity status as an elder. So I try my best to replicate this routine, right down to small details, using the correct lead, maintaining the slow pace, offering little words of encouragement.
We set off at the exact time she and my husband usually leave, with a plan to follow the route. Heading down Cullingworth Road, the sun is shining brightly and her tongue-smile is out. She glances up, I glance down: we’re good together, connected. I feel optimistic. All is well, and I’m hoping for a longer walk than my usual cut-short one path deal.
We enter the park and she goes into predicted on-sniffari mode. “Well, this is what she likes,” I think, as I admire the old oak tree. The second I look up, she’s found a discarded chicken bone, and we begin the disgusting finger-in-the-mouth extraction, which always ends with her force-swallowing it, leaving me with dirty, greasy, tongue-y fingers.
Nevertheless, I wipe my hands and we carry on. We get a little further along the path and she begins her back-paw-brakes-on rigmarole. I overly enthusiastically encourage her to “giddy up” with a thigh slap, and she trots on, as slowly as possible, stopping and sniffing, continuing to show me who’s in charge of this outing.
A woman with another dog approaches us. I think they’re coming to say hello, so I ask Dolly in my happiest voice, “Is this one of your little friends?” But Dolly is, yet again, sniffing grass.
The woman asks if I have a spare poo bag, as she’s forgotten hers. I show her where the free bags are, attached to a signpost. I ask her dog’s name. “Dotty,” she calls, then runs off after her dog. I wonder if she’d have stopped to chat had Dolly been with her preferred human.
“IS THAT DOLLY?” someone else shouts from a short distance away and runs toward her, petting and fussing. Dolly responds with the glee of a lottery winner, tail wagging like crazy for this man I don’t know. “She’s not usually with you, is she?” says the man. “Oh well, bye Dolly!” he adds, and walks away. I feel eclipsed.
We carry on and make it to the end of the Park Run, by the lower park café. People race to finish their 5K, and it all looks like a lot of fun. We pass through some runners standing around on the path. (“Sorry, sorry, she likes to go this way… ’Scuse me, ’scuse me, I must stick to the agreed route.”)
A man finishes his run and then spits on the grass. He’s gross, sweaty, spitty, and stinky, and I want to hurry through this area, but Dolly decides this is where she’ll halt the walk. She sits down, full weight into her behind, somehow making herself as heavy as a rhino (totally unliftable, she’s not even that big, how do small dogs do this?!) She refuses to budge until we go back.
I give in. I have to turn around. We’ve been in the park for 20 minutes going nowhere. Back home in our garden, Dolly patrols every corner to check that nothing had happened while she was out.
I’m keen to finish my walk on this lovely day, so I leave her with my 18 -year-old son, her trusted sidekick and designated treat dispenser, and head back over to Gladstone Park.
I enjoy the lines of pink-blossomed cherry trees, the wide open expanses of grass, the outdoor gyms, the pretty duck pond, people playing tennis, a herb garden, a little forest path, lots and lots of flowering bushes and an abundance of happy dogs, running, frolicking, catching balls and loving life. Gladstone Bark is a four-legged paradise – as long as the queen is with her king.
Julie Hamill writes novels, appears on Times Radio and does lots more. Follow her on Bluesky. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE.