The place is already humming with activity by the time we arrive.
The temperature is in the high 20s this morning, and many South London families have made a beeline for the paddling pool, high on the common.
The circular pool is secluded from the rest of the common, surrounded by a hedge and an iron fence. It’s been there since before the Second World War. A glorious summer oasis with room to sunbathe and picnic.
But the gates are padlocked shut.
This is strange, because the pool should be open by now. In fact, people seem to be using it.
Children are laughing and splashing. Parents are milling around. The pump has been switched on.
The Gates of Eden
As my wife and I try to make sense of the situation, we realise that patrons are gaining entry via the larger side gate.
There may still be hope that our daughter can have a paddle while we rest on the parched grass.
But, as it transpires, entry is no simple task.
Chill waters, shady picnic areas. All this can be yours, if you can only get over the gate.
The side entrance comprises double iron gates, 4ft 5in high at the tallest point, with a 10-inch gap to the dirt floor below.
We take a moment to watch some enterprising parents take their turn.
A plastic picnic chair has been found to give extra leverage, and there is the option to use the main latch as a foothold as you swing over.
It isn’t easy though. The doors of the gate aren’t flush. They’re held together only loosely by the padlock.
The doors can jounce and swing on their hinges unexpectedly, moving away from you as you try to push off and make a leap forward.
Still, the rewards for success are great. It looks like the promised land lies beyond.
There’s muffled party music, chill waters, shady picnic areas beneath the trees.
Children cavort around in bathing suits wielding water pistols. Parents sunbathe and gossip.
Nothing new for a mid-July weekend on the common, except for once the place has become exclusive.
All this can be yours, if you can only get over the gate.
Social pressure and creative thinking
Maxi skirts are hitched up. Cool bags, buggies and young children are passed over. Picnic blankets and towels are thrown under the gap to minimise staining.
We make it over and, unfurling the picnic blanket, stake out a position with a good view of the gate.
The challenge of the gate brings out something different in everyone
Watching the newcomers becomes a fascinating social experiment, a bit like a cross between the Ten Metre Tower documentary and a segment on Taskmaster.
There’s the factor of social pressure, as strangers, family and friends watch you attempt to negotiate the challenge.
Faced with these conditions, athletic people struggle self-consciously over the wobbly metal barrier, while ladies in late middle age crawl under the gate in good humour. There is applause from one family as a matriarch makes it inside.
But there’s also the element of creative thinking. It is rare that two people approach the challenge in the same way.
The gate brings out something different in everyone.
A few confident souls get a foothold and then vault themselves over. Other people get halfway across, then lose confidence as they teeter, and then abort, deciding they’ll have to go under.
Some suffer wardrobe malfunctions or a fatal lack of clearance and have to battle for recovery.
A few new arrivals stare at the gate for a long period and then walk away with an expression of resignation.
One man even decides he can wrench the padlock open, grabbing the doors and yanking them towards him repeatedly in a futile effort to break in.
Buster Keaton goes for ice cream
Occasionally I get up to go and help someone who doesn’t seem to have sufficient support to make it across.
During peak hours, there are 100 patrons in and around the pool. Whether we’re collectively trespassing, or simply adapting to a groundskeeping oversight, is never clear
As we crest into the afternoon, I’m tasked with making the snack run to the nearby cafe, securing ice creams and cold drinks for my wife and daughter.
I end up traversing the gate fully five times. The results are variable.
One occasion, I cross the threshold in mere seconds with a pleasing athletic vigour. On another, I end up going full Buster Keaton, as my leg overextends in search of the wobbling plastic chair on the other side.
At 2pm, someone finally arrives to unlock the main gate.
My wife watches as newcomers drift in through the gate without a care in the world, ready to soak up the late afternoon sun.
“They’ll never know what it was like,” she sighs.
