OF THE MANY BRIDGES I’ve crossed, blocked or marched on in London over the past 30 years, it surprises me that I’ve never ventured onto Tower Bridge.

Early in the morning, it’s a busy thoroughfare for commuters; not so many cars, and, unlike Westminster Bridge, no tourists standing in the middle of the pavement taking selfies.

About a dozen people are walking slowly with orange banners, accompanied by the load blaring of horns as northbound traffic is slowed to a crawl. 

I’m on the pavement handing out flyers for Just Stop Oil. The message states: “We are marching today to demand that the government halts all new oil and gas projects.”

Another quotes UN secretary-general Antonio Guterres: “We are on a highway to climate hell, with our foot still on the accelerator.” It seems appropriate in the circumstances.

I understand that people have to get to work, school or hospital appointments, and that the delay for some might have consequences. But there are always delays on the roads in London — traffic queues, road works, inconsiderate drivers and simply too many vehicles.

Some people are already on the edge of losing it, and a delay caused by us is a great opportunity to vent their frustration — sometimes cheered on by members of the public, who film the spectacle with their phones. 

On this occasion, a man gets out of the cab of a lorry and starts ripping banners from the hands of protesters. He is a whirling dervish of energy, shouting and pushing people into the road and grabbing their clothing. The marchers get up and return to their positions, but the man keeps coming for them.

I pick up the banners and try to fold them neatly, but my hands are shaking, so I shuffle along, clutching my leaflets and watching the police who have belatedly arrived on the scene. I hear a senior officer instruct his troops not to engage with us until they get the order to prepare for arrest. 

At this point, the barrier on the bridge goes down and there is a collective groan. Others notice the bridge being raised as a boat glides down the river towards us. 

In a brilliant move, the protesters line up in front of the barrier and start giving personal testimonies through a megaphone. I hand over their discarded banners while somebody films.

Some people are eager to take a leaflet while others look at me with contempt. 

A middle-aged man approaches, demanding to know what we think would happen if we stopped oil overnight. I try to explain this is not our position, but he interrupts constantly, telling me I want to send everyone back to “the dark ages.”

I talk about fossil fuel depletion, but I don’t get far before he gestures dismissively and the barriers reopen to a surge of humanity.

Warnings of arrest

Every march is different. While some may be predictably tough (three people with placards marching down the middle of Brixton high street), some are relatively trouble-free. 

A large group of people marching through Islington gets customers out of cafes asking when Jeremy Corbyn is coming, while an impromptu cry of “police closing down peaceful protest!” attracts more people asking for leaflets.

Bermondsey is one of the easier routes. In contrast with Brixton and Tower Bridge, the police choose to engage with us, putting themselves between us and the traffic. Although we are near a hospital, there are no blue lights other than a police vehicle we allow through.

As we approach a busy junction, an NHS worker speaks into a megaphone about why she is marching, and others speak eloquently about the climate crisis and what it means to them.

At this point a man on the balcony of a flat starts hollering abuse. It is more specific than the usual “w**kers!” and includes “paedophiles,” “rapists,” “mysogynists,” “racists,” “homophobes” and “institutionally corrupt.” 

I reassure several people that the abuse is not directed at us, while individual police officers look on impassively, as if it is a response they get every day. 

I am speaking not too fluently into a megaphone when the warnings of arrest start coming. It is not the intention of anyone to get arrested, so I put down the loud-hailer when a high-ranking officer stands in the middle of the road to announce a section 12 order. 

The group falls silent as he reads the relevant section of the Public Order Act (1986), which gives power to a senior police officer to impose conditions on “processions” which he or she “reasonably believes” are necessary to prevent “serious public disorder, serious criminal damage or serious disruption to the life of the community.” For the government this doesn’t go far enough, but the new powers have still to be enacted.

We peel off the road in an orderly fashion. “Take care,” says one of the officers as we slink off for a debrief.

‘Pushing the button’

Maida Vale is my first experience of a “mini-march,” and comes at the end of a long week of marches and training. 

We set off to the designated intersection and wait for the traffic to stop at a red light before entering the road; this is called “pushing the button.”

There are just four of us on the road blocking two lanes of traffic. My placard says: “We won’t die quietly.”

For the entire walk, which lasts over an hour, I remain hyper-vigilant and somewhat nervous. Sometimes we are overtaken on the wrong side of the road and other times the traffic piles up behind us. 

On Abbey Road I look out for the crossing made famous by the Beatles, but have no idea which one it is; we pass many crossings, and I don’t take my eyes off the road.

The same sergeant returns to us repeatedly, conferring with an absent colleague about the degree of disruption we are causing. It is clear he has no permission or authority to issue a section 12 order, so we keep walking slowly. Some buses overtake us, while many cyclists whizz through — some of them telling us to “keep up the good work.”

At last the officer has his authorisation, but we turn into a leafy side street where the only moving vehicles are Ocado delivery vans. 

It takes all my self-control not to punch the air in celebration when we finally get off the road at a place of our choosing — it’s Friday, and we are the first march of the week to complete our route.

Defend rights by exercising them

So, what does this kind of action achieve, when more than a million people marching against the illegal invasion of Iraq seemed to make no difference? When the only tangible result is tighter restrictions on the right to protest?

We know most people are not in a position to join us. Our kind of non-violent direct action is a hard sell for many activists, especially those with vulnerabilities and caring roles. 

The risks include repeated arrest (often unintentional), and the threat — and reality — of hefty fines, lengthy court cases, jail terms, bail conditions, electronic tags, more expensive insurance premiums, losing your job and even deportation. (Admittedly, most of this is not for slow marching.)

Then there are the dangers on the road: of violent assault, being run down or barged by vehicles, and the certainty of a lot of personal abuse.

Yes, we sometimes disrupt vulnerable people; but these are the same people who are most vulnerable to the ravages of climate change, to rampant food inflation, empty shelves and insecure work. 

And when ordinary people are held up going to work, the faux outrage of the press gives us a platform. Most of the media don’t care about the everyday disruption suffered by ordinary people; the thousands who are made ill or die from air pollution, or the far greater disruption that comes with climate chaos and ecological breakdown. 

The fact is when we blockade oil terminals or protest outside Parliament, most people don’t hear about it. Even when the petrol pumps were running out of fuel last April, work colleagues in the north had still never heard of us, while an anti-fracking ally wondered why Shell petrol stations were suddenly displaying injunction notices. 

Slow marching is not a new tactic, but it is one the public can support by either speaking out or joining us. The only way we protect our rights is by exercising them, not by recoiling in fear of the punishment. And by taking action, we give others confidence to do the same.

Research suggests that a “radical flank” can inspire others to take less risky action — and a clear majority support our aims. While it is not for us to dicate how we get off our addiction to fossil fuels, there are many practical policies that would ease the transition at the same time as improving most people’s quality of life. 

More and cheaper public transport; a basic fuel allowance for households; a national programme of insulation; citizens’ assemblies to revive democracy and make the tough but necessary decisions …

As for achieving our aims, we are now in a situation where every major political party except the Conservatives agrees we should not be issuing new licences for oil and gas in a climate emergency. 

But we are running out of time for sensible decision-making, as we see unprecedented heatwaves, droughts, wildfires and floods affecting large swathes of the planet — and getting worse.

As Chief Constable Chris Noble, protest lead for the National Police Chiefs Council, has said: “We’re not going to arrest our way out of environmental protest.” We just need more people to join us.