Walknotes

Monday

Head across the park in the sunshine. It’s 3 degrees and there are small patches of frost clinging to shadows in the long grass. The dandelion clocks are standing proud, fluffed up and ready to go. A helicopter leads the way, low and loud.

The sun warms my back as I walk to the woods – the ones with bluebells and springs. I head up the hill, better to get to the heart of it. Part of these woods have been coppiced recently and young ferns are tentative in the fresh light. Coiled leaves unfurl like tentacles. 

The best spring, and the easiest to get to, is at the far end of the woods. It flows down through the undergrowth in hidden and hard to reach places and bursts out at the bottom of the hill where it flows over the path and into a field. 

Today the water runs clear across earth and sand, glittering in the sun as it filters through the trees. I don’t know where the sand has come from, but it makes tiny golden beaches between the muddy tree roots. There’s an ersatz bridge across the path: a few planks nailed together. I see someone cross, unsteady and unsure the planks will hold. In the summer this bridge is a puzzle as the spring dries up and the planks lie pointlessly on hard ground.

When it’s time to head back I choose the open space of the park and the playing fields instead of the low edge of the woods and make the most of the wide sky. A bigger sky than I’ll see for the rest of the week.

Tuesday

In the city, four men in orange hi vis and hard hats clutch coffees in paper cups. Their heads bump together as they stare down at a single phone.

Close to the office a school kid steps out of a building and thrusts her hands deep into the pockets of her pleated grey skirt. She leans back slightly and looks through the bottom edge of her glasses, the corners of her mouth downturned. She’s wearing the same grim expression as seasoned miner about to head down the pit.

There’s a full moon in the evening and on the way home I hear the high pitched sound of early nesting swifts.

Wednesday

Back to the office again.

From the top of the bus I watch a woman in the queue below take a fast drag on a vape and exhale. The man behind sees the dense fog approaching but swerves too late to miss it. He frowns hard at the back of her head as she steps forward oblivious. 

I spend the evening with a schoolfriend visiting from out of town. It’s an evening of good fortune: I’m on time; we meet on a busy street by accident, before we’ve even made a plan; we get a table in a restaurant and they let us sit and chat long after we’ve finished eating. We talk with the ease of two people who’ve known each other for so long they have nothing to prove. I wish she lived closer – she’s smart and funny and I miss her.

When I cross London Bridge it’s hard to know whether to look left or right. On the left, tower bridge looks like a picture. On the right Blackfriars glows orange and pink.

Thursday

One woman walks past another on the train. 

“Hello?!”
“Hello!”
“How are you?”
“Good thanks, you?”
“Yeah, good. I’m going part time soon.” 
“Oh wow, good for you!”
“Thanks – see you later.”
“Oh ok… take care.”

This is always interesting. The morning train is a tricky business. I went for a drink with a newish friend once who said “I saw you on the tube the other morning.” When I asked why he didn’t say hello, he said that no one genuinely wants to speak to people on a tube first thing in the morning – even if they are friends. He was absolutely right. But the fact he’d honoured it was still a surprise.

Before the pandemic I used to get the bus at the same time as someone on my street. We’d chatter all the way to the station, and as soon as we got to the train, I’d casually say “bye then, this is my carriage! Have a good day!” And I’d step into the joyous solitude of a carriage packed full of strangers. It became our routine, and a good one.

Now of course all the routines are broken and new ones have been made.

Friday

Take advantage of the sun and plant out more seedlings. The garden has come back to life. Peonies are in bud, bluebells and wild garlic are flowering and there’s a fox glove that’s thinking about it too. Forget-me-nots have self seeded and started to spread. Every time I name a favourite flower I remember I have at least a dozen more.

I’ve got a week off and no plans, except getting off this computer. So I’m going to take a break from weeknotes too. See you on the other side.