Morning Walk

I’m across the Albert Bridge with Milly, we are on our way home from our moring walk, before I begin to notice what is around me. On the left, the cottages of Albert Road are passing me by, all developed and extended in recent years to keep up with the shiny new development of Riverside Place behind and above, surrounding, smothering these venerable narrow and seeemingly stooping gentle houses. Car Park on the right, beneath which sits the Anseres Place development, river frontage, three storey town houses with lots of floor space. On my “dont like” list since their construction, maybe I’ll mellow when Yorkie R move there soon.

Lots has passed by me already, and I have passed by it. Little unusual about this, as familiarity with where I live and spend my time every day, increasingly in a shrinking bubble it seems, does this. Reduces my awareness, my noticing. Maybe I wake with reduced awareness and noticing, or maybe I simply leave them at home when I step out the door. Maybe I over analyse.

Recounting this morning walk, from beginning through now to end, is my opportunity. Doing so enables me to redress this shrinking, this unintended yet seemingly unavoidable reducing, of my world. In this wonderful town, in this wonderful part of the world, the majesty of this place is lost on me, this morning. So, come with me for a walk backwards and forwards through this morning. Come with me, on a “finding”.

This morning, we choose to take a left turn out of our hand gate, turning west past Northview Cottages, and we are walking gently, Milly sniffing and considering this daily interruption called exercise. We are headed towards the Clocktower and the Recreation Ground.

Familiar, a default setting to go this way, yet always with a degree of freshness that comes with every day. That freshness is here, there. In every morning, every evening, every walk, every left turn or right turn, if I notice the freshness, the newness of each day and each walk. Today, I didn’t. Or so I thought, initially. Yet, the benefit of familiarity is that I know and I have observed, so noticing actually arises after the event as I recall and remember.

Within a few minutes, we have our obligatory first stop, inside the entrance to the Recreation Ground, for a brief sniff, then Milly’s ablutions. Onwards along the side of the Rec, slightly downhill on the curving narrow tarmac footpath running parallel to the external fotpath and road itself. There is little observable movement in the light grey of almost sunrise, on this cloudy morning. The regular dogs are either in fields already or still in bed with their family.

Reaching the mid point of the Rec as we continue downhill, choosing the direct route, instead of the right fork, takes us to the bottom of the Rec. We cross North Street East easily, as there is no traffic passing on this prominent artery, and move to Newgates, passing the cobblestones of Elm Street and the stone walled houses on either side. This is a stone town, a very fine stone town, indeed.

This route takes Milly and me onto Broad Street, at the bottom end. Just past the Nursery on the corner, opposite the hairdressers and shoe repair shop. Turning right, west, we cross the street to the south side, passing opposite St Augustine’s, which I haven’t been inside for several years. This was a frequent place of visit, weekly almost, for Sunday Mass when I moved to town in 2008. This had given me a sense of belonging in the midst of being adrift, a sense of connecting, to home and to childhood. I still feel some of this, and I’m always grateful for these qualities when I pass this way.

Passing opposite the Yoga School, possibly my new church. Another powerfully iconic place, of renewal and uplifting, a place of safety and sanctuary when tears were my closest companion and my primary source of knowledge. Not that long ago, and sharply fresh in my memory, my soul, my spirit, my mind. Smiling, close to tear inducing, smiling.

Onwards along Broad Street, passing the cobbles of Ironmonger Street, the Corn Exchange with a stooped grandeur, past the empty taxi rank, some spilled kebeb fillings from last evening beside, past Barclays and onwards down the uneven narrow footpath of Red Lion Street.

More cobbles, along and across Red Lion Square. These are modern cobbles, laid in the past 10 years, and detested by various of the town’s elderly grandees. The engineers despair at the lack of quality work in their installation, and the walkers and strollers despair of their lack of uniformity to walk on. Many letters of angst and anger shared with the town council, I gather.

Above, over us and roofs and birds and air, grey morning light of dawn is lifting ever so slightly, ever so imperceptibly, almost. Still, few people about, few dogs, little movement at all. It is early, and I’m glad, as I like this solitude sometimes. Today is one of these, a “solitude sometimes” which I appreciate. There’s a fellow walker, with Corgi, as we exit Red Lion Square towards Sheepmarket, Milly’s longer legs stretching along the cobbles down the slope past the Old Post Office sorting house. In Sheepmarket, the incongruity of a modern Eleanor Cross, amidst the splendour of our elegantly eroding stone town, still grates, a little, a little less sometimes, still grates. Like the cobbles in the square, it wears and fades a little with time, fitting in due to my familiarity of seeing it rather than fitting in due to its sense of purpose or belonging.

Towards the Meadows, all around remains very quiet. There is one dog and walker visible, together, close coupled, as we cross the bridge over the mill stream which fed Kings Mill over a century ago. The dog and walker are close to the Second Meadow entrance, away to the west, a paddock away in the still present morning light lacking.

We continue, exiting the Meadows across the Welland itself, on the foot bridge, then Milly leads me for a quick inspection of the Market Car Park grassy areas before turning east, past The George Hotel. Christmas decorations, on the Business Centre and The Mews, lighting the now emerging soft grey of morning, lighting also the oftentimes drab and lonely grey of life under lockdown. Lights in windows, lights as decorative outdoor features, lights on the Christmas trees, still there, still alight. Lights in windows of corridors and the kitchen, illuminating much more than the surrounding space.

To the traffic lights, with Town Bridge to the left and St Martin’s to the right, we cross over to walk along Water Street, river visible on our left as we move past the houses to the Sensory Gardens and the Water Street Garden itself. Welcomed here by Willows that drape themselves forlornly in pre Spring loneliness.

This is a place of sniffs, popular with other dogs and people and their coffee, cakes, lockdown alfresco eating. The wander across these gardens is slow, never laborious, simply slow and comprehensive. Are sniffs and smells different here from the Recreation Ground? As different as the burial mounds at Sutton Hoo were from each other, Milly suggests, reminding me that she also watched The Dig.

With smiles to walkers and a few dogs going the other direction to us, we make our way to the Albert Bridge and the steps up. As we exit, across this metal bridge, I realise that I have noticed so little of what has gone before, on this morning amble with Milly. She nods, in agreement.

On my way home from here, I notice little, as I am focused on remembering and recalling and reliving all the preceding. It was there, is here, simply not consciously noticed.

Now, in written form, it is noticed.