“It doesn’t feel like London” I sigh as we leave the train station after I’ve had a grumble on twitter over the lift not working at the station. Since having a buggy, I’ve obviously come across the injustice of an out of order lift, but my upset isn’t because I can’t use it but because I’ve become hyper aware of wheel chair users being unable to use it, it’s not like they can do what I do and lift their own wheelchair for god sake…. But anyway, back to my conversation with the husband, where was I…oh yes,
“It could almost be a small village.”
“It couldn’t be any more London, it’s absolutely Londonish.”
“We’ll I don’t thinks so! I mean, ok, it’s a bit Dulwich Villagey, but Dulwich Village has the word village in it!”
So here you can see I am trying to get away from London and my husband is simply trying to draw me back into London’s un-clenching, un-bucolic grasp, even when we are obviously not in a Londonish landscape.
“These cobbles are not made for prams,”I observe as we walk down a narrow path , the river is in sight in all its shimmering glory. The path to the right has a sign pointing away, declaring it to be the suitable path in case of floods. The sky is a pale blue with the odd fluffy cloud and the sun is brandishing its paler self ..it’s not meant to rain but it’s noticeably cooler than the last few weeks which is why we’ve taken this opportunity to shuffle onto a breathable train and make this short journey to a non-Londonish place.
“But I suppose the Romans didn’t use prams, but then again they would have had waggons.”
“I can’t imagine these cobbles to have been laid out by the Romans, they’re too new.”
I obviously know that but I have a more imaginative and fanciful mind than the practical husband and I like to look at things and believe it’s from the yesteryear … You know, the time of Yor or something.
The place was buzzing as people sat outside a large pub which was raised high obviously due to the said flooding hazard. People were enjoying the breez and knocking back glasses of the golden elixir whilst ordering their Sunday lunch. Children ran around in that beautiful haphazard way that we somehow forget about, as their parents’ spoke with exaggerated gestures to one another.
Once past the bridge we decide to have our picnic and feed the baby in the park to the right of us as its the best place to stop for a while. The baby coos, exclaims & tries to eat our lunch. I manage to distract her with my hair clip which she proceeds to eat while the husband eyes the dogs around us as they gallop past, they worry him with the baby but I’m a little more relaxed as I’m a tad bit more used to handling such hazards; dogs, cats, strange men, joggers in Dulwich Park… Plants (she tries to eat them & she’s ruddy wilful) and so we finish our lunch and return to the path.
Cyclists whoosh past, tink & ping their bells; some are polite and
“They think they own the path,” I complain whilst making sure the baby is happy & upright to enjoy her countrysidish surroundings, she’s like me, she loves being out in the fresh air, I’m sure she longs to be s country bumpkin, running (soon) in a field somewhere all free-range and such (I know she’s not a chicken)… Anyway, I rearrange her toys to make sure she can reach them.
“They make awful drivers and walkers too.”
“Who?”
“The cyclists, they’re just rude.” I’d like to interject right now that we cycle too, but we’re polite and do unto others as we’d have done unto ourselves and suchery.
The husband now takes over driving the buggy as I’ve taken my camera out and am pointing it at the sky; the river, the reflection of the leaves on the river, the kingfisher fishing in the river, my feet, my feet in motion…
We’ve been here a handful of times, the first was to see where Virginia Woolf lived, you know how obsessed I am about her by now…the other times were when I was getting my London itch and it’s terribly easy to get here you see.
“Oh I love it,” I holler whilst returning to the path, but oops, I must take a picture of that too…the husband has stopped walking and is waiting for me to catch up.
“Was that a raindrop?” We look at one another and then at the sleeping baby.. We don’t have the rain cover, but I rapidly create a makeshift one out of a scarf & pegs that I carry around in such emergencies. The rain is just what I call a “passing cloud” and the sun’s rays become even stronger, so much so that we purchase water from an ice cream van but its contaminated with vanilla & tastes like vanilla soda.. It tastes like childhood, I didn’t like it then and it turns out, I don’t like it now.
As we head back, my mind meanders to September. September with its cooler evenings when the season has exhausted itself and slowly yet surely packing up in wake for the next. I’m thinking of our September holidays in Sussex which we are not doing this year as we will be with family in Scotland and nearby.
September in Sussex; freezing cold mornings, hot hazy days and chilly nights with heavy legs that have walked for miles. I taste nostalgia as I walk behind the husband who is now carrying the baby in the carrier, she longs for contact after a while.
I do not blame her.
September always brings that cosiness: that warmth for soups, root veg, heavily woven blankets, curtains closed to stave away that early darkness. The husband and I often chatter about this like two giddy school kids, planning ahead, looking forward.
We’re now three very giddy school kids.
“Do you think we’ll return to Sussex next September?”
I smile at my husband and tickle the baby’s foot.
This is so lovely, so real. It has given me warm, fuzzy feelings. 🙂
I do love warm fuzzy feelings!