A fierce wind last night, which rattled and shook all our ancient doors and woefully inefficient sash windows. This morning, more of a softness to the day, but still a stiff warm breeze to galvanise thought and lift the spirits on my walk around the park.
Big, loose drifts of freshly blown plane tree leaves lay waiting for me to kick through with a leathery clatter, and the magpies and crows were jostling and chattering in the middle of the playing field.
To reach our park, circle it twice and return home along the secret footpath takes forty minutes of brisk walking and loosens my back and joints nicely. It's one of those smallish but useful urban parks, bordered on one side by the railway and on another by the wooded grounds of a primary school. It is spacious and green, and is always spotlessly clean. I love it for its enormous, wide open skies and tall trees, and would be lost without it, living as we do only three miles from the city centre. I feel immensely grateful to those forward-thinking Victorian town planners from long ago, and so from the very great distance of over a hundred years, I send out a very big