A walk in the park

After a Sunday morning spent on household chores I was ready for a walk and some fresh air. Like many urban dwellers I headed straight for my local park. Many others were tempted out by the November sunshine, strolling the tarmac paths laid out under now nearly leafless trees. Each bench on the sunny side held a bundled up pair deep in conversation, overheard snippets proved that some intense discussions were taking place. A well-wrapped baby threw me a grin from the depths of her pram, I gratefully accepted it and returned the favour.

After my turn around the park I drop into my local library at the top of the hill to find out a little more about the history of this place. I value this ‘third space’ as a place to think and write in warmth and wifi. Plus somewhat radically, I like borrowing books! I discover that several books I’ve reserved have arrived and I check them out at the self service kiosk. One of them is Richard Mabey’s Flora Britannica, a fairly hefty tome which will give my biceps a workout on the walk home. I search the local history shelf too, as I’m a sucker for a locally produced pamphlet, and am delighted to discover Historic Public Parks: Bristol by David Lambert and Bygone Bristol, a book of vintage postcards collected by Janet and Derek Fisher.

The first of these has a John Ruskin quotation in the introduction:

 “A measure of a city’s greatness is to be found in the quality of its public spaces, its parks and squares.” John Ruskin (1819-1900)

Living in Bristol in 2025 where press coverage of the local council is resolutely gloomy; budgets slashed, services gutted or cut completely, it feels incredible that back in 1890 this large area of ground was purchased for the public good. Apparently the land was secured at the time for a cost of £12,000. The Bank of England’s inflation calculator suggests this would be £1.3 million today. I also discover that the sweeping avenue of London Plane trees (Platanus x hispanica) a key feature of my local park and a backdrop to countless family photos, was originally planned as an avenue of Horse Chestnuts. Council minutes from the early 1900s show discussions of tree planting undertaken on a large scale but sadly many did not survive, the Horse Chestnut avenue among them.

Whilst I enjoy leaving the city and planning long solitary walks through lush countryside, the truth is I don’t have the time or opportunity to do this very often. Life gets in the way. So for my urban tree fix I must perambulate the park, but there’s still treasure to be found. In the summer I took part in a writing workshop in the park where we went out to explore with hand lenses and jot down observations. I made this poem and share it here as the days shorten, a reminder that summer will come again:

Midsummer Party

The indistinct hum of a distant sound system
A rhythmic thud of celebration, laughter bubbles
Pink sticky babies squawk and are passed from arm to arm
The grass drowses, but a closer look reveals another party
A butterfly pair rest on a desiccated stalk of cow parsley
Our glancing disturbs them. A sudden flit
Take care you two, for here are delicate tripwires
Spider silk to entangle the unwary
A hovering fly darts and dashes, flaunting its bronzy wings
A glitter and flash catches the afternoon sun

This post has been sitting in my drafts since November, so I thought it was time to release it into the wild. I'm looking forward to more outside adventures in 2026.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Adventures in Metaphor

Image
When she was five years old and in her first year of primary school, my daughter approached me one day with something to show me. I looked down into the plastic box held clutched in her small hands, lined with scraps of greenery from the garden, a few pebbles, and nestling in this tiny habitat, three, no four, glistening bodies. Slugs. Oh. I swallowed down my revulsion, like many gardeners I find slugs difficult to love and appreciate. “It’s a slug sanctuary!” she informs me proudly, and adds that she wants to take it to show Miss F, her beloved reception teacher. Fighting every impulse I agree, because of course I believe in supporting my children’s interests, don’t I? Later in the year I attend my daughter’s first parents evening. As I come into the classroom and fold my long legs onto a too small chair Miss F says with a laugh “Well, what do we say about V? She’s…” she glances at her teaching assistant seated beside her, there is a pause and they both reply in unison “Quirky!”. “She...
Read more

Escape

Image
Escape That row of gold on the Met Office app was an irresistible invitation Here’s your bus fare to escape the city Boots, rucksack, walking poles, map It’s been far too long, let’s go go go The thrill of playing hooky from the stress of last year Walking familiar paths, but always something new to see Climbing to the top of Maes Knoll, I’m the king of the castle Brilliant blue bowl of sky, breathtaking I may have whooped a little When my daughter was young she told me she took pictures with her eyes Today I take her advice and store up the snapshots Inky crows scribbled against bare branches Long tailed tits flitting Such richness of blue, all the blue words needed Cerulean, azure, sapphire Dazzling me and filling me up After that high point falling into a satisfying rhythm My boots hitting the ground Nothing else for me to do but move forward Poem written on 17 November 2025 after taking the 376 Mendip Explorer bus from Bristol Temple Meads to Whitchurch. So many options for walks a...
Read more

An Unexpected Visitor

Image
My husband WhatsApped me whilst I was walking home from a friend's house on Saturday afternoon with the startling news that a sparrowhawk had taken down a pigeon in our garden. A photo showed the bird of prey standing on the feathery corpse. His message underneath read “pigeon not dead yet” and then almost immediately another “it's dead”. I rushed to the back window to join him as soon as I arrived home. Feathers everywhere, a splash of startlingly red blood on the concrete flags. Pomegranate juice. The Sparrowhawk eagerly pulling on the white sinewy strap that must have been the spinal column. Efficiently plucking to access the flesh below. The pigeon's head wobbled as she tugged.  My daughter joined us to watch, providing useful facts from Google and from a new friend at school who is “really into birds”. She tells us the Sparrowhawk is a young female, as you can tell by the markings, particularly around the eyes. Red markings around the eyes means older and these eyes ar...
Read more