More Walking Observations
Our morning walks have now shifted almost entirely to the park. It is less complicated than making a choice from among three walking routes every morning. We don’t have to worry any more about traffic or stepping in dog excreta, which liberally dots the posh colony. The park has leafy trees, butterflies, and few walkers at the late hour when we drag our lazy selves out. It also has swings! To top it all, there is a comforting familiarity about it, something that says everything is alright, when most of the regulars show up.
Not all the regulars are really regular, save two men. They speak the same language and possibly work at the same place (as we have gathered from their clothes). The first follows a routine of a walk, which turns into a run, then a long session of yoga, including stretches and pranayama. The second arrives as the first is halfway into his session, starting with a walk and a run, and ending with some exercises. They are our inspiration. We skip our walk on certain days, but they never do. They are there every morning, almost at the same hour, focused and determined. We almost said hello to them as they were leaving together, I raised my hand in a late wave, and the moment passed. Social awkwardness won.
Walking seems to have a lot of takers after the long lockdowns. While things are almost back to normal here in terms of traffic and unmasked loitering, a few of us are still on our guard. We continue to wear masks, even as summer rears its head and humidity increases. And on these days, I think of walks by the chalk cliffs in East Sussex, where it was almost always windy. One I remember well is a fairly long walk on a freezing day with Z. and her friend who was visiting her from Glasgow. The chill was exacerbated by a biting wind, which kept pushing at us and turned our noses red and runny. The walk was not really remarkable beyond a point, but then we hit a “naturist” beach. It took us a while to understand what that meant. Coming from countries where any show of skin is frowned upon (except in the movies), we sniggered like teenagers. But we were too coy to linger. We turned and walked on, ending at a heritage railway line.
Brighton is pretty and vibrant, and I like how it nestles against the Downs, but this end of the walk was one part of the town I didn’t quite take to. It felt a bit grey and neglected, and I was happy when we began the walk back. Also, we were in the habit of escaping into the Downs whenever we wanted a break, which meant endless greenery and rolling landscapes. Of course, coming from the concrete environments that I’ve spent a lot of my life in, this was paradise.
As we walk under the trees , we are sometimes rewarded with a sudden breeze, which shakes off leaves or dew drops on us. I confess I do look up to see if there is a bird on the tree, the cause of the ‘dew’ on my forehead. Thankfully, I’ve escaped unscathed so far. The grey-brown dog that keeps the caretaker company walks up occasionally, as if to test the waters, then slinks away, too shy to make anyone’s acquaintance. Squirrels make acrobatic leaps among branches and whole trees, putting our newly found walking ‘agility’ to shame.
The trees hush the hum of traffic outside the park. The bus stop ceases to exist. The horns don’t reach us. Or we don’t hear them any more. We are all here, in this small world just big enough to hold us, giving way, being courteous to other walkers, and still wrapped in our reveries. Work and chores can wait. The outside will besiege us again, but for this half-hour, we own ourselves.
