Walking in the city is quite unlike walking in the countryside.
When I worked on ‘Good Food Live’, my bosses didn’t want me running home after each show. We had prerecords and meetings, so they rented me a flat. Well I found the flat and they paid for it. A beautiful, riverside apartment with two bedrooms, a balcony, a view of Michael Caines penthouse suit opposite in Chelsea Harbour and a purpose built office for me to write in.
I lived the high life for years and then it came to an end. I managed the rent, although my income was halved, by securing a job at LBC.
I loved doing the rqdio, which was situated in Leicester Square.
No public transport for me. On with my trainers, lightweight clobber and out I went for my morning constitutional.
Left out of the flat, through Battersea Square. Round the bend over Battersea Bridge, along the river to Chelsea Bridge and then a short walk to Albert bridge, The kids called it The Sherbet Bridge on account of its twinkly lights and pink paint.
After the three bridges it was over the road and down to Victoria Station. Clip clopping until Buckingham Palace came into view. Walking past the guards who practiced their marching in the morning. Dodging the tourists. Through the gates and into St. James Park. The pelicans flapped, eating an occasional pigeon, whilst the ducks floated round on the lake. My job afforded a delicious amble through central London.
I hadn’t realised how good that walk was, my body trimmed, my lungs expanded and I fitted into trousers that now lay dormant in my cupboard.
When LBC sacked me – anther story – I started working at Radio London. The BBC, though big on reputation, paid peanuts, and soon I had to kiss goodbye to the flat. I cried.
I missed my morning routine. I missed the people. I missed the smell of London. I missed my body taking me for a stroll everyday. Missed film screenings and theatre visits. I missed running up the stairs on the tube. I missed city life.
I live in an area if outstanding beauty. It’s official. We have fields and cows and sheep and deer.We have acorns and conkers and avenues of old Beech trees. We have Ashdown Forest down the road and farm shops that sell newly minced venison. We have an orchard opposite our cottage and a 15th century pub on our doorstep.. We have proper walks but it ain’t London. When it gets dark, unless you have a torch, walking stops at sunset. There are no red coated guards trooping the colour, no tourists. A walk is about taking in the natural beauty, the mind thinks differently. It’s more internal. Meditative.
Of course I’ve got used to living here full time. I’ve long given up my ache for London town and the rolling River Thames. Bur that time lingers in me.
Where we live requires walking boots, not trainers.
Anoraks and walking poles are not necessary in Victoria. Now the dawter has grown and the dog has died, walking is a mission. A necessary mission, it’s more than a stroll over Chelsea Bridge. Now that the dawter doesn’t need us and the dog’s deceased, walking requires a serious commitment to outdoor clobber and walking poles.
When we were younger we had various routes. Through the gorse to ‘Kings Standing’ where Henry the Eighth stood in his fat body, and ordered the deer to run past him so he could shoot them. Down the steep hills past Friends Clump, a coppice of trees. Through Rotherfield woods and. through over the road to the orchard. Through the fields to the newly fashioned pond with bullrushes and up a steep track to have a breather on a little wooden bench. Turn right and there’s a pathway back to the house. ‘Forest Clump’ was renamed for the child. A small winding path through ancient old trees, with gnarled trunks and stories to tell.
We christened each tree. The elephant, the turtle, their intricate roots offering up their beauty.
Walking in the rain in London is not the same as the pitter patter of rain drops on a hood. Walking in the rain, in the country offers the smell of dark brown earth, the cloak of mist over the fields. So it does compensate for The Mall. Walking in the rain over sycamore leaves and dancing round pine cones is better than tarmac.
Now, sadly, our walks are a thing of the past. I envy groups of ramblers, maps hung round their necks, trudging through the loamy mud. Years ago when it rained in Forest Clump I demanded my handsome younger husband to stop. Stand under the dripping trees, take me in his arms and embrace me. Hugh Grant did it in Nottinghill Gate, so I why not a soggy embrace in East Sussex.
I asked him earlier whether he remembered the rain drops that were falling on our head, a movie moment. Surprisingly he did.
The first time Paul kessel took us for a walk in the Brecon Beacons, in 1977, I was terrified. The dark, the unstable ground, the eerie shadows. When I woke to discover that Kessel’s cottage was at the foot of a mountain, my East End self shuddered. And then in the blinking of an eye my outlook changed. I now seek out the dark, no light pollution here. I seek out skinny sheep tracks and welcome the carpet of autumn leaves.. Of course I miss the Big Smoke but it’s more my youth and vigour that I crave.
I miss studios and microphones. I miss teams of young people.
I miss the make up room and cameras. I miss the parpahenlia of being a medja whore.hey hO.
I now have a gentle life of keeping alive. Holding onto the wall so I don’t slip. Grabbing metal rails and parking where I can take as few steps as possible
It won’t be long before I have the chest portal removed and then I will be able to swim. and my muscles will come back to life, I’ll be able to put two fingers up to my lack of stamina and sit in the jacuzzi, sweat it out in the steam room, and pour water over the hot coals in the sauna.
A new chapter. Maybe I’ll take my handsome life partner on the train to London Town and grab a deck chair in St. James Park, and wrap myself in nostalgia.
And if it rains so much the better.