A cold and gorgeously blue Friday in early February, we put on our walking boots and go. Ronnie walks us through it.
This is our default walk, our ‘home’ walk. Several times a year, for the past couple of years we’ve done this one. Meditatively wandering through the seasons. We know individual plants and corners on this walk as well as we know anywhere. You may have been here before yourself, it’s the one we did a year ago on our ridiculous ‘Running, jumping and standing still (sort of)’ film. I don’t think we could ever tire of it, any more than we could tire of Plot 44, Sefton Park or the Cathedral. This walk is at the core of our beings.
It’s another one over the far side of the Wirral, closer to the mouth of the Estuary than the ‘Cuckoo Lane’ walk we’ve taken you on twice already this year. It centres on Thurstaston, a tiny little village that looks like pure old England.
So far so idyllic, but what’s this? ‘Memory card full’ my camera blandly informs me. ‘But how can this be?’ I respond (and other non-idyllic phrases that need not concern us here). A few photos in and I’m supposed to make up a whole blog about a church yard? No, fortunately Sarah comes to the rescue with her trusty iPhone. And I take most of the rest of the day’s pictures using the amusingly retro ‘Hipstamatic’ app. Here we go!
And when it’s over we never want to leave. We sit in contemplative peace watching the sun go down. Glad beyond words to live this close to paradise.