Footsteps on cracked pavements, echoing between Georgian terrace houses on half empty streets. Under a harsh burning sun in a heatwave in October, when the leaves are falling yellow, orange rust and cinnober red from the London Plane trees onto the broken tiles. Or beneath the orange-yellow glow of a black streetlamp in misty rain at night, shining down on the black tarmac, making it shine.
The surprise of turning a corner and suddenly looking down a quiet row of 2-storey mews decorated with wild plants and doors in orange and forest green. Of turning yet another corner and discovering an unknown square for the very first time, like a secret that belongs just to you. Or the pleasure of a moment where you find yourself lost, that split second of uncertainty, and then the decided resolution that it does not matter. The happiness there is in that.