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.

Letting your feet wander on, finding new ways home, a walkway you never knew existed behind your usual street between tall apartment blocks in red and yellow bricks. Then, walking down a rounding street, passing a private house with a black, double wooden door and a white facade covered in greens of flower pots and hanging plants, giving the impression of a house between a flourist and a French motor garage from the thirties.

To walk for the sake of walking. And of seeing.

Are there any other streets in a city more meant for walking than these? *


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