Hampstead Heath

I've been reading and hearing about Hampstead Heath all my life; John Constable painted it, Coleridge tramped across it, Mr Pickwick researched and delivered a paper on the sources of its ponds- but I'd never been there before yesterday.

And all we had to do was go out Becky's front gate, turn left, turn left again, turn right- and we were there. It's less wild than I thought it would be- less dark and alternative- in fact no more remarkable than any other big city park. We walked past a couple of the ponds and saw, off to our left, the hill where people in the movies go to gaze out over London. There were lots of dog walkers on the paths- many in large family groups- as we were. I was wearing my multicoloured holiday jacket, my pink trousers and my new Peaky Blinders cap (Thank you Joe and Victoria!). I turned heads. People wondered if I was some kind of performance artist- or so I was told afterwards. I wasn't noticing. I was too busy running through the mud to admire the ponds and take pictures.


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