Leaves are changing colour in Brompton Cemetery and the birds just seem to be sitting around watching the season turn. On the Old Brompton Road end, a huge number of birds gathers in the street and surrounding tombs and monuments…
It’s a peaceful walk from one end to the other, the scent of Autumn creeping out of the ground now, people quietly jogging around or reading books on the benches.
There are still flowers in bloom, raspberries growing along the railway tracks on the far side and as you can see, plenty of wildlife.
So it’s a bit crowded on a Saturday morning, but last weekend when we went browsing through the Borough Market, the smells were enticing enough that we stayed to fill up bags with goodies and drool over what we could have for lunch if we were still hungry or what we would have bought if we lived nearby and weren’t planning to be out for the rest of the day. There’s some oddities and exotic choices and the standby fresh veggies and chicken to choose from. I’d recommend the grilled cheese sandwiches and some cheese tasting. There’s lunch in all the free samples! Here’s a splash of photos….
London is in a heat wave. The air is muggy and thick and unpleasant. People are sticky. The bus was sweltering. With every movement, a waft of body odour. Crowded, shoulder to shoulder on the lower deck.
For half hour, I tried to block out the type of noise that drills through any possibility of concentration – or sanity, for that matter: A small baby with a shrill, consistent, inconsolable scream; an old man continually tapping his cane on the metal pole, a steady ting, ting, ting, ting; bass beats of early-morning trance leaking through cheap headphones; a child’s endless monologue of gibberish enhanced by the negligent parent’s failure to respond.
Thank god it’s Friday.
Now, a tall caramel macchiato, open windows. Across the car park, translucent curtains flap seductively like the bottom of a white night dress waving in a slight breeze. Instead of babies and bass, there is the dull sound of traffic on Notting Hill Gate, the low bangs of distant construction – shouts, pounding, saws. There is, in near proximity to my open window, the high, melodic chirp of birds on a wire.