For around ten of the one hundred and twenty years of its existence the art of walking along my road appeared to be dying out in favour of whizzing up and down the road in a car. Beep that horn and rattle the double-glazed windows with your own choice of overly loud music. Oh, I hear you have.
However, for nine of the ten lock down weeks for Covid-19 a new craze has emerged. Walking up the road and walking down the road. Not only that but teenage sisters on roller blades have wobbled merrily by and wheeled down the centre of the road as the cars decorate the roadside with bright blobs of cherry red, racing car green and battle ship grey. The open gym of paving slabs is kissed gently by the brilliant blue sky while the whir of car wheels on tarmac is paused for a natural, relaxing sound scape of chiff-chaffs, wood pigeons and swifts gently whisking the air at sun up and sun down. And the walkers, family size, hand in hand, chat and walk on. Cyclists pedal power by the carefree and school free hopscotch, pavement chalkers. Push chairs rattle and roll by dog walkers and postal workers. How busy, how lovely is this pathway out of the coronavirus business of love and loss, home truths and political lies. And then the key workers went and unlocked something unexpected and precious for all of us on this street. Their gift of selfless service in the face of viral darkness gave us hope. And in return we gave generous applause from our doorsteps for ten weeks every Thursday night while the walkers kept walking up the street and down the street, stopping and starting to talk to their neighbours who were always their but busy and not always around when you are, except for these ten weeks of lockdown life and death, fear and friendly laughter with neighbours that will always walk among us on this street and yours.
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