Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 9.30pm.

A strange sky -- the canopy is light, the ridges of high clouds picked out by a sun far below our horizon. But low dark clouds are piling in from below.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 2.30pm.

The reflective flank of a black car parked in the sun captures (but will not keep) the moving image of a passing blood red Mini. This is cinema by chance.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 5pm.

The sun shines through ripe grass that sways in drifts on the bank above us. The stems are so beautiful, slender and blonde that I hardly dare write about it.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 6.15pm.

Needle cold rain prick us at the top of the hill. By the time we turn the corner, a mist of clinging drizzle has fuzzed our world. Reality needs re-tuning.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 3.45pm.

Ants in shining black armour have moved sand and soil, grain by grain, to make themselves a cavernous fortress among the roots of grass. Today, the lawn; tomorrow, the world.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 2.30pm.

It is so still (apart from the rain falling straight down out of an unknowable sky, the thunder rolling around, and the traffic on its way). It is so still.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 2.15pm.

The hot pink willowherb spires sway in waves on the skyline -- splashes of colour in a world first bleached by the sun and then dulled by a rain-dodging day.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 5.45pm.

This is a tiny bird. She is so light she can land on one of the ragged grassheads (stripped of seeds and bleached by the sun) without it bending.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 8.15pm.

Where last night the rain flowed down the edges of the paths, ripe grass seeds lie waiting for the wind. Each one is a love letter addressed to next summer.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. Noon.

The unseen crickets in the drying grass whirr out their tenth of second ticks as if they wish to fast-forward time to bring on the cool of the evening.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 8pm.

The attention of a low sun swaggering up Molyneux Park Road has lit up a swathe of slender bleached blonde grass heads. They stand straight, proud, brittle and not afraid.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 8pm.

The air vibrates with the scent of lime blossom. You'd think a saint had (moments before) been taken up to heaven, or that a miracle had occurred in the bracken.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 6.30pm.

He (in the turquoise shirt) has come out to eat a Mars. He (in the black shirt) has come to smoke a cigarette and swig from a bottle of water.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 6pm.

Cumulo nimbus are bearing down on the back of Mount Ephraim. These top-heavy mountains have shrunk me to the significance of an ant with a promise of torrential rain.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 2pm.

The groundsman dances his tractor mower in quick circles. His colleague spreads himself all along a bench in the oak tree shade, a strimmer catching its breath at his feet.

Claremont Road, anticlockwise. 7.10pm.

Lost children chase round the climbing frame. Wild heels and fists and knotted hair fly and feral insults turn into screaming matches. Then parents come and choose their families.

Claremont Road, clockwise. 8pm.

Family groups knot and unravel as children drop back from hurrying parents then catch up, but quickly fall behind on legs too tired from swinging to walk home to bed.

Southhall Road, clockwise. 7.15pm

So full of thoughts and worries that I might as well not have bothered walking. I try to pull sound or sight or smell from the time but nothing comes.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 10am.

From now on, some posts will come from a route near Nick's house. I am moving there soon, and it's quite a distance from the Grove. I stay over quite frequently now, and I often miss posts when I'm there. This map shows the old and new routes.


View Larger Map

Flies launch straight upwards from a tuft of grey fur, and a black dog turd. A lost Polaroid waits to be found. The soundtrack is crickets.

Meadow Hill Road, anticlockwise. 3pm.

They roar and shriek and yell as if running round and round the climbing frame rouses them to a fury and sets their blood burning with the rage of war.

Meadow Hill Road, clockwise. 8am.

For the love of God, throw the ball for your terrier. How can you go on talking to your wife when he's so keen to fetch that he's walking sideways?

Meadow Hill Road, anticlockwise. 4pm.

A schoolgirl drunk or stoned, shoes lost, bounces off friends. 'Do you have anywhere to go after this? Does she have anywhere to go?' Two men watch -- concerned and amused.

Sutherland Road, anticlockwise. 5pm.

The Serengeti and Brueghel's Children at Play. Herds of teenagers display and bask and fall in love. Tinies play with sand and balls and at private games of their own.

Claremont Road, anticlockwise. 2pm.

Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. A groundsman in a black t-shirt inadvertantly calls for hush in the park as he sweeps gravel into tiny dunes along the edge of the path.

Claremont Road, clockwise. 7.30pm.

Furtive activities: A couple canoodles. A lady in running shorts and vest, MP3 player strapped to her arm, is walking. A mother smokes a single cigarette and then hurries homeward.

Sutherland Road, anticlockwise. 8am.

Sun still low. Every angular leaf is rimmed with gold as if a careful painter with a shining brush and time on his hands has passed this way before me.

Claremont Road, clockwise. 2pm.

In one hand, son, in the other, scooter. On the path, she lowers the scooter and lets go of the son, running on. The boy tries to catch his ride.

Claremont Road, anticlockwise. 9pm.

Men use their dogs and the Grove to get a breath of fresh air after a day at the office, an hour on the train and a bit of telly.

Meadow Hill Road, anticlockwise. 5.30pm.

Builders working on the new castle have stacked slabs of tarmac in the playground and the skip. Someone has borrowed a piece to make an illicit bike ramp. Street use.

Sutherland Road, anticlockwise. 8am.

Rain spits and pats and spatters on my hood. I want to walk straight home to breakfast, but must go the long way round for the sake of this post.

Claremont Road, anticlockwise. 1.30pm.

This afternoon the Grove is throwing a tantrum and doesn't want us there to see. It throws rain in our face and shakes the trees to make us go home.

Sutherland Road, clockwise. 8am.

'...and then this morning she was like: "You're not going," and I was all like "Come on, Dad, back me up here."' School girl sauntering with mobile to her ear.