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.


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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.

Claremont Road, anticlockwise. 8am.

A beautiful young birch tree has given up this summer. The trunk is tall and firm, but fine shawl of leaves hangs brown and limp. I wonder about unrequited love.