Claremont Road, clockwise. 1pm.

Their mothers have brought them to the park after their morning of big school. They are still in their grey uniforms, and they still sound like toddlers when they talk.

The Grove Park, Tunbridge Wells

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 6pm.

Bowwow, whose dog art thou? Sometimes you're with teenage girls, sometimes a bald man, and this evening two young women and toddler are talking while you dig in the leaves.

St Helena, anticlockwise. 6.35pm.

The white house among the trees that wedges its sports hall roof into the horizon: I've walked around the streets where it's supposed to be, but I can't find it.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 6.30pm.

Half moon getting brighter as we walk. Air is cooling. Teenagers sit in a ring (like fairy circle mushrooms). Now the bracken is cut, a natural amphitheatre has opened up.

St Helena, anticlockwise. 6.30pm.

"Bit extreme isn't it?"

The Common scrubs its hand across the stubble. "Needed a tidy-up."

I can smell cut grass and earth in the autumn evening. "It looks very smart."

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 4.30pm.

Today clouds resemble: scales on the flank of a bream on the fishmonger's slab; greyish wisps of carded wool; mist on a mirror, or on a pond one cold morning.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 1pm.

If I go out later, I'll see one of these two elderly ladies again. Her floral dressing gown will be peeping under her coat hem as she walks her dog.

St Helena, anticlockwise. 5pm.

I am trying to plant my feet flat on the ground as I climb the zig-zag path. My ankles, knees and hams complain at every step. The weather's getting colder.

St Helena, anticlockwise. 2.45pm.

Terrier puppy dabs at the ground with its white feet. It pulls the lead until it walks sideways. It drops down the slope and now only its wobbling tail shows.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 2.30pm.

The blackberry season is over. The rain has beaten all the shining black beads to blots of sodden mush; and there is a purple-streaked fox turd on the path.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 1.30pm.

The needle-sharp voices of a flock of tiny birds speckle the air. They loop round and round the branches as if they were darning a worn patch in the common.

St Helena, anticlockwise. 1.45pm.

Two, four, six men on their way back to work from the pub. White shirts and black trousers jostle and expand to fill the pavement. Voices tussle to be heard.

St Helena, anticlockwise. 6.45pm.

Grey tired umbels hold out brittle empty hands. They have nothing left to give. It has all gone to making the seeds fat, smug and glossy enough to leave home.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 1.30pm.

Cherry plum stones crack under my feet. The fruit has rotted and dried and rotted on the pavement. I don't like to walk on it -- it seems such a waste.

Woodbury Park Cemetery, anticlockwise. 11am

Police officer phones in broken gravestones: "About £2,000 of damage," she says. The secretary of the friends looks on, observing a bumble bee scrambling across the plane of her hand.

Today's post comes to you from Woodbury Park Cemetary, Tunbridge Wells.