Today my son and I went for a walk along the river. The water was low, exposing steep banks. The wind tossed the empty branches of the willows on the water’s edge. We passed a group of rowers, getting ready to go out for what will probably be the last time for awhile. On the way back we stopped at the outdoor market under the arches. We tried samples of truffle infused pecorino cheese from Italy, trout from English chalk streams, admired the Portuguese cakes, bought some French bread. We saw the stall selling Caribbean spicy condiments which provided the pepper mustard on last night’s burgers. We bought some honey from bees & refugees, a neighbourhood initiative involving refugees in creating hives for a local population of rare black bees.
I have lived in the city with all its variety and diversity during a golden era that may be ending. The virus has mutated; Christmas visits forbidden, and the imagined lorry park in Kent has become a reality. To be able to shelter in the peace of the moment without looking in front or behind I am grateful,