Walk with me

Out the front door, turn right, past the rest of the red brick terraced cottages, the two big detached houses, and then the crinkle crankle wall. I love its curves, designed to economise on bricks and help fruit trees flourish by providing a sun trap in each of its concave spaces. There are around 50 of them in this county alone, twice as many as in the whole of the rest of England, apparently.

Aerial view of a crinkle crankle wall

 On to the corner, turn right again, I'm near the top of the hill and the wide path slopes down in front of me. What a view.

A beautiful big crow swoops across from my left, its flight seems more languid so close. I stand still while it flies directly over my head, I can feel the ripple in the air from its wingbeat and I get a thrill from its proximity. It lands on the roof of the nearby house and I watch as it drops something large and brown from its beak and tries to figure out a way to eat it. It looks like the remnant of a roof tile but I guess it's a very stale piece of bread. Or toast. I could watch this lovely creature all day.

Not the actual crow.

(pic: Anemone Projectors)

A middle-aged couple, dressed from head to toe in a mossy green the same hue as the shadowy patches in the verge, stride towards me briskly, heads down. I start to open my mouth to greet them as we pass each other, but their faces remain determinedly fixed to the ground and I don't continue with my acknowledgement after all. Tourists, probably. Only tourists here make such a huge effort to pretend you don't exist. Everybody else looks up, smiles and says “Hello!”

Down to the bottom, through the gate, over the bridge and into the main street. The pub looks welcoming and I could just fancy that goats cheese dish advertised in curly writing on the board by the steps. I notice Helen inside, she looks out just as I glance in and we exchange silent salutations through the glass.

Onwards and I pass the fancy shoes and handbags shop which I've never been in. A bright pink, almost fluorescent, tiny satchel in the window catches my eye. I like it but I think it's probably for a child. And there's no price on it, nor on any of the items – not on the leopard spot court shoes or the shiny gold sandals. You know what they say about shops which don't display prices: if you can't see how much it is, you can't afford it. I keep on walking.

A shocking pink version of this.

There are prices on the items in the window of the adjacent gallery, but I still couldn't afford them. I like this gallery, though; it's full of wacky sculptures, weird things like baby dolls inside bottles and hares with incongruously long ears. It also houses some original signed prints from Bowie album covers and right now his Hunky Dory face, framed by the golden hair and clasping hands, looks on distantly from behind the wide window.

A man in a hi-vis jacket is walking towards me, checking his phone, puts it back in his pocket, looks up and catches my eye as we pass each other. His are sparkly blue, lively eyes, set in a pleasant face; I return his warm smile and they linger on me for a second. A subtle, vital, extra, second, just enough to notice, betrays an appreciative flirtatiousness which makes me feel a sudden frisson of excitement. It's just so nice to receive a little attention, to feel I haven't quite yet joined the brigade of the invisible, although I know those days won't be far off. I take this moment, meaningless though it is, and enjoy the brief boost it provides.

I say "Afternoon!" to the short fat lady with the little white dog and then, further on, the tall man and his wife looking in the window of the estate agents. "250,000!" she exclaims in disbelief.

On into the Post Office with its papery smell and racks of Haribo sweets, greet the staff and bid farewell to my parcel of artwork, then retrace my steps back home.

My mind is free as I smile at the party of pensioners coming out of the Old School, and pass the time of day with the man I seem to see every time I walk this route, the one who always wears a grey raincoat and looks like Mr Price from 'Please Sir!'

That's him, on the right.

It's an uneventful walk but somehow it feels like more: a thumbnail of my life, a snapshot of my small world. As I stroll past the oak tree and a huge group of rooks take off from its big dark boughs, I almost feel like writing about it.