Raindrops, rosehips

On Sunday afternoon, five of us head to Hampstead for a walk on the Heath and followed by tea and cake. C leads us down muddy paths to the pergola. It emerges through the golden trees, all red brick, grey columns and weathered wood. We climb a spiral staircase until we are on its upper level, and walk along past twisted vines and papery clematis flowers. Raindrops hang from rosehips, the tips of browning leaves. Everything is still, muted from the earlier rain.

I have never been here before. I am amazed, yet again, by how this city, my birthplace, my home, can still reveal such wonderful places to me.