Clissold Park

Fiery carotenoids and anthocyanins blaze in the wake of retreating chlorophyll as summer shuts down.  On damp pavements, slimy remnants, the wreckage of the grand photosynthesis enterprise, are treacherous; but sodden and crushed with chipped bark on the faux wilderness paths, the glutinous slurry cushions my flexing knees.  After grinding round the first circuit, a moment of balance is achieved.  Tension is exhaled and joints have unlocked, but energy is still plentiful.  Endorphins start to percolate, levitation ensues and pedestrian perception slips its leash.  The leaves blur and common or garden fungi are transmuted to psilocybe.  Disembodied, I pass effortlessly through walkers with snuffling dogs observing their morning constitutionals.

Abandonment to a separate reality trance is tempting but alertness remains essential.  This city park with its curated flowerbeds, commemorative benches, restored fountains and artfully disguised toilet blocks conceals a hazardous anarchy: runners may circumnavigate the perimeter track in either direction.  Round this bend or behind that bush lurks a sweating opponent, intent on the metronome beat of his stride, echoing the music conjured in his private auditorium, and heedless of oncoming traffic.  Darting left or right at the last moment – that pavement ritual executed daily in shopping malls – is not an option.  Only an early signalling of intention, while still an object in peripheral vision, guarantees safe transit. 

Ambient sounds penetrate my opiate veil, like voices infiltrating sleep or thoughts populating a hypnopompic awakening.  Singletons confiding to their phones, sharing sorrows or broadcasting injustices, couples murmuring, families bickering.  A passer-by admonishes an old lady feeding bread to ducks: ‘It’s bad for them, use peas.’  She ignores the imprecation and flings handfuls; frenzied birds boil the water.  Children squeal, are propitiated with ice cream and scramble off on scooters.  Tribal footballers jeer at the other team.  Earnest hipsters, wrenched from their beds, are tortured by a personal trainer.  ‘Five more reps, feel the burn!’ he commands.  His judgment is critical: clients are indignant if not adequately exercised, but he mustn’t jeopardise their Monday commute.  A drone dangles overhead; it revolves slowly, transmitting images to invisible watchers. 

Chestnuts arch the final stretch, a broad uphill lane; under the leaf clutter, fallen fruits ambush my soles.  Alongside, skateboards veer and clatter, competing for space. Above, the shrieks of invasive ringtailed parakeets challenge docile natives for territory.

A decorative bridge clamps the stump of the New River, originally an aquaduct helping to slake Londoners’ thirst, now reduced to a limpid creek. Originally an ornament to the manor house, it is crusted with a baize cloth of smothering algae, pristine as the adjacent bowling green.  The house itself is a monument to unparalleled temerity; Augustus Clissold acquired it through marriage and changed its name to his own.  After his death, activists campaigned for the estate to become a public park, trumping his hubris.  Now an elegant café, attuned to the tastes of its middle class patrons, it holds the reward for my efforts.

© David Thompson 2015