Around 07:30 each morning, I wake and consider … shall I step out today, on my morning walk? Mostly, the answer is yes; with cat fed, breakfast prepped for action upon my return I cross the threshold of our home and into our covered porch where I press my sorry body into some much-needed stretching; calves, ankles, back, neck … and so begins the day.

Warm up over, I cross our front garden. There may be someone sitting on the bench adjacent to our home. Good morning, I say. Looking slightly surprised they usually smile and return the greeting. Solitary folk like that bench for sitting, thinking and looking. I walk to a gate that leads to the Wick Riviera. My neighbourhood stretch of the Lea can be still with algae one day, ebbing and flowing populated with geese and ducks another. Often I will see a bird or two atop the river wall or a barge roof, bills nestled into their breasts, still snoozing.

My pace quickens now and I spy D the street sweeper who looks after this stretch; bins and litter cleared daily to make the path immaculate for those living here and others passing through. More often than not, we stop and chat; D’s big smile and welcoming demeanour put a spring in my step. I continue to the school bridge at the base of which is a riverside bench sheltered by overhanging branches; a perfectly peaceful and private place where I manage deeper stretches, crunches, rotations, bridges and downward dogs, the water lapping gently not one foot away.

From here I cross and walk alongside the barges and boats that line the river; alert to every sound, moving aside when I hear the thud, thud, thud of the early morning jogger or whoosh of the cyclist behind or in front of me.

Usually I meet my first compatriots on the next bridge. Good morning! I say. They might look up and smile, they may return or ignore the greeting, the latter more common with younger folk. Those with landfill in their ears don’t respond at all; indeed, with ears blocked to the world around them, they hear nothing, the rich sounds that abound here are dead to them. No sound of ducks, geese, swans, birds. No gentle lapping of the water against boat hulls. They stare at their phones, so they miss seeing nature too, they miss the wider environment and small sights that make being here feel so good, like the wagtails that colonise this part of the river; jolly little things whose antics I often stop to watch.

A while ago, I met an elderly gentleman walking slowly towards me, his head bowed. Good morning! I offered. He looked up, his face creased into a huge smile, eyes brimming with warmth. He bent low from the waist and upon rising, lifted his arms to the sky and cried … Good Morning to you! Thank you! Thank you! Good Morning! You have made my day! Still smiling, we nodded and parted company, both happier for the brief encounter.

The man and his missus with two white dogs are often about, ready for a chat; he is Italian, she an Eastender always with a ready observation or two about the neighbourhood. I have only seen them together once; usually just one or other responsible for the early morning walking of dogs.

On the home stretch I cross Hackney Bridge and smell sizzling bacon on the breeze. At the base of the steps sits the breakfast truck; if Bacon Man is street-facing, he nods his greeting … Good morning! I say.  

Closer to home the Lollipop Lady makes a distinctive figure from afar; she waves as she sees me approach. Good morning! we say in unison. If it’s not raining and there are no children to see safely across the road we have a short chat about the weather. Not three months ago, she produced the Oyster card I had lost; on finding it in the road nearby, someone had given it to her. Recognising my photograph, she kept it until we met again a day or two later. After seven years I still don’t know her name – is it too late to ask?

I meander towards home now and with the village green on my left I might see C approaching with her dog; she waves and calls Alright babe? You alright? I reply in the affirmative and ask after her, she is closer now, next to our house. Blooming tired, she says. Blooming tired babe. I wish her well and as I open my front door, she grins broadly, one last wave before moving towards the Lea for her own solitary, grounding morning walk by the water.

For we are locals; the Wick Riviera belongs to us.

Let the day begin.

© Giovanna Forte 2024.