… leaving ice and slush and the odd snowman. Ducks swim in the green water of the clay pit where it hasn’t turned to ice, pick around Pan on their bright orange legs, and leave sharp footprints in the snow; large outline figures of ladies and gentlemen merge into the sparseness of winter trees; a swell of chatter passes with a contingent of runners; a peacock huddles against the wall of the palace on the island; and a battered staircase takes me up the escarpment to the Centre for Contemporary Art and slush turned greasy. That’s my Sunday morning walk.
It looks like the WordPress site URL is incorrectly configured. Please check it in your widget settings.