A Walk in Newark.

Turning to the crescent of Bancroft Road with the post war semi's built by Mr Vickers, with the Oriel windows in the stair well, pebble dashed walls, front bay.
Hipped roofs, Satellite dishes, Sky, TV aerials, digital aerials, horizontal and vertical. Mahogany doors, windows, some white, wooden, uPVC, add on porches, garages, extension, hedged, Beech, Leylandii, Holly, fenced, unfenced, open plan, cars and vans in their drives.
Every conceivable shape and shade, for better for worse, for young, for old and busy lives.

Cats sitting on the front door step waiting to be let in and dogs let out to roam around their garden.
Larger dogs like Alsatians, Labradors making themselves known by barking, jumping up at the gates at the end of the drives and little dogs, Jack Russells, Scottish Terriers running round continuously yelping, defending their masters home.

The odd curtain drawn open by the dreamy eyed only to be taken by surprise seeing me pass, our eyes meet, equally surprised by the sudden movement.
Fleeting figures darting in and out of the front rooms still wearing dressing gowns become visible through the net curtains. I cast my eyes away as if disinterested.
And now the ravenous smell of bacon frying comes wafting through the air from some houses still denying cardboard and wheat breakfast cereals.
Cries of babies and children penetrate the walls but no sound of adult voices except the occasional farewell of wives seeing off their husband as they walk to their cars parked in the road.
Colder mornings bring windscreens frozen white with engines revving and drivers scraping and spraying furiously.

Passing through the gates of the sports ground the open countryside greets me.
Looking around, dog walkers far off on the perimeters clutching their bags of unmentionable debris.
The stark patches of concrete, bricks and rubble still show once where the cricket pavilion, seated shelters and other buildings long gone, mischievously burnt to the ground by local youths hell bent on relieving their apparent boredom in the long dark evenings.
Seen by no one, condemned by everyone.

Who heard the motorbike doing wheelies across the nurtured pitch of someone’s beloved cricket pitch this morning? The skid marks and scars of a perfect brake n'turn executed with idle skill where wickets fall and batsmen score their boundary strokes.
Across the fields past the rows of Poplars are the Gypsum spoils with lorries labouring up to spill yet more waste, their tailgate's clanking and booming shut.

A petrol engine starts up yet again and the clanking of the belts and chains pitches high above the throbbing of the engine.
Through a well-worn gap in the link fence and across the field, that no one owns, where the dogs roam free in the long grass and shrubs.
Passing the earth-banked ramp of the old footpath bridge that crossed the single line railway, now long gone.
And on again across the field to the earth track where walkers and cyclists pass on the way to work.

Greeting all I meet, surprising their sullen faces but forcing a greeting in reply.
The pretty girl approaches and I stand aside but her face avoids mine with as if such acknowledgement may get unwarranted attention. Smiling at myself and greet her anyway with 'Morning'.
An embarrassed reply hesitantly follows but without eye contact.
Another dog walker passes through the overgrown shrubs of the treasured but now abandoned bowling greens.
Why?

Joining the path that follows the route of the railway line now edged with overgrown shrubs and birch trees.
The path meanders between the original straight lines now covered with macadam and the occasional signs of horse and ponies passing by.
Walkers jauntily come to view with their dogs smelling their way from one invisible delight to the next.
Who knows what stories these scents produce in doggy worlds.
Tola the Rhodesian Saddle Back greets me, dragging along Peter, ambling along the track, with more stories from the days of his National Service as a tank gunner, radio operator, crewman with the Royal Irish Hussars.

The forklift driver passes on his bike and gives a begrudged and muffled greeting on his way to work.
We shout a 'Morning' back to him as he disappears down the track without looking back; it took two years to get that much out of him.
No Wendy and Sam again this morning.
Her son has just come back from a tour in Afghanistan and we are still waiting news of his 'ventures. "Where's Chris and her little Jack Russel?" "Have you seen Terry lately?" "Saw him yesterday, he was asking after you".
Soon I come to the road bridge and take the climb out of the track onto the main road again where the noise of passing traffic takes over.
"Bye Peter", "Bye Tola".
They go on their way.

And so back to home for toast, Marmite, honey marmalade, cheese, crumpets, pikelets, boiled egg, fry up on Saturday and tea,
"What we got this morning?" And, of course, the morning newspaper.
Has the paper boy come?