A Tourist in My Own Town
A Tourist In My Own Town
On a hot sunny day sandwiched between the bitter cold of February, I took myself off for a walk through my town, Marlow Buckinghamshire.
Girls and boys were out in full force. The girls discarding their outer clothing to show off their wares with tight T shirts and shorts, and the boys all spruced up with gelled hair and aftershave.
Taking those first steps back out after winter. Hoping to catch the girls eye. As the girls nonchalantly talk into their phones while walking the dog. But glancing over as they walk past, making out they never noticed them.
The cleaners and painters, scrubbing the outside of their shops, arms flowing up and down with their new paintbrushes putting a fresh coat of paint on to tired walls.
And children. Lots and lots of children. Screaming, running, skating and scooting. Their mothers yelling, 'Mind the road!' And 'Watch out for the man on the ladder!'
Then laughing as the kids all swooped towards a big fluffy dog sitting with his tongue hanging out, and a smile on his face.
Charles Frohman Memorial Statue Built 1924
Charles Frohman was a New York theatre producer.
It was he who brought Peter Pan to the small screen and was honoured with a statue in Marlow High Street when he died.
Mr Frohman, was a regular visitor to Marlow, and he often stayed at the Compleat Angler hotel by Marlow Bridge.
He was one of the casualties when the passenger ship RMS Lusitania was torpedoed by a German submarine in world war 1, 1915.
More than 1,000 people were killed in the attack, which happened off the coast of Ireland.
And the River Flows On
And the River flows on
Through towns and
with bird songs.
The swans drift so slowly
Like giant feathers, their wings
white in the light.
The sun rises, and sets
Leaving shadows of silver.
The water, silk and liquid
As it glides to the sea.— Nell Rose (c)
Old Father Thames
Old Father Thames advanced his reverend head;
His tresses dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream
His shining horns diffused a golden gleam:
Grav'd on his arm appear'd the moon that guides
His swelling waters and alternate tides:
The figur'd streams in waves of silver roll'd,
And on her banks Augusta rose in gold.— Old Father Thames - Alexander Popes Poem Windsor Forest
Marlow - Best Kept Village
I love this time of year. Maybe it only happens down the South of England, but for some unearthly reason, we suddenly get a splash of color, heat and flowers in the middle of February. But when we do I have to get out and about.
There's something special about rediscovering your town or village after the cold of winter. For those freezing few months we just run from shop to shop, trying to get warm, then back out to the car, or walk home trying to hurry as quick as you can.
Then all of a sudden, wham! The color rushes back, rather like the opening scenes of The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy lands after the storm to find herself in color instead of the black and white of the film.
The first thing I noticed was the sound of screaming chattering baby birds outside my window.
Opening the door I was swallowed up by the cacophony of sound, and the visual of mother birds desperately darting about trying to find food for the little ones. The sound assailed my ears, but it was heaven.
Marlow All Saints Church - On Reflection
You Are Still Here.
So, picking up my bag, and throwing on a lightweight coat, but clutching my scarf, well because you just never know if snow is around the corner. I headed out and dived into the mad throng of thousands of people taking to the streets. I went down the back roads to the large park by the river Thames.
It was swarming with people feeding the ducks geese seagulls and gannets. And I found myself smiling at everybody.
I suddenly realised that this was something I did every February.
As I walked I touched all sorts of things. From park benches to Trees. Bushes to budding flowers.
I realised it was a way of 'coming back.' Rather like saying 'Hello, I see you are still here. And so am I'.
On the way I took photos, just like a tourist would after visiting a brand new place. Then with the smell of fresh bread coming from the bakers, I took a bite of my sandwich.
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© 2019 Nell Rose