6 November 2026 – I don’t notice these things because of mathematics. I assign numbers later, to unite them in a passingly acceptable theme. Truth is… I notice them because I notice them. Because I’m walking down a street and down an alley, and my eyes tell my feet to stop. My feet stop, and I pay attention. Then, later, to amuse myself — and you — I give the resulting post a title.
As promised: Math
2 bikes + 4 bike racks flaunt shadows.
1 wall flaunts 2 hits of colour, door + vine.
1 tree flaunts even better colour. (So there.)
And… and…
1 alley flaunts 33 acres of beer.
I stand here a stupidly long time, “stupidly” long only because I don’t even like beer, and I am mesmerized. Shiny stacked cans! Deep dark doorway! Shiny barrels! Wooden barrel! All this in a grotty alley!
It is even sillier, even more wonderful, up close.
Smiley-face emojis on every can!
One last backward glance, with even more wooden casks thrown in…
and I take my besotted self off home.
Where, also as promised, the Two Backstories come into play.
Looking at that colourful vine + doorway, I notice white letters — pyrrha — on black in the companion panel. I look up “pyrrha.” I learn it is a local boutique jewelry factory & showroom, and I am not interested until I read the building is an example of a Heritage Revitalization Project. The oxymoronic potential of this phrase has me wary. Are any of you also old enough to remember how the American army “pacified” Vietnamese villages? By blasting them out of existence, was how. So I sniff this phrase suspiciously and read that, in exchange for retaining and restoring a 1909 single-family residence, the developer was allowed to build this 6-storey tower on the same site. Hmm, well. But also, hmm-well, it does provide artisan industrial space for local entrepreneurs.
I fiddle with some more online maps & citations, and discover my alley-entrancement is the unglamorous back side of 33 Acres Brewing Co., a Vancouver company which, on its street side, offers a bar and a tasting room and other delights. Those smiley faces on the cans? In addition to a long list of beers with dramatic names (33 Acres of Sunshine/Darkness/Euphoria/Nirvana… ), the brewery also offers the straightforward cheer of Fluffy Cloud.
I am now quite done with promoting ornaments I don’t buy and a liquid I don’t drink.
Still… Look at all the local factoids I have learned, just because, out there on the streets, my eyes made my feet stop.
1 November 2026 – I hadn’t planned a capital-W Walk for today, I only had the “stops” part of this agenda in mind, but spectacular weather pull me out the door and onto the streets for a more ambitious adventure.
Late-morning timing and brilliant sunshine offer me “shadows.”
So here I am, me and my shadow, heading off north on Scotia Street. My destination — very eventually — will be St. James Anglican Church at Gore & Cordova in the city’s Downtown East Side (DTES).
More shadows on Station Street as I approach Pacific Central Station, thrown by a flaming maple tree not only on the sidewalk, but on the equally flaming Construction sign, which shows us the obvious: the new St. Paul’s Hospital / Providence Health Care campus, just ahead, is one massive (and much needed) project.
I’ve been chattering with people all along the way. We’re all beaming at each other, wriggling with pleasure in the brisk-but-friendly weather, exchanging the usual social small talk, agreeing it’s a great day for a walk, yessiree, it sure is.
Canada geese, here at Thornton Park just past Pac Central, agree with the humans. I stare at this trio calmly stepping their way across Station Street…
and think of Lynette d’Arty-Cross’ post on 19 October, A Duckie Adventure, with adorable ducks crossing a much busier street. (If you don’t already know her blog, Pictures and Stories of Life, here’s the moment to pay it a visit.)
I have to do a little navigating, in order to weave northward around the construction while still avoiding Main Street (a game I like to play with myself). This particular weave benefits from conversation with a DTES woman who describes where best, at this stage of hospital construction, to cut through barricades and make it to Gore Street.
I follow her advice. It brings me to the foot of Gore, between Prior and Union streets, where homes still display their Hallowe’en pumpkins.
Jack o’ Lanterns are a seasonal icon; over the next few blocks, I encounter three more icons with staying power.
Black Strathcona: This lamp post plaque is a tribute to Hogan’s Alley, a narrow lane home to Black immigrants “that became a flashpoint for its vibrant night life and for urban renewal schemes that ultimately destroyed it.”
Asian Strathcona: referenced in the sidewalk mosaic of lotus and koi at the corner of Gore and Keefer.
A crow! Of course. All the time, everywhere, with this particular one at Gore and East Pender.
Finally I reach Gore and Cordova, and this 1930’s take on 14th-c Gothic style architecture. The building is the third iteration of St. James Anglican Church, this one in durable concrete, unlike its vulnerable wooden predecessors (the first having been destroyed in the Great Fire of 1886).
I’ve attended architectural tours of this building, and would do so again. But that’s not my purpose today. Today is all about the church’s magnificent Casavant Frères organ — a three-manual, 31-stop organ of 1,760 pipes — installed in November, 1938. I and other event attendees, ranging from the deeply knowledgable to the humbly fascinated (like me), are here for a show-and-tell-and-play with the church’s Music Dirctor, Dr. Abraham Ross.
You see? I am now moving from the “shadows” of this post to the “stops” (and everything else to do with organs).
It turns out, I’m not quite done with shadows yet. I step into the church, where I am struck by the play of shadows among the sun’s rays, as light streams into the Lady Chapel.
Dr. Ross (“Call me Abe”), rounding off his first year in this post, wears his knowledge lightly, a characteristic that I deeply admire. We listen, we question, we discuss, as his fingers and feet dance and his words and music fill our heads and hearts.
Later, when he invites anyone interested to sit on the bench and make music, both Red Jacket and Blue Jacket (above) respond. They had each listened intently and asked thoughtful questions — no surprise they each also play the organ well.
Smiling and thankful and light-hearted, we all wind back down the steps, ready to leave. Then… a surprise. The organ again swells through the church, this time with a soprano voice in soaring duet. (I remember Dr. Ross’ comment, that in commissioning this organ, St. James instructed Casavant to adapt away from classic French cathedral style toward the Anglo-Catholic style of the Church of England, a more mellow sound suited to the C of E interplay between organ and choir.)
I look up from the nave to the gallery, and, transfixed, watch and listen for another moment: the singer standing to the left of the seated organist, an observer off to the right.
Then finally I do leave.
Because the day is so extraordinary, and I am so buoyed by both day and music, I do not turn toward home. Instead, I follow Cordova Street on east, deeper into Strathcona. Eventually it occurs to me that while music and sunshine are all very fine, lunch would also be fine, ’round about now.
So I say good-bye to Cordova at Hawks Street, and follow Hawks south to Keefer and to the Wilder Snail.
I’ve visited this venerable café/grocery store before, and I’ve already shown you its mammoth suspended snail mascot at least a couple of times. “Snail” could have been the third “s” in this post’s title.
But it’s not. Because, while I’m charmed by the spooky-season addition of a black tarantula, I am even more charmed by another discovery.
Along with its vintage wooden floors, and its vintage trick of steadying wobbly table legs with folded bits of paper, the Wilder Snail has genuine old vintage steam radiators. “S” for “steam.”
I warm my insides with broccoli-cheddar cheese soup, while the radiator gently warms my outsides.
Then I take my insides and outsides back home, and put on my lined jeans. T’is the season!
30 October 2026 – I’ve already chattered about the discoveries we make when that chlorophyll curtain falls. Here’s one more chatter on the same subject.
We’re at the R. Foy Forster Cypress Pond in the VanDusen Botanical Garden. It is home to, as you might anticipate, a great many cypress trees. The Taxidum distichum, to be exact, known in its more informal moments as the “bald cypress.”
This is because, unlike most members of the Cupressaceae family, it is deciduous rather than evergreen. Spring and summer, its feathery leaves are bright green. Like this. Green on green on green.
Come winter, it has bare branches. This cypress is bald.
But… in fall? When it is almost bald? When all those other colours jump out from behind the green curtain?
It is a wonder.
All those shades. All those textures.
And, for added delight…
all those knees (aerial roots), dancing a jig at water’s edge.
24 October 2026 – I’m waiting for the red light to turn green, out there on a Kitsilano street corner, but, mostly, I’m admiring a flaming yellow-orange tree. This tree, ‘way over there on the right against the brick wall.
Red light turns green, away I go. Thinking, as I go, about green trees turning red.
All part of the seasonal shift, and I enjoy the added bonus of a pun: each fall (whenever it happens to be fall, in your hemisphere) the chlorophyll curtain falls… and all those other colours are finally on view.
Oh, the maple trees! A child of eastern Canada, I’m big on the bravura performance of our maple trees each fall. For good reason a red maple leaf is smack-central in our flag.
But, this year, I’ve started noticing other trees, other shrubs. I’m paying attention to the delicacy of their shade ranges, as chlorophyll drops away. I am amazed by what I start to see. (Isn’t that the way? First, you have to look. Then, you see.)
This, for example…
and this…
and this, my absolute favourite. Theme and variations.
Now that I’m paying attention…
Days later, seated at a bus stop in the east end of town, I idly glance backward through the glass. At first the view is an unprepossessing tangle of background gas pumps and foreground traffic bric-à-brac storage, including a white barricade. There is also a something-or-other wrapped around the barricade, and my idle gaze sharpens to interest.
No bus in sight. I have time to walk around the bus shelter for another angle.
I laugh out loud. Somebody (probably waiting for a bus, killing time) found a bit of construction warning tape, wound it around one end of the traffic barricade, and neatly inserted into it… one leaf, caught in its brief, bright moment of glory.
Well, of course somebody went to all that trouble. We do love the leaves of fall!
The colours of ordinary street-side plantings that much richer, with their faces fresh-washed in the rain.
I pause on the south-east corner of East 7th and Scotia, with two of the area’s iconic buildings in eyesight — Main St. Brewing opposite and (to the right) the back of the stone-and-brick Brewery Creek Building at East 6th.
I’ll be heading that way, north on Scotia, but I’m momentarily distracted by the shine that is almost literally at my feet.
Even a discarded mirror fragment works magic, when it shimmers a hydro pole at us in blurry brilliance.
At East 6th, some magic that doesn’t depend on rain — though somehow rain makes its story all the more vivid, and all the more poignant.
This handsome bronze cairn reminds us that although rain now courses down a steep roadway, until early last century rain simply added yet more water to a tumbling creek: Brewery Creek.
We are where the maps says we are (in turquoise letters lower right): on the banks of the old creek. In 1897, it still ran free. Now it is underground. The buildings opposite are not the ones shown on this map — Vancouver Brewing and Thorpe & Co. — but they are direct successors. Main St. Brewing, uphill, is the artisan beer company now occupying the 1920s building that was originally a garage for Vancouver Breweries (the amalgamated version of the original brewery), and the Brewery Creek Building, opposite, went up in 1903 as an expansion to the Vancouver Breweries complex. This structure later went through a succession of uses, including candy factory…
before 21st-c. restoration and expansion transformed it into live/work spaces for artists.
The “brewery” tag was, and again is, apt. Early breweries made use of the creek; a collection of new boutique breweries makes use of that history. The whole area now preens itself under the collective label of Brewery Creek.
Another plaque takes us back to much earlier history — some three millennia back — and to those earlier uses of the watercourse and surrounding forests.
Kitty-corner to the plaque, the Native Education Centre it references, and its gardens.
My mind full of what used to be, imagining a creek to complement the rain, I walk on. Walk “downstream.” There is no visible creek, but there is real rain, and colours punched that much brighter as a result.
Including plastic colours, here at East 4th.
But I’m not focused on those tip-tilted chairs, I’m watching the horizontal black umbrella beyond the chairs (upper right). It belongs to a member of the coFood Garden Project that occupies this space, who is carefully shoulder-balancing it with one hand as he uses the other to wrest something out of the tree overhead. Branches interfere, I have no idea what he is doing. (Rescuing an injured bird? Snatching up some Spanish doubloons? Leaving a note for a secret lover?) There is suddenly a loud crack, he pulls his umbrella again vertical, and walks away. Mission presumably accomplished.
One last look north, watching water rivulets course downstream, again imagining a creek instead of pavement ..
and I turn to walk my way back upstream.
One final slight detour into a driveway, to admire one more example of shine in all this rain…
and at last I start thinking about dry indoors space and hot soup.
7 September 2026 – You won’t remember and I had to look it up, but back on 17 April, I titled a post Walking the Dogleg. It was all about walking the final stretch of the Arbutus Greenway north from West 16th, around its “dogleg” twist, to the end at West 4th. This weather-friendly holiday weekend, I decide to walk the rest of it — the 7-plus kilometres that precede the last bit, the total running some 9 km from the Fraser River in the south to False Creek in the north.
It is old railway land that is now a walking/rolling/running/cycling corridor, mostly beside Arbutus Street, bordered in places by community gardens and by various dimensions of streets and alleys and cityscape all along the way. I am totally in favour of it, for multiple reasons you can guess for yourselves. But. I just, and here my voice drops to a whisper…
I just don’t much identify with it.
So if you have something else to do, go do it and I won’t sulk. If you stick around… well, I hope you’ll agree there are some endearing moments along the way.
I haven’t walked this southern stretch in eight years, but here I am: feet on the Greenway down by the Fraser.
More specifically, I’m at the level of West 71st Avenue, near the very bottom of the red-line trail on this map.
The map also shows how the City’s grid of E/W avenues are numbered, decreasing from south to north, making it easy to situate yourself on the Greenway as it crosses the numbered intersections.
As you’ve probably already guessed, this post will not be faithfully linear. It’s more about those endearing moments.
The first of which occurs ’round about the West 53rd level, and high time too, because while I appreciate the health benefits of striding along a pathway between grassy borders (cf. that first photo), and while I am trying to have Proust-like “new eyes”… the fact remains that this is all very much of a muchness. I would like Something To Happen.
Then it does. The first of a string of community gardens, this one with lots of labels to help Greenway passers-by know what they are admiring.
That tall V, for example, is formed by two spikes of Bear’s breeches (Acanthus mollis). I admire the general effect, read a few more labels, and then, gleefully…
I zero in on Pot Head. Also labelled. (Now you know what to do with your old plastic plant pots.)
Even much-of-a-muchness stretches have their endearing moments. I am just thinking how some type of Knobby Yellow Stuff is all along the path, when I see someone has put it to good use.
In a nosegay for this traffic cone.
More walkers appear, as the day wears on and as I move farther north, and also plenty of cyclists. This lot look mildly dramatic, with their helmets and their sleek outfits, whirring themselves southward under a line of solar panels, the farthest panel a-flare with sunlight.
But I have more fun watching a dad give his toddler son some biking pointers, while older son pedals around in circles, waiting for them to get going.
“Stay in the bike lane, and stay on the right-hand side,” says dad to the little guy. “Remember, always stay on the right.”
I discover a couple of community libraries along the way. How much fun is that?
The first is an obvious fit with the location, and clearly labelled to boot.
I look inside. Seed and gardening materials, as you’d expect, plus a note from organizer Daisy, inviting feedback.
Which she gets.
The other library, some 10 blocks farther north, is entirely anonymous. Just four black cubes in a sort of lean-to, with no explanation.
I poke around anyway, because I am curious. When I see the cubes have doors and the doors are not locked… I open a door. Of course.
Each cube is full of books. Some I’ve read, some don’t interest me, and while I admire the range, I don’t pick up any of them. (Later, I mildly regret not taking Kim Echlin’s Elephant Winter.)
There are lots of public access points for the Arbutus Greenway. Some are just pedestrian paths, up from a neighbouring street or park; some are minor or major road crossings, with the trimmings appropriate to their scale. Here, at King Edward Blvd. (between West 26th and West 24th), there are traffic lights and zebra markings and everything you’d expect for a major artery.
Plus logs, for sitting or, as above, stretching out your leg muscles before continuing your walk.
I only see one private access point — one homeowner has created his own gate and walkway from his property out to the Greenway.
There are views out to the side, as well as straight ahead. Most of the time, since I’m walking north, the mountains are straight ahead. (When I first moved here, a good friend tried to orient me. “Repeat after me,” she said. “Mountains, north.” I dutifully repeated, “Mountains, north.”)
I’m not yet at the dogleg I described last April, but I am at a version farther south: a short stretch near West 33rd where the trail runs east/west. Therefore my long view, sideways to the left as I walk temporarily east…
is mountains, north.
Close-up views also, either side. I see a flash of colour in the trees, figure it out, and promptly give the location a name. Elbows-Up Alley.
Somebody has nailed a big, bright Canadian flag to the trees, in that laneway down in the dip.
Now the confession of a not-endearing moment. More than a moment! By the time I’ve walked from West 71st level to West 41st, I am feeling a bit peckish, but I decide to wait. As memory serves, there’s a place where I’d like to eat just a bit farther ahead, at West 33rd or so.
Except, oops, memory doesn’t serve, there’s nothing at that level and I walk on. And on. And on. And when finally I see what I’ve been looking for, just over on Arbutus Street itself… I’m at West 16th. Good grief.
Lunch time, you bet.
Having eaten, I decide to stay with the city street. It promptly rewards me with another community garden.
Enjoy it while you can.
But isn’t that life? Everything changes.
On that philosophic note, I left-turn onto West Broadway (equivalent of 9th, had it been numbered), smack amidst the subway-extension construction…
30 August 2026 – I’m down at the grotty north end of Main Street, north of Powell Street, well into the DTES (Downtown East Side). Just ahead: the bridge over the tracks and Waterfront Road that then curls down to the waterfront itself.
This not my usual walking territory, but that bridge will take me where I want to go, somewhere I’ve not visited since pre-COVID: Crab Park.
Spend a moment with this battered city map of mine. There’s Main Street running vertically up the right-hand side, there’s Powell St. crossing it, and there is the curl of bridge + ramp that drops down to 3.31 Ha of green space on Burrard Inlet.
“Crab” does not refer to the crustacean (though pier signage forbids crab fishing). It is an acronym for Create a Real Available Beach — the rallying cry of Don Larson and other activists back in the early 1980s, pressuring the federal government to convert this bit of its unused land into badly needed green space for the residents of this under-serviced community.
We are indeed right downtown. From the bridge, the long view west, with boxcars on the tracks, and city structures old and new rolling to the distance.
Over there on the right, behind trees (and the bulk of what looks like an apartment building but is in fact a cruise ship), the pointy white “sails” of the Convention Centre roof. Also down there, running back eastward: Canada Place, hotels, Waterfront Station and SeaBus, the cruise ship terminal, and all the busyness of the Port of Vancouver. And also Crab Park.
Curling my way down the north-side ramp, I get peek-a-boo glimpses of what lies below. Cranes and stacks of the shipping containers they manipulate…
and some of the smaller Port work vessels, all trim and functional — such contrast to the indolent sprawl of that mammoth cruise ship behind them!
Ground level, I walk eastward for a bit, no access allowed to the working Port, but some relatively close views possible even so — this agglomeration of facilities, for example.
Later, curious, I look up a few Vancouver Fraser Port Authority stats. The home page lists multiple categories, from the container sector to international trade, bulk liquid and auto. It also announces that 2025 was a record-breaking year for the Port of Vancouver itself, up 11% overall and moving 170.4 million metric tonnes of goods in total. (There is special reference to the success of the year’s diversification strategy, strengthening trade with the rest of the world beyond you-know-which-country.) These stats don’t include cruise ship traffic, which also comes under VFPA control.
I don’t particularly care about exact numbers and I don’t much understand the technicalities of what I see happening. I just really, really like it — like the functionality, the action, the purposeful sight of work being done.
And then I turn toward Crab Park, and really, really like that as well. It too has a purpose, and it is serving that purpose. Its work is to provide open space for people who lack space of their own, and it is doing just that.
Benches to sit on, grass to run your dog or take a stroll (or turn a cartwheel), playground for the kiddies, also a splash pad where said kiddies can run back and forth under the nozzles.
Okay, at the moment, it’s Canada geese not kiddies, but the principle still applies.
Here, as on every Vancouver waterfront park beach, logs are arranged…
places to rest your back or park your bum and watch the world and the waves go by.
Also a pier…
with its no-crab-fishing sign visible there in the left foreground.
I follow the curve of the park westward, admiring this rock balanced on log struts (and temporarily adorned with a crow)…
before looping eastward again, passing a used-needles disposal box as I go…
and then finally leaving the park.
I don’t walk back up to Powell and take Water Street through Gastown (scroll up to the map!). Instead, for the first time ever, I follow Waterfront Road, effectively a service road for the harbour area.
Under the walkway from Waterfront Station to SeaBus quay…
one last backward glance out to the water…
and I’m underground. It is cavernous.
I’m in the bluntly utilitarian world of loading bays and garages and parking space, all the work stations needed to service the world of hotels, tourist attractions and convention centre above. A friendly hotel employee having a bit of a breather assures me that, yes, there is an exit ahead. Just keep going.
So I keep going, and then I take an up-ramp, and finally I emerge just west of the Convention Centre, west of the Flight Centre, smack in Coal Harbour Park. Slightly dazzled by my return to sunshine, waves and greenery, I climb the steps up to Bute Street…
and start the final, in-city, leg of my walk. It’s the first time I’ve walked south-south-south on Bute Street, and it rewards me almost immediately with this sight in a hotel forecourt.
First, it offers me a big rock, and I am a sucker for big rocks. Second, it offers those irregular shards of rock in the quarry area beneath, fractal geometry made visible. And, third, just below the big rock, there is a quote from Leonardo da Vinci. “In rivers, the water you touch is the last of what has happened and the first of that which comes, so with time present.”
Farther south, Bute becomes quieter, more residential, more vintage-residential. It offers me sprays of berries in front of graceful buildings.
Finally I turn east on Davie Street, the stretch that will drop me down to False Creek and my bus ride home. Lots of small shops all along Davie, and signs to go with them. My favourite is the most astoundingly practical, precisely defined and polite sign that I think I have ever seen:
I swear I’m laughing for a whole block, imagining the deluge caused by one large wet dog, shaking himself dry in a narrow aisle.
28 August 2026 – As in, by bus to Stanley Park and then the Lost Lagoon trail out to English Bay.
My bus is remarkably empty for the first couple of stops, and then whammo! it’s pulsing with the excitement of small children, shepherded aboard by their day-camp staff.
Off to Stanley Park!
Too many kiddies for complete back-of-bus seating, so the adults settle some up front. I watch, impressed and amused, as the they count and recount the children, remembering the YMCA day-camp assistant who once told me, “The idea is to bring back as many children as you take out. Preferably the same children.”
The arrangement works just fine until a couple of seniors and a mum with stroller come onboard. The front-section kiddies are told to move to the back. One little boy asks, “Why do we have to move?” Not angry, just puzzled. He is told, “We’ll talk about it when we get off. But, for now? Scoot.” He scoots.
This is what they’ll discuss.
I tap the young staffer close to me, tell her I’m impressed with their care for the children and also this impromptu lesson in good civic behaviour. Her face lights up: “They’re such a pleasure, these kids!” Lucky kids, I think, to have bright, conscientious and affectionate adults like this trio, to guide their outing.
I bail before they do, at the last pre-park stop, and then walk my walk into Stanley Park and onto the Lost Lagoon Trail. My first long view of the lagoon tells me that, despite this still being T-shirt weather, it is also the beginning of fall.
Green trees are turning lemony-green, as their chlorophyll begins to slide away.
Almost-fall images, everywhere I look.
Red among the sumach leaves…
bullrushes tall in the boggy foreshore…
and, at a trail head into the forest opposite…
a reminder of its vulnerability.
People are enjoying themselves: sitting, or wayfinding…
running hard, or slowly pushing a zimmer-frame, or power-walking.
Meanwhile, out in the water, a trio of ducks goes bottoms-ups.
Once past the far end of the lagoon, I look for the very rustic, very charming little footbridge that, in spring, is completely inaccessible. Marooned by seasonal high water, you’d need hip-waders to reach it.
Now? It’s just another footpath.
Moments later, I am exactly where the red dot tells me I am:
in the midst of the Second Beach offerings — playground, food stalls, bike racks, the heated outdoor swimming pool and, beyond that, the beach itself and English Bay.
I remember the kiddies on my bus, headed (so the staffer told me) for Second Beach, and then — having watched a young staffer adjudicate a small tiff among children under that tree — I do a double-take.
I recognize the logo on his STAFF shirt. These are indeed “my” kiddies.
It adds to my amusement, as I admire first the fresh-water heated pool…
and then the salt-water Real Thing just beyond.
I join the English Bay Seawall, and turn my feet toward English Bay Beach.
Marine life en route:
freighters mid-stream, Great Blue heron up close.
I expect freighters and a GBH or two, I do not expect a labyrinth.
But here it is. A pop-up installation, due surely to be washed away or kicked away or otherwise altered, and that’s fine too. Something else will emerge.
I emerge at English Bay Beach, where I walk up to Beach Avenue and look for the hot-dog vendor whose pitch this is. He’s here. Same Alberta beef but a new sign, one that makes a point of welcoming Euros.
I’m not sure how much to read into this, and decide… not to read anything into it.
A nod to the vendor, a nod to all that laughter in Morton Park, and I walk on down Denman, to find my bus for the ride back home.
"Traveller, there is no path. Paths are made by walking" -- Antonio Machado (1875-1939)
"The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes" -- Marcel Proust (1871-1922)
"A city is a language, a repository of possibilities, and walking is the act of speaking that language, of selecting from those possibilities" -- Rebecca Solnit, "Wanderlust: A History of Walking"
