One Foot in Front of the Other

Today

On Tuesday Paul was clearing up the last remnants from Silver Street. He said it would take him a few hours so I said I would walk the 8 miles to Wells and meet him. The autumn sun was shining and I enjoyed my walk, taking pictures of autumn berries. Stopped at the little garden centre cafe, conveniently half way, for tea and facilities.

Just got going again when Paul rang. "Where are you? I've finished early and am getting bored just sitting around waiting," he said. "Well, I've still about an hour and a quarter to go", said I, "unless you want to pick me up." "Seems a bit silly to collect you just to come back into Wells," said my spouse.

"In that case", I said " I can't do anything else than just put one foot in front of the other till I get there".

In My Day

In the early days of our marriage, especially when Lizzie was little, walking was the only way to get places. I used to walk her from Seven Dials in Brighton to her childminders in Preston Road and back every day. (I remember the chip shop on the corner where I used to buy chips to share on cold evenings.)

When we moved to Rowan Avenue I had an even longer walk to the childminders, along an unmade-up road and over a railway line. Then the walk to station to get to work. I do remember rather enjoying those walks with Lizzie: I'd tell her stories and we'd pick flowers that grew out of the cracks in the path.

In about 1978, my sister lived with us at Rowan Avenue. We both worked in the same office and sometimes, on dark nights, when we got off the train, the long walk home seemed impossible. Beatrice would look along the road in despair. "It's alright," I'd say "We'll get there. All we have to do is put one foot in front of the other." And it worked; suddenly we'd be home, with warmth and love awaiting us.

Anyway, in the end, Paul did come and collect me, in his beautiful Humber Super Snipe.