The park I thought I knew ...

“For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green.” J.R.R. Tolkien

This morning, beneath skies brushed with soft silver clouds, I set out on a simple walk to a nearby park, not far from my hobbit-hole. An ordinary place to most, but to me, today, it felt like stepping quietly into a page of some forgotten tale. I’ve walked to it and through it many times, often in haste, always with my mind elsewhere. A welcome respite; a break in my day. This morning, however, I chose to wander it slowly - not to arrive anywhere, but simply to see.

The pathways, winding like ancient rivers, beckoned me, their stone edges softened by moss and time. They led me beneath verdant arches, great tunnels of bramble and oak where the sun’s rays dappled the ground like shards of gold upon the forest floor. A robin followed me for a while, flitting from branch to branch like a silent companion. The air was sweet with the scent of dew and earth, and the whisper of the breeze spoke secrets only the trees could understand.

At the heart stood a pond, its surface still and glassy, save for the soft ripples trailing behind a company of ducks. They glided as if upon a quest of their own, feathered forms casting gentle circles upon the mirrored sky. Lily-pads floated like green shields, and from among them rose blossoms of palest pink and brightest white, as though tiny heralds had sounded their arrival at the court of summer. The waters were hemmed with a riot of colour, where flowers stood like banners in a field of perpetual celebration.

At times, the path would narrow, and I found myself passing through tunnels where light and shadow played in equal measure. Each turn seemed to promise another small wonder, another forgotten corner where nature, left to her own gentle will, had woven beauty undisturbed.

It is said that not all magic dwells in distant lands or ancient tomes. I realised, this quiet park, so near and so familiar, holds its own kind of magic. It doesn’t shout, it simply waits, offering its beauty to those who slow their steps and truly see. Sometimes, magic lingers quietly, in parks and gardens, in the soft quack of a duck, in the patient blooming of a flower, waiting for a passerby to see it. To truly see it. And carry its memory home like a secret treasure.

Not all adventures are grand. This morning, I didn’t go far. I didn’t need to. I discovered something Tolkien always seemed to know: it isn’t the distance that makes a journey grand, it’s the way you choose to walk it.

Wander More, Wonder More