The first glimpse of the sun came cascading through a spring green canopy in Central Park. Its emergence immediately lifted a weight, a heavy cloak of gloom and despair. A reminder of hope and joy and wonder simply being on this Earth. In Central Park, Plymouth of all places.
Central Park, where I roamed as a kid, played on the swings, rode my bike, swung a golf club, gorged on hot doughnuts at Sunday morning car boot sales, took my rite of passage to the theatre of greens and generally didn’t think much of it. It was just a park after all.
Sure, it is a big park, bigger still with the little legs of childhood that make every memory lane seem longer and more tiresome. As a consequence, the farthest reaches from home were rarely visited: a thin green valley leading to Ford Park Cemetery. Always shady and damp and slightly foreboding. Always requiring a walk up through thickets and brambles and the mulch of autumns past to return to sunlit uplands and open vistas.
How perspectives can change with age and leg growth and many years in a parallel hemisphere. Today it is a tranquil sanctuary, bounteous and welcoming, the plunge downward providing a sense of anticipation and relief. Peace is here, though not through silence; the gentle melody of spring birdsong a balm to the outside world. I know a couple of people who would have liked it here, on this bench. And I cannot help but think in some way they are present today.
From that point, the glories of spring transformed the month of May to one of warm morning cuppas on the deck, barbecues and even the occasional pair of shorts. A Saturday morning on Plymouth Hoe abuzz with happy, generous people sipping inconsistent coffee, gazing out to sea or even finding themselves within it. It is warm, but surely not to that degree.
There is a pleasure to be had anonymous among the throngs of humanity. To observe those moments of togetherness, to grab snatches of a random conversation, to catch a glance and exchange a smile and even – in Britain – murmur a good morning. A good morning so often appended with a “beautiful weather today innit” and – if you hit the jackpot – a “me lovverrrr” to boot. How can you not treasure Plymouth on days like these?
And should humanity become tiring and overwhelming, just pop down to the woods again. Ham Woods, rediscovered briefly in Covid isolation last year after many long years of separation. A thin but surprisingly abundant ribbon of green between council estates and parkways and incinerators. A place for childhood bike rides, rope swings and dog walks, repeated ad infinitum through the years.
Bluebells have their moment in the sun. Flowering wild garlic gathers as if some snow-speckled glade. Sparkling blue Forget-me-nots pepper the hedgerows and remnants of wall long reclaimed by nature. And always look up, into that endless, incredible green. Marching forth like it always does in May. Cocooning and encompassing you in joyous embrace. The wonder of the woodlands.
It is from these hills, from this sponge in the middle of Devon, that the waters which give Plymouth its name first spring. The River Plym here is a far cry from the sludgy and stinky tidal estuary meeting Plymouth Sound. Clear and rapid, tumbling over boulders and pooling on bends, the river descends into dense valleys packed green with mosses, ferns and leafy trees. Plymbridge Woods is but a short descent through a dark, narrow lane from industrial estates and Asda superstores, yet it is another world away.
So, to the north, to the east, to the west there are pleasures easy to reach. Should you have a boat or a longing for Brittany, the south also offers much. And slap bang in the middle, Plymouth. My home that still feels mostly like home while existing slightly distant. It’s funny how things you took for granted, things that you didn’t notice when you were younger now trigger a fond, sometimes joyous sensation. And that extends from leafy green woods and cobbled quays to the family comforts of laundry fairies and roast dinners. Home, still.
gbpilgrim 