Believing in Parks and Democracy

When my children were 4 and 7, we moved into a house in West London backing onto a large park. For twenty years, I have looked out the windows at the park next door. Once I saw a large heron circling slowly, trying to land, while being harassed by a wild parakeets, a pointed death star buzzed by green squadrons. Another afternoon, a cloud rose over the horizon and hovered: black, beehive shaped, alive with snakes of electricity, a rare and true phenomenon. It arrived on the day Boris Johnson was elected the Brexit Prime Minister, a perfect metaphor for a country locked into its own fury. I have followed the lifecycle of trees, their growth, death, rebirth. I have seen a woman walking her pet pig in the acorn grove. Foxes, mice, frogs, flocks of birds, even bats inhabit the park and we get wild visitors: thrushes, sparrowhawks, owls. Once, we looked up to see a falcon passing.

What I appreciate most about the park is not just nature but human nature. Every morning at dawn, trainers and clients run and squat. Around 7:30, a slow trickle of people starts to flow up and down the paths, turning into a stream: parents, commuters, kids going to school, joggers. In the quieter hours, dog walkers talk in small groups while their animals run around in packs. Disabled people and their carers; small children and their carers; old people; blind people: the park is a vital breathing space. During hot…