I live in a typical 1980s housing development. A cul de sac of houses, varying sizes, on the outskirts of town. One of the pluses is that we are a short distance away from open country and the river, and thus my morning rehab walks generally take me in this direction. A bit further each day. On other days my head rules my heart and I take the busy, far less pleasant route that leads into town because I'm aiming to reach the nearest letterbox, which will mean independence, i.e. no need to ask someone else to post my mail.
But this morning it was the river walk and a kind of celebration. I walked far enough to catch sight of the river itself - haven't glimpsed it from this spot for nearly five years. You have to look closely but it is definitely there, just behind the froth of cow parsley.
Even the walk home can claim its own delights. One of the houses has what you would call a cottage garden. Cornflowers, irises, pansies, foxgloves. Shrubs. Bushes. A copper beech. All gorgeously unkempt and unmanicured, unlike the adjoining plots (mine included). I'd like to stop and just stare but I don't - the owners might think I'm planning a robbery or somesuch.
And as a bonus the friendliest of cats lives here. She walks towards me and rolls over in pleasure. Later she allows me to stroke her. I feel duly honoured. My sort of garden. My sort of cat.