And now we were emerging - a road trip to London, a stay in a fancy hotel which we could only afford because of the desperation of the hospitality industry to find its feet. And for me, the chance to walk in London again. One side effect of my immersion in work was that I had very few plans in hand. It had felt foolish to research itineraries while I'd superstitiously avoided speculating about when I could ever return to London. I pondered this as we stuttered through a snarled section of the M25, before heading south along the Roding Valley. As we soared above the green channel between the suburbs, my much beloved Antihistamine Trail below, I allowed myself to tentatively begin to be optimistic. I would set out early from Liverpool Street despite the many engineering-related closures on the transport network, and I'd see where I ended up. I'd walk west - towards the terrain I'd covered on my tentative return to the city late last summer. I tried to build a narrative around 'reconnecting' or 'unwalking' the journey from home, but I think it was far simpler - I wanted to be reminded about why I'd taken up this pursuit while finding more of the curious corners which kept me returning.

I set out early, a coffee sipped in furtive gulps between lowering my face covering. The day promised overcast skies but dull, throbbing heat. As the largely empty train curved sedately north through Hackney I took a wide scan of the rooftops. It felt exhilarating to see the world from above after a near-uninterrupted year on the flat Somerset plains. I stayed on the train to the end, at Chingford - in part because I still hadn't formulated any specific idea of where to walk, and also because it was so long since I'd travelled by rail and the experience felt oddly soothing. I exited the station into the familiar environs, quiet on a weekend morning, and began walking towards Church Green. The forest shimmered above the rooftops to the north, and while the temptation to step under the cool green canopy once again was strong, the expansive skies of the Lea Valley were calling. I picked up breakfast and paused to eat in the churchyard. The traffic was getting a little busier, with a few more people walking towards the cafés and bakeries. There was a confusing feeling of normality about things - a sense that we'd all woken from a strange dream. I pushed on to the junction with Kings Head Hill, and while I was minded to descend into the broad valley which opened before me, I resisted a little longer and retraced my steps from last summer along Organ Lane. Now it was a narrow path between tumultuous blooms of cow parsley that leaned into the footway. The foliage hung low, creating the feel of an ancient hollow way - a tendency which I'd suspected on my first visit, but which had seemed fanciful in the sparse dry autumn. I emerged to cross the street at Endlebury Road to find a recycling bin covered in carefully written but utterly paranoid anti-vaccine conspiracies. The polemic was signed off with 'peace and love' but promised nothing but death and horror. I wondered whose mind was really closed - mine, as I'd queued sheeplike to receive two doses of AstraZeneca's vaccine, or their decision that humanity couldn't organize to do good in a crisis? With death on my mind, I turned south again towards Chingford Mount Cemetery. It was quiet and cool, the older graves bouncing the emerging morning sun back from their grey faces, while the newer plots with their black marble and gilded lettering gave nothing. Once again, I stuck to the path and headed down towards the valley, the sweep of stones heading north and west as far as the rumbling of buses along Old Church Road.

The Chingford Conspiracy Bin