Dulwich.

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So this is what it made me think of.

It was an English day, which is to say that it rained and then was sunny and then it rained again and was sunny again and so on, each trying to catch the other like in a game of tag. Only succeeding when there were rainbows, and I remember there were two, one in an arch and one broken at the top but standing along. We were taking a walk and had seen some foxes in someone’s yard and were at a fence in front of some tennis fields when we saw the rainbows.

Had we been to the museum yet, or not? I forget.

We climbed to the top of a hill, to where there was a pub. We had to sit in a table outside, under an umbrella, because it had started to rain again. It was raining even with the sun peering through the clouds to see if we were damp yet.

I had a beer, and he had a beer, and we took pictures of the dripping fluorescent flowers, mucking about with the manual focus and f-stops and apertures of my camera. He was trying to teach me something about it. But I forget that, too.

What I do remember is that then we walked along a road that had a sharp hill that went down, down, down, one you could neither climb up nor climb down. But there was London, cradled between the lulling hills. Sun was shining on London, even as the clouds were frowning on us. We took a photo. I have that photo somewhere, of London, laid out below. Just like any other city, laid out between any other hills, in any other part of the world.

What made it London? I would like to know.

Then he said, “Here’s a forest, let’s go in, the guidebook says it would be a good thing to do.” And one cannot argue with the guidebook. So in down the path we went, tripping on roots and branches. Here, a little bricked cave; there, some broken bottles and a condom. “So that’s what this forest is for,” he said, and we both laughed knowingly.

But I think it would have been hard to make love with your back on the roots and branches. Possibly this is just me.

Into the forest, then. And we found a sign that seemed to give clear directions. THIS PATH, it said, LEADS INTO AN INTERESTING PART OF THE FOREST. So we followed what we thought was the path. I have a photo of that, too, of him standing beneath this enormous ancient old wise tree, smiling, holding the guidebook. Sometimes when we are not together I look at that photo and remember how pleased he was to be standing beneath such an old wise tree.

Deeper still, and then we were forging our own path. “Do you think this is the right way to go?” I asked. But it was a needless question: men always know which is the right way to go.

And then we were lost.

Through the trees and branches and roots and dripping leaves and rays of sun filtered in we went, knocking off drops of rain onto our jackets, and shivering, because our shoes had gotten wet, and even though it was July it was nonetheless July in England, which is not like July in other places, no, July in England is like autumn, only you are glad to take what you can get, and then you carry on, chin up, swallowing your disappointment, because that is The English Way.

So much so that when you are in England, even though you were not born there, you will still feel the hand on your back, pushing you forwards, the whisper in your ear to be strong, and persevere, and go forth, and not bother yourself about such small matters as being lost in an ancient medieval forest.

On and on, and I felt anxious, and I wondered (to myself) whether we might never get out, whether we might be stuck there forever, and some day, years from now, travelers who were more knowledgeable than we would stumble upon our skeletons locked together, and say, “If only they had taken that bend, not this bend. I bet it was the girl who wanted to take that bend, not this bend, and the man who thought it would best to take this bend, not that bend. Sadly he seems not to have listened to her.”

At least we would have died together.

But no: there was the fence, there was the road, our shoes were muddied over and we were hungry and needed the toilet but there we were, back to Dulwich at last.

Several days later I stood in the shower in the flat in Brixton and felt my eyes sting and not because of soap.

Give me my month back, I pleaded. It was too fast, I don’t remember all of it, just put me back somewhere amongst the dripping leaves and branches and roots and brambles, and don’t let me find my way out.

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