ABSTRACT
To walk is to be intimate with the matter of things, weight of body on foot, pressure of foot on shoe, step of shoe on cobbles, on tarmac, on concrete, on stone kerb, on grass. Wharfs suffused with rich spices, cinnamon and coriander. Days scented by sugared air: ginger nuts, bourbons, coconut creams: time marked in biscuits. Hartley’s chimney spews smells of sweet berry jam, Sarson’s vinegar sours days with fermenting malt. In Greenland Dock, in contrast, one sees large, modern steamers with labour saving gear and great, deep holds. Busy dock becomes flat pond, still wheezing with a tidal swell and drop, grimy water, cold slurry, eddying in manic swirls by jetties and steps. The snake of Thames with its capacity for loads, for work, for communication, winks with disco-boats and tourist cruises, puts on a firework display once a year and drifts, underemployed.
