A Walk in the Hills…

Visiting our son in L.A. would not be complete without a walk in the hills,

“It’s called a hike Mum,” he corrects.

Starting on a neighborhood street the pathway is almost vertical (well, that’s how it seems).  It leads us straight up from the road level and surprises us with its urgency to get going,

“Wow, my chest feels tight and my throat burns,” says Hubs, pausing to catch a breath, “anyone else feeling it?”

I nod as my heart thumps against my ribcage.  Ian takes out his water bottle.

We stand and look over the ridge,


and let the Californians jog past chatting to each other in foreign languages their dogs in hot pursuit.

Does the faster pace trick the body into forgetting its on an incline I wonder?

I decide not to test my theory.  At least not today with the clouds of Fitbit witnesses all around me!

It wouldn’t do to fall flat on my face up here on the baby slopes.

The hour went fast and we are back at our cars in no time.

The next hike,

“You can call this one a walk,” corrects my son,

is along the sea front at Laguna beach.


Its sea level status allows for no steep rises to hide behind corners, just interesting art galleries that need to be explored,

a quaint building that takes me back to village life in my native Kent,


and of course, no art community anywhere is worth its salt without a Royal telephone box gracing the pavement,


no longer such a common sight in London!

Eucalyptus trees cluster in the flowery courtyards and although I once had one growing in my Spanish garden I’d forgotten the bark was as soft as blotting paper,

“It feels like the inside of the willow tree that fell in the gardens at our flat in Beckenham the year we were there…”


It does.

I crush a couple of leaves to release the tangy scent and pop them into my pocket as a pick me up when I’m missing our son the first few days back home without him.

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