It’s stopped raining. Moreover, because my weather app says “overcast all day”, the sun’s come out. Time for a walk.
There’s a wedge of scrubland in the south that’s bordered by a rail line and busy four-lane road, but otherwise peaceful. Several metres above the track(*) is a dilapidated, yellow-brick roundhouse with a turntable out front. It looks amazing on days with lush winter light, its colourful grafitti aglow.
This isn’t one of those days. It’s wet underfoot and I watch the ground carefully as I walk. Not for slick mud but shit. This area’s beloved of dog walkers and rivals a Paris arrondissement for excrement.
As I make my way along a little dry ground roadwards, I notice something odd. Two Mallards are coming down the off-ramp towards a sizeable puddle. I stop and watch as the drake wades in and finds a deep enough spot to float. The hen follows closely behind.
And there they bob, serene, as half of Leipzig flashes by behind them.
The scrubland’s no stranger to exotic beasts. Several times a summer a circus pitches up here, with camels, Macaws, donkeys …. Many look a little worse for wear, sadly, but the sight of so many caravans and cables running over the nearby office blocks is a spectacle. Come at the right time and you can hear the performers swearing between shows.
Watching them erect the massive tent is mesmerising …
No circus today though, just two dabblers. I turn off towards the roundhouse.
On clement eves you can hear the clack and grind of skateboards coming from inside and catch glimpses of ollies and kick-flips. Teens sit outside on the turntable, smoking and drinking. It’s a vibrant place. They’ll probably knock it down for development.
I walk south parallel to the rail line. Every few minutes a train passes. The soft cha-chap, cha-chap of the wheels is comforting.
I have to skirt around more lakes. It really hasn’t rained that hard, but the ground doesn’t drain well. It does support a wide variety of plants though. The Mathematician could tell you which. She uses an app to identify and record them — her bit for citizen science. (One of many).
Me, I’m all about the feels. And I’m feeling the ground sink. I move on.
There’s an exciting bit coming up: a shimmy down a steep bank to a gravel path that leads under a road and tram bridge. (Rails crossing rails!) Alongside the bridge run giant steel gas pipes, snaking their way through the suburbs.
Down here’s where I bump into a man looking lost, carrying a pair of license plates.
“Misplaced your car?” I might have said back in Blighty, but that sort of snark’s not welcome here. (People might laugh, but only after they’ve first explained to you that no, their car is parked a few streets away, they’re merely transporting an unrelated pair of plates for some other purpose which doesn’t concern you.)
“Do you know how I can get across the rail tracks?” the man asks.
I look at him, turn, and point down the way I’ve come.
“Well, there’s another bridge about 400 metres that way, or …”
We both look at the bridge above us.
“Hm. I actually need to get to a house along this street.” He points in the direction the bridge runs. “I think I’ll just turn around. There’s a footpath up there, isn’t there?”
“There is.”
“OK. Thanks.”
He turns and heads back, adding a bit more brown to his white shoes.
Duck out of water one end, ducks in it at the other. There’s always something happening on the scrubland.
(*) Which is to say, the modern rail line is cut several metres into the earth.
