Rope Walk, Rope Run

At what point do we stop running everywhere like we did as children? I think back to childhood holidays and I can feel the adventure beneath my feet.

He always runs faster than me. He always wins races because he’s older, taller and faster than me. We bang our feet over the bridge and take our positions at the road sign.

‘On your marks… get set…’

To the first lamppost. Yes! Past the house on the right with the dark green garden shed. The second lamppost. ‘Hey, slow down!’ Past the B&B with the chunky staffy dog in the window, the silver car parked out front. The third lamppost. Feet starting to drag. Slow down at the house with the rose garden. Defeated.

I can feel myself tripping over my own feet, and I never quite make it past the second lamppost. I’m panting up to the gate. Jack, the proud winner sits atop the gate, waiting for me to catch up. We climb and swing on the wooden gate whilst elderly people stare at us from fold-out plastic chairs on the other side of the road.

Over the gate are rows of bungalows, yellowed by the sun. One hangs flower baskets on its windows, little fuchsia fairies dangling in hot pink dresses. Another is walled by strange ornaments; garden gnomes and porcelain cats, rubber geese and plastic rabbits, all staring at me through the gate. The eyes on the cats especially, make me nervous.

Our bungalow is covered with small stones. At the front there are two stone pyramids. I’ve never known what they are for, but we would make games of seeing who could balance on them for longest. Once, we tried to drown the billions of ants that live under the pyramids, the stone hot under my feet as we ran back and forth with cups of boiling water. I watched Jack pour it all over the crawling beasts until the paving stones were left steaming.

At the back of the bungalow the paint is white, tarnished, and surprisingly sharp. I snap the pinpricks of paint to blunt them whilst we wait for our parents to catch up. There is a shed at the back of the bungalow that houses unused, rusty tools and tins. Retro OXO tins that Jack would later take as an inheritance from Granddad. I took his gold animal figurines and, one summer, left my surf board in the shed, where it stayed forever.  

Further along the road is a small circle of grass, dappled with fruit trees. We tip-toe between the bungalows, careful not to be caught by grouchy-old-curtain-twitchers. We hide between the sheds, and step on stones to save our bare feet being spiked by sunburned grass. We sit under damson trees on an island between the bungalows. I pick at sticks and poke them into the ground, collect leaves, and rush home for dinner with plum stains on my clothes and knees, purple splotches like fruity bruises.

Across the street from us is a small pathway, overcrowded by trees, curling iron fences and the occasional beer can. We dash along the narrow path, racing, racing, until the sky opens up. Blue sky mottled with clouds, a straight path ahead with grass either side. The path is only big enough to walk single file, so we march on, picking at the wild fennel that grows and chewing it until pieces fleck and stick between our teeth.  

To our right, a prestigious, lush green golf course. To our left, a dank, muddy plain that holds old boats captive until they crumble and sink into the marshland, forgotten. We call it the Boat Graveyard. We can cross it, if we feel brave enough, over a small wiry bridge that is destined one day to fall, submitted to the same decline as the old toilet tank that sinks further into the sand below each year. Once across, the sand softens, but is laden with crab husks and sand fleas. I fish for broken pieces of blue and white porcelain among broken pots, sharp wire, and other discarded treasures.

Following on the path, there are wooden stumps in a line between the path and the road. Jack hops long-legged from one to the other. I am not yet able to do so gracefully, so will jump up and down, up and down, just so that I can climb on each one. The path leads us, finally, to a beach, where the sea and pebbles stretch out for miles.

I collect as many shells as my pockets can carry, and we dive downhill onto the stones. Further along, a secret fence. A secret path where the bushes grow secret sloe berries that suck all the moisture from your mouth when you eat them. The secret path, only once discovered on our visits, lead us back to very end of Rope Walk.

An entire loop.

As soon as our sandy, rubber soles touch the pavement again, we run. Our little feet carrying us, racing us, past the lampposts and to the gate in reverse. Third lamppost. Yes! Second lamppost. Keep going! First lamppost…

Maybe next time, I’ll win.