Eventually, I turned towards home and my feet found my familiar path, northward along the river Stort’s banks. The sun slipped behind the clouds, but even if the sun had shimmered, the water would have barely sparkled—it looked greasy and stagnant. A moorehen on the banks looked startled, frightened and plunged into the water to join a floating crisp bag. Pigeon droppings marked the asphalt path. Nettles grew bushy on either side, no longer seeming wild and free, but ominous. I couldn’t smell the nettle’s tangy fragrance anymore, instead I smelled salty chips from a local kebabery and something fried and cinnamon-y wafting from the opposite direction. It has changed drastically in the past few years. I remember a time when my path through the center of town used to have that same English magic as the path I found. No longer.
Bishop's Stortford is located halfway between London and Cambridge. There is easy train access either way, making Bishop’s Stortford the ideal commuter town. Of late, commuters have moved in like a plague. Tall buildings thrown up to accommodate Bishop’s Stortford’s new residents tower over the little river. Other obscenities—new grocery stores, parking garages, chain shops and restaurants—also encroach upon the river’s banks. I used to pick loganberries and feed the ducks on the river, now I run past a tall metal fence edged in barbed wire, turquoise paint flaking off.
The river winds into a park and some of its charm returns. The water seems to flow a little faster, a few ducks scoot along belong bridges. An elderly woman walks two dogs and children gather in the green spaces. My path is again dirt. Hope is not lost.
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