A sneaky short cut

At the top looking down. A sneaky short cut. A pathway situated between two imposing Edwardian houses, sloping quite steeply from one high road to a low road. “Peacock Walk N6” says a sign. About four metres wide and 150 metres long. A rusty, mottled, sea green iron post pointedly guards the entrance. Two narrow, metal parallel bars extend beyond, all the way down the steep incline. Every three metres or so, another more plain metal post supports its tumbling route, dividing the path in two. The exit down the end is defined by a less ancient matt, black post. Less inviting. Keep to the left it seemingly demands. Don’t meander. Get on your way with this hidden short cut. Don’t tell anyone. No one is here.

A kind of crazy paving wall effect starts off on the left hand side with a towering privet hedge above it. The other side is an eight foot high wooden fence, its faded grey, vertical slats bowing out slightly under the weight from whatever is growing behind it. A small bit of rickety trellis balances on top between redundant posts which extend from the top of the fence a good metre in the air.

The ground is tarmaced, uneven and grey, the kind that breaks up and deposits bits on the bottom of your shoes. Piles of blown orange and brown leaves flank the edges, adding a spot of crispiness. The slope invites you to run down. Walking brings arched back and slapping footsteps. Gradually the alleyway becomes flanked by greenery; ivy, jasmine, an apple tree overhanging its garden space. Some plants have been cut back hard, displaying its woody undergrowth. In other parts, ivy spills down to the floor. A mossy, damp smell penetrates the air.

The right hand fence cuts in for a while, a chunk eaten out of the straightness. Here, a couple of concrete steps lead up to just another bit of disjointed fence; perhaps it used to be a gate. Remnants of nocturnal life include an empty can of Lowenbrau beer, bright blue and shiny, sitting on the top step; a crushed Stella can on the ground is prevented from rolling down the hill by soggy leaves wedging it in.

The almost silence of the city: rustling leaves, distant traffic, a train horn. A torn strip of paper clings to a part of the metal rail. It flickers, hanging in on there by persistent sticky tape. Look back. Still no one comes.