Urban travel tales

Lost in interpretation

Promoting the benefits from the embracing of Cultural Heritage & Ecology, most posts feature in En & Gr thoroughly edited and researched, illustrated by my photos. Enjoy the journey! 

                                                                                        2017 © Copyright.  All rights reserved; initial post 14 February 2017 – revised March 2018

I kept walking along the riverside from Kingston-upon-Thames to Richmond, in Surrey   from mid-September 2015 to the early spring of 2017. I have been patiently reconnecting the dots that would lead me further ahead; I kept walking, immersed in the shadows and in poetic imagery, enveloped in silence…

Richmond, riverside, fog, UK


Winter has swept off the striking green, leaving dark branches where there was foliage before. Up on the trees a second trail unfolds, soggy crossroads lead to deadlocks – some 

branches ravel into knots, others split abruptly – what a puzzle. 

I am staring in search of a treasure
that has been kept hidden.

Hidden or stolen?

Does it matter? The point is that it was kept away from me, I could not cherish it or share it; could not lend it or sell it. 

How long has it taken for the green to turn into copper red drying out like yellow swags from curtain rails?


It took longer than two months – it was done so slowly, reluctantly. The final metamorphosis happened over a week-end. 

A strong bust of wind swirled around brushing off the last that still trembled in full visibility at the edge of disappearance. The houses started emitting signals, and the street lamps, seen from afar, were shedding their yellowish tremor against a dim opalescence.

I had been idle, just walking and I saw the leaves brought down all at once.

What about these shadows that are moving behind windowpanes?

You would not have seen them before, it was the foliage.

Rush, they turn on the light before four o’clock now. Yes, rush, before they pull the blinds, when they return home from work, rush, rush.

By mid February the days are getting longer again. Behind the crocheted evergreens, a number of anaemic sunsets lie down their mats on the fields at the awakening of vigilant sounds, surrounded by invisible creatures.

Who would interpret these ttttitu and ffrrrr for me, please?

This is not my mother tongue. Look up at this treean open palm extended,
pleading for a reading, a caress, a kiss. 

Love, this is the dictionary.

tree, branches

All dead enjoy the same country, the same language, I assume.
No passports. No borders. No need for 
dictionaries.

In loving memory of my mother who would have appreciated this river, this walk:
Christina Andreou – Samloglou  /
Χριστίνα Ανδρέου – Σαμλόγλου
October 1st, 1924 – January 18th, 2015

Born in Peloponnese, Arcadia, Agios Vasileios Kynourias. She practiced dentistry with the passion of an artist and the ethics of a humanitarian
in the neighbourhood of Athens where she lived since  early childhood.
She had served her family and her community to the end of her days

2017 © Copyright. All rights reserved for texts and photos
revised March 2018

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