Varshini Murali walks across two of the eight royal parks of London — Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens — and takes in many of the parks' sights over the course of four seasons in a year.
![Diana Memorial Fountain (photo by CPG Grey/Wikimedia Commons)]( "Diana Memorial Fountain (photo by CPG Grey/Wikimedia Commons);")
Winter: One step. Two steps. Three steps. Stop. I bend down to dust the snow off my boot, which does little to prevent my foot from freezing up. A grave mistake, I realise later, when the snow from the boot melts into the woollen weave of my glove. The cold spreads fast, and before long, my glove is rendered redundant. This could possibly be one of the coldest years London has ever seen. I am, as I'm led to believe, in Hyde Park.
I could've sworn it looked different a month before, but as I trudge through the snowy quilt that seems to have enveloped the park in the course of the day, I realise it will be a while before I see the park, in its true form, again.
I pick up my pace. I dig my foot into the snow for a firm hold and wade across the park, covering wide stretches at a time before stopping to catch a breath. Where am I headed on this cold, cold night? Towards the bright lights of course, and the welcoming warmth of mulled wine, hot cocoa, Bailey's chocolate fudge, sugary churros and more, all available at Winter Wonderland.
One section of Hyde Park seems to have transformed into a mini amusement park of sorts, combining festive elements such as Santa and his many elves, not to mention his reindeer, with winter's most-favoured features: snow and ice. It is barely six o' clock in the evening, but by three in the afternoon, London seemed to have been painted over with the jet black strokes of midnight. This evening is illuminated with a soft moon glow, some of which reflects off the snow, and thousands of fairy lights. I'm not too far away now, and the only thing that guides me to Wonderland is the swarm of people heading in the general direction of cheerful noises and delighted yelps, and the lit-up Power Tower of course — a death-defying thrill ride I would be foolish enough to get on later.
Spring: I wait patiently at the Marble Arch bus stop for my ride home. The shop windows around me are no longer home to suited and booted mannequins. Instead, fashion has shed a coat or two for the new season, one where sandals would do. My bus seems to be taking forever to arrive, and not wanting to waste away this wondrous (15 degrees!) weather, I decide to make my way home on foot.
As I cut through the park, I look around to where Winter Wonderland once stood. Crumbly white snow has given way to a lush green, a shade I wasn't quite sure would ever resurface after the cold. This lively green is a contrast to the soft pink hues of cherry blossoms that rain down on me as I make my way through the park. Cyclists in fluorescent vests zip past me; clearly, the handle-bars are no longer too cold to touch and the cycle chains have thawed, as seen from their fluid-like motion. Most importantly, there is no icy wind cutting through the skin. Only the gentle onset of spring.
Pink tents, chestnut brown horses and checquered footballs all flash before my eye. The football is too fast to track and the bubblegum pink tents, I find out soon enough, are part of London's annual MoonWalk, where men and women power walk through the English capital to raise money and awareness on breast cancer. Just as I finally settle my gaze on the trotting horses, they canter away, disappearing well out of sight.
I walk on past Victoria Gate till the park itself fuses with Kensington Gardens. Plump squirrels scurry about, sometimes sidling up to a graying old lady who obliges the rodents with bread and assorted nuts. With an occasional exercise in shooing an obstinate pigeon out of my way, I finally make it past all the greenery to the swans at Serpentine.
Summer: "You must see for yourselves that it will be difficult to follow Peter Pan's adventures unless you are familiar with Kensington Gardens," begins J M Barrie's adventures of the boy who would never grow up. I'm staring at him now, a bronzed Peter Pan playing his pipe, surrounded by fairies and woodland creatures. J M Barrie himself secretly installed this structure between the Italian Gardens and Serpentine Bridge, claiming this to be Peter's landing point in Kensington Gardens.
My face flushes a deep red, as the rays of the sun tear through the shade and land upon my skin. This London summer makes the winter seem improbable, what with it remaining as bright as day well after dinner. Picnicking couples and families can be seen lounging about on striped blue chairs, stocking up on some sun before familiar gray clouds descend upon them. I'm idling about now, taking in the park at my own pace — swans with a slight streak of arrogance mockingly glide past blue pedal boats wedged against a weeping willow, whose drooping branches skirt the surface of the river; male ducks woo their female counterpart in time for the mating season, some even fight each other for the same date; dogs come bounding towards me in search of an invisible ball, circling me as I stand stock still, before retreating with a stick as a replacement.
As I near the Serpentine, I can hear the distinct gurgle of water, carrying with it the sounds of childish giggles and the din of tourists. I'm at the Diana Memorial Fountain, a granite paddling pool that twists and turns, much like the life of Diana herself. I take off my shoes and wade through the turbulent waters, keeping my balance despite the force of an occasional jet that shoots up at points. From the highest point in this circular ring of a fountain, water flows in two opposite directions, swirling at some points, gushing through at others, before finally meeting, rather calmly, at the bottom.
Autumn: The naked branches that welcomed me to this historic city visit me once again, in time for my departure. I've seen these trees covered in layers of snow, with red berries peeking out in time for some Christmas colour; I've seen them burst into a life of varying shades, resplendent in the noonday sun. I've had my pretentious cup of coffee at Lido Cafe by the Serpentine and heard some insane debates at Speaker's Corner. I've had a customary glance of the famous Albert Memorial, and a disappointing walk through a withered flower garden. A whole year has gone past. And now, on the morning of the day I leave, as I take that one last walk around the Round Pound, crunching a carpet of autumn leaves beneath my feet, I find myself making my way towards Peter, hoping to buy some more time with a sprinkling of his pixie dust.
Winter: One step. Two steps. Three steps. Stop. I bend down to dust the snow off my boot, which does little to prevent my foot from freezing up. A grave mistake, I realise later, when the snow from the boot melts into the woollen weave of my glove. The cold spreads fast, and before long, my glove is rendered redundant. This could possibly be one of the coldest years London has ever seen. I am, as I'm led to believe, in Hyde Park.I could've sworn it looked different a month before, but as I trudge through the snowy quilt that seems to have enveloped the park in the course of the day, I realise it will be a while before I see the park, in its true form, again.
I pick up my pace. I dig my foot into the snow for a firm hold and wade across the park, covering wide stretches at a time before stopping to catch a breath. Where am I headed on this cold, cold night? Towards the bright lights of course, and the welcoming warmth of mulled wine, hot cocoa, Bailey's chocolate fudge, sugary churros and more, all available at Winter Wonderland.
One section of Hyde Park seems to have transformed into a mini amusement park of sorts, combining festive elements such as Santa and his many elves, not to mention his reindeer, with winter's most-favoured features: snow and ice. It is barely six o' clock in the evening, but by three in the afternoon, London seemed to have been painted over with the jet black strokes of midnight. This evening is illuminated with a soft moon glow, some of which reflects off the snow, and thousands of fairy lights. I'm not too far away now, and the only thing that guides me to Wonderland is the swarm of people heading in the general direction of cheerful noises and delighted yelps, and the lit-up Power Tower of course — a death-defying thrill ride I would be foolish enough to get on later.
Spring: I wait patiently at the Marble Arch bus stop for my ride home. The shop windows around me are no longer home to suited and booted mannequins. Instead, fashion has shed a coat or two for the new season, one where sandals would do. My bus seems to be taking forever to arrive, and not wanting to waste away this wondrous (15 degrees!) weather, I decide to make my way home on foot.
As I cut through the park, I look around to where Winter Wonderland once stood. Crumbly white snow has given way to a lush green, a shade I wasn't quite sure would ever resurface after the cold. This lively green is a contrast to the soft pink hues of cherry blossoms that rain down on me as I make my way through the park. Cyclists in fluorescent vests zip past me; clearly, the handle-bars are no longer too cold to touch and the cycle chains have thawed, as seen from their fluid-like motion. Most importantly, there is no icy wind cutting through the skin. Only the gentle onset of spring.
Pink tents, chestnut brown horses and checquered footballs all flash before my eye. The football is too fast to track and the bubblegum pink tents, I find out soon enough, are part of London's annual MoonWalk, where men and women power walk through the English capital to raise money and awareness on breast cancer. Just as I finally settle my gaze on the trotting horses, they canter away, disappearing well out of sight.
I walk on past Victoria Gate till the park itself fuses with Kensington Gardens. Plump squirrels scurry about, sometimes sidling up to a graying old lady who obliges the rodents with bread and assorted nuts. With an occasional exercise in shooing an obstinate pigeon out of my way, I finally make it past all the greenery to the swans at Serpentine.
Summer: "You must see for yourselves that it will be difficult to follow Peter Pan's adventures unless you are familiar with Kensington Gardens," begins J M Barrie's adventures of the boy who would never grow up. I'm staring at him now, a bronzed Peter Pan playing his pipe, surrounded by fairies and woodland creatures. J M Barrie himself secretly installed this structure between the Italian Gardens and Serpentine Bridge, claiming this to be Peter's landing point in Kensington Gardens.
My face flushes a deep red, as the rays of the sun tear through the shade and land upon my skin. This London summer makes the winter seem improbable, what with it remaining as bright as day well after dinner. Picnicking couples and families can be seen lounging about on striped blue chairs, stocking up on some sun before familiar gray clouds descend upon them. I'm idling about now, taking in the park at my own pace — swans with a slight streak of arrogance mockingly glide past blue pedal boats wedged against a weeping willow, whose drooping branches skirt the surface of the river; male ducks woo their female counterpart in time for the mating season, some even fight each other for the same date; dogs come bounding towards me in search of an invisible ball, circling me as I stand stock still, before retreating with a stick as a replacement.
As I near the Serpentine, I can hear the distinct gurgle of water, carrying with it the sounds of childish giggles and the din of tourists. I'm at the Diana Memorial Fountain, a granite paddling pool that twists and turns, much like the life of Diana herself. I take off my shoes and wade through the turbulent waters, keeping my balance despite the force of an occasional jet that shoots up at points. From the highest point in this circular ring of a fountain, water flows in two opposite directions, swirling at some points, gushing through at others, before finally meeting, rather calmly, at the bottom.
Autumn: The naked branches that welcomed me to this historic city visit me once again, in time for my departure. I've seen these trees covered in layers of snow, with red berries peeking out in time for some Christmas colour; I've seen them burst into a life of varying shades, resplendent in the noonday sun. I've had my pretentious cup of coffee at Lido Cafe by the Serpentine and heard some insane debates at Speaker's Corner. I've had a customary glance of the famous Albert Memorial, and a disappointing walk through a withered flower garden. A whole year has gone past. And now, on the morning of the day I leave, as I take that one last walk around the Round Pound, crunching a carpet of autumn leaves beneath my feet, I find myself making my way towards Peter, hoping to buy some more time with a sprinkling of his pixie dust.