Orwellian Orbit

I’ve been in London two weeks out of the past three so on this last trip I took my running gear. It is so hard to get in shape at my age that I don’t want to miss two runs. Each time I went running in Kentish Town, I got hopelessly lost but that is the charm of running in strange places.

The first run took me to Holloway, by way of so many back streets that I couldn’t exactly retrace my steps. The second run took me to Hampstead (opposite direction). Both times, I took a right out of Carolyn’s flat instead of a left, the way I’d historically come. By doing this I learned that George Orwell once lived on Carolyn’s street:

As usual, I saw lots of lovely lovely gardens:

And pocket parks, and a life-sized blue box from Dr. Who (can’t remember what it’s called), and a dead fox on the sidewalk, and an extravagant roof-top garden, and narrow boats on the canal, and (unlike Belfast) not many dogs, and a small miniature golf course in the middle of a modest-looking apartment complex, and a pub called The Fiddler’s Elbow, and another called The Robert Peel and the Gypsy Queen. Running is just a great way to take in the many odds and ends that make up a neighbourhood.
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