Glen Faba and The Stort Pit are manmade lakes; the result of the sand and gravel extraction industry in the Lea Valley. My eldest daughter and I have enjoyed barefoot running through grass pathways beside the lakes, among tall grasses and wildflowers, purple, yellow, white and blue, sword fighting with twigs and giggling, paddling at the edges getting hems of dresses wet, throwing stones, splashing in gravel on the lake bed prickly under our bare feet. Big Sister running and laughing through grass,
“Catch me!” she sings as she runs towards me. “I want a piggy back ride,” and as I begin to carry her she giggles,
“Am I a piggy?” and,
“Do you love me even when I am naughty?”
“Yes.” I confirm.
“Even when I hit? Even if I hit everybody in the world?”
“I would be sad that you were hitting people,” I muse, “but I would still love you. I would not love the behaviour! But I think I will always love you.”
“Is this a kissing gate?”
“Where people kiss their mummies? And little boys kiss their daddies?”
And here is a cherry tree from which one of our bachelor boating neighbours made a cherry crumble. It’s a golden grassy sunshiney blue lake day.