Sunday in the park

Parks are among London's most treasured assets. World famous and popular with Londoners and locals alike are the big five: Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens; St. James's Park and Green Park; Richmond Park and Kew Gardens; Regent's Park and Primrose Hill; and Greenwich Park. They form the green lung of the city and are oases for a quick escape from the dust and the noise of the streets.

Then there are the neighborhood parks and greens. Some, like Holland Park and Battersea Park are big and make it into the guidebooks. Others are so small that are all but invisible. They are hard to find on a map, but ambling through town one stumbles upon them all the time.

In general, the park's appeal reflects the prosperity of the area. Shepherd's Bush Green is rather drab and grubby. Parson's Green, in stark contrast, is lush and clean. In the most expensive neighborhoods, the gardens are all private and inaccessible without a resident's key.

Twenty minutes from my house is Eel Brook Common, the closest nice park if you ignore the somewhat creepy Old Brompton Cemetery. The roughly square park is sliced diagonally by a paved walkway lined with benches, on one of which I'm sitting. The triangle of brave early-spring grass facing me is patched with dozens of picnic blankets inhabited by relaxing residents. There are no barbecues; maybe fire is not allowed in the park.

It's evidently still early in the year. The vegetative period has hardly started. Trees are greener from the moss on their trunks and branches than from the leaves, which have just started to come out. Quite a few fruit trees are dusted with a thick snow of white blossoms.

Between two low trees, one green, one white, two shaggy fellows in torn shorts are are setting up a show. They pad the trunks carefully with protective towels and string up a slackline. They entertain a curious audience by falling off the webbing most acrobatically. After half an hour of silent feats of balance, they pack up and, exhausted, walk over to the pub at the corner for a cold beer.

Behind me, two tennis balls pong across taut nets and bounce rhythmically from the concrete surface of the courts and the rackets of the players. A child screams inconsolably in the distance. Nearer by, hordes of happy and excited kids ricochet around a busy playground. The chain-link fence around the play area serves to contain the little whirlwinds and keep the dogs out.

In front of me, three teenagers are playing some sort of orienteering football, threading their dribbles through the maze of blankets. To the left, a father has a hard time explaining the concept of pétanque to his two little daughters. When a third girl arrives, wearing a pink headscarf and a long red dress, the four of them switch to football as well.

The sun shines with the force of early summer, and it's warm enough for t-shirts. The sky is as blue and pristine as it could be, and unmarred by planes or contrails. The cloud of volcanic ash hasn't budged and continues to hang in the air, invisibly. Air traffic remains suspended. Nothing but resident birds and errant Frisbees take to the sky. I said yesterday was a beautiful day. Today is even nicer.