Lavender's blue

Last weekend, a friend of mine convinced me to drive from Brussels to Hamburg.

"Come," she said.

"It'll be fun," she said.

"We'll zoom down the autobahn and be there before lunch."

Eight hours of traffic later, gazing at the squabbling children in the car next to us who had, according to my observations, been fighting over the same teddy bear for the last hour, we were neither zooming nor having fun. We'd sung all the Disney songs we knew. We'd sung the ones from The Lion King twice. We'd exhausted our imagination and patience playing 'I Spy'. ('C?' 'Car.' 'C?' 'Still car.')

Eventually, we inched overthe river. Lorries rose single file on a spindly little road that looked as though it disappeared abruptly, sending its precariously balanced passengers into the ether. The cranes that served the port rose either side. Huge, silent, they loomed like guardian statues from an ancient, forgotten city.

Once in, tired, cramped, and grumpy, I turned my back on Things I Ought To Do in Hamburg, and went down the first street I came to. Within minutes, my crankiness dissolved. I had wandered into a dream. The scent of wisteria floated around me, mingling with the smell of the lavender pots that were outside every other door. A cobbler’s shop, its wooden lasts on display in mesmerising rows, was next to a softly yellow-walled cafe, tables covering the pavement.

I turned the corner and found myself in a park, of sorts. A raised circular bed of grass stood next to a paved football area, while on the other side, a boy taught his little brother how to shoot hoops. Children screamed with glee as they played on a tyre swing, and yet, cushioned by the plants that bordered every street, it felt like there was hardly any noise. People read books, and ate ice cream. Groups of friends sat in circles of contented calm. I lay down amongst the dandelions, the sun on my face, and let it all soak in. I was bathed, rocked gently in the balm of this green, flower-filled Eden, with its beautiful architecture and softly meandering brick streets. Two blissful hours later, I floated, spellbound, to meet my friend, the warm breeze blowing through my hair, birds singing in the gathering dusk.

As I walked, I passed an advert for ‘Faltenrock,’ a dance night for those 60 and over. Young people can only go with someone really over 60. As the moon shone overhead, I vowed that, next time, I would make a friend that would qualify. Somehow, in this magical haven, I doubt that’ll be a problem.