It was possible to walk to the end of the viaduct, in dense woodland, at the bottom end of the park near where she grew up. Along the road that skirted the edges of the park, she would crane to see passing glimpses from the window as the car passed by. Just before the steep descent into the valley, when her mind was on other things. Her memory began to fail her as to its exact location. More and more it seemed less likely to be how she remembered.
I begin following railway lines because I have been thinking about the disused railway track that ran through the deepest edges of the park in the town where I grew up. Steep banks obscured by trees. The entrance to the park, and the dark green railings running alongside the road, that create a feeling of motion, of dreaming.
Colette writes beautifully about the passing landscape, the feel of travel, and of letting go, of seeing the changing scenery unfold. There is real life and feeling to this writing: ‘Half asleep, like the sea, and yielding to the swaying of the train, I thought I was skimming the waves, so close at hand, with a swallow’s cutting flight.’
The Street Walks In 