How walking and talking proved the simple formula for romance Liv Dunn needed.
The weather was perfect: crisp blue skies with a discernible bite in the air. I was sitting on a bench near the top of Richmond Hill, watching the sunset with the guy I was falling in love with.
Golden light streamed across the river and fields below, casting a hazy magic across West London. The view is the only one in the country to be protected by an Act of Parliament. The untainted landscape felt sacrosanct. It was so simple in its beauty: the winding river, the silhouettes of the trees against the sky, the fields stretching on and on and on. James took my hand and we sat in silence for a while – cold but comfortable.
We’d been doing this for months: picking places in London to walk to and explore. The only difference on this day was that, for the first time, it was explicitly a date. But I think both of us knew calling it that was just a technicality. We were pretty far gone already.
James was a friend of a friend – someone I’d vaguely known for years. He lived near me in Fulham and after a party in October, he asked whether I’d like to go for coffee and a walk one weekend. Perhaps naively, I assumed that this was an invitation of latent friendship.
At the time, I was on a hiatus from dating, having learnt the hard way that testing the waters with a teenage ex, best friend’s brother, and colleague in quick succession – no matter how thrilling in the short-term – was not the best idea. Counterproductively, I had also sworn off Hinge. The appeal of gamified window shopping for men who I would most likely never meet had congealed. I had decided that only real romance would do, and didn’t back the chances of that happening any time soon.
This meant I had a lot of spare time – and a new raison d’etre: to disprove the When Harry Met Sally theory that men and women can’t be friends without inevitably sleeping together. James’ emergence into my life felt like a timely reminder that not every interaction I had with a man needed to revolve around whether they fancied me or not, and vice versa.
So, off we went one Saturday morning, on a walk from Hammersmith Bridge to Chiswick House. The leaves were beginning to turn, their burnt orange reflected in the still water of the lake. The stone bridge seemed plucked straight from a period drama, inviting brief daydreams of ardent declarations of love. But that wasn’t the play here!
The sun was shining and I felt so at ease. I wasn’t worried about telling the right anecdote, or whether I looked ugly when I laughed. My outfit had been picked for warmth rather than allure. We spoke much more candidly than I think we would have done had it been a date. Appearing fanciable, and thus enigmatic or aloof, wasn’t required in the given circumstances.
Pretty quickly, a weekend walk became a staple for both of us. The routine was simple: we’d meet, having already decided on a route, pick up coffee on the way, shoot the breeze and be on our separate ways, all before lunchtime. Because we weren’t dating, there was no pressure; no end-goal in mind.
One morning, we did a loop along the Thames Path, up to Putney Bridge and back around. Already, it was colder and our breath was visible in the air. The river looked deceptively clear – a pane of glass streaked occasionally by rowing boats. On another occasion, we spent hours on a bench in Barnes Common, watching a bird build its nest amongst the rushes by the pond.
James became inextricable in my mind from the pockets of tranquility dotted along the District Line. Being with him meant slowing down, being present in a way I often struggled with. There was no rush when we were together. Hanging out wasn’t a thing to be raced through or completed for the sake of it. With him, I became much more attuned to the glimmers of magic among the mundane: the way sunshine dances on water; older couples strolling together in gorgeous vintage coats and sunglasses; the glee of toddlers given brief control of a dog’s leash as their parents watch on.
On our walks, I learnt to listen, pause, and savour. I learnt to keep pace with James, to enjoy how our conversation would meander and take unexpected turns, mimicking our route. A lack of eye-contact allowed for sincerity without self-consciousness. Walking alongside him, I had the time to think, to really listen to what he was saying, and in turn to say what I really meant.
That foundation, built over countless hours and miles spent together, made it disconcertingly easy, three months later, to admit that we were more than just friends. Our walks had shown us that going somewhere new, with all the possibilities and prospects that entails, could feel expansive and exciting.
Three months have since passed, and spring is firmly on its way: pink blossom on the trees, communal squares full of fleeting sun seekers, a tantalising sense of hope. Walking along the river, it feels impossible not to be a little bit in love with London, with life, with love itself.
And yet, this season of new beginnings brings with it the bittersweet sense of an ending. James’ rent is up, which means he’s leaving West London.
But, on reflection, maybe that’s okay. We’ll find new places to make our own. And all the spots where we started things off will be there for us to return to; unchanged but infinitesimally different, just like us.
When we do, I hope the views remain unspoiled, the light perfectly golden, the benches free for the two of us, to listen, to pause, to savour. I want the magic to linger, to stay for a while.