The weather over the last few days had proved to be drab and depressing, which was not unusual for London at this time of year. When I awoke, I opened the curtains with trepidation. Would I have to dig deep to create the sunshine within, or would the skies illuminate a city of possibility and opportunity? Pulling back the material, the naked tree outside my window protruded with a promise to bloom soon, and thankfully behind it lay a clear blue sky. Having been uncomfortably reclusive over the Easter weekend, the sight of the sun inspired me to try and shake off the isolation and head into the city to explore.
Deliberating over which coat to wear, I put my sturdy winter Parka on, grabbed my camera, a bottle of water and descended the hill to Queen’s Park tube. Immediately I regretted my choice of clothing as I began to swelter in the late morning sun. Never one to admit defeat, I continued down Brondesbury Park, past families, lovers and friends who emitted a vibrant, positive glow in the expanse of the holiday weekend. I’d decided a while ago that the next destination for the Uncover London series would be Cockfosters, the end of the Piccadilly Line, miles away in God-knows-where. I knew nothing about the area, and this was an integral part of my trip. I had not looked it up online, and had shut my ears when anyone I’d discussed my idea with had a story to offer about Cockfosters. All I knew is that I’d heard the name on the Underground’s speakers for many years, that it was far away, and that the name was an unattractive mixture of body-part slang and a tasteless English beer.
An Activist Abroad 