"The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea."
Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
I could watch the boats and children playing for years and years. I sit and listen to the calls of everyone, hear the sea and families and birds and all those noises in between for years. The only noise to interupt is the siren call of the ice cream man chugging along in the ancient van. Ques descend the white van covered in pictures of treats and cartoon characters, children orbit and barter for funds from parents and grandparents, pound coins are pushed in to palms of chubby hands and closed secretly with a kiss. Grandads and Grandmothers have successfully sneaked the extra pennies into little fists which trot off happily into the middle of the throng of people.
All is well in the world. At least for now.