Parliament Hill, the golden hour. The light is angelic, the atmosphere serene. It is the end of my walk and I had always planned to be here at this time. It’s an interesting mix of people here; families intermingle with catwalk models and rock stars. One individual in particular catches my eye. A young man, broad across his chest and seemingly lost in his own repose and a decade some sixty years in the past, dressed as he was in what looked like labourer’s attire. He had brought his own entertainment with him. He was an interesting mix of gentle and strong; he gave you the feeling he could very comfortably step into a bare knuckle boxing ring and readily hold his own.
