The sun is so bright that it's almost too difficult to see without my sunglasses on. I keep them sitting in my hair though, the squinting feels good in a funny way. There's not a cloud in the sky. The breeze is as chilly as I've felt in a long while. It feels good.
I'm walking along a street in Teneriffe, on a hill with Brisbane's scattered skyscrapers in the distance. It's quiet, the occasional bird, dog, or car the only sound. I pass apartment blocks that were once storehouses, their balconies in place of old doorways. There are old Queenslanders, paint peeling, windows slightly ajar. There are new places that tower over them, all sharp edges, harsh shapes, of timber, steel and cement. Then there are those that mix the two, woven together, a dance between old and new.
This is my secret Sunday morning life. There's something fascinating about wandering along streets, looking at other people's homes. Standing there, doors often open, deck's visible, gardens overflowing. Everything there for us to see. Yet there's still an air of mystery. What would life be like inside? Who lives it? What stories does the house have to tell? There's a strange kind of energy you tap into when admiring and photographing people's houses from the street. Like for a moment you're a part of that life. And you take that with you for the rest of the day. Even if the owners never noticed you pass them by.
This is how I like to spend my Sunday mornings. On an inspiring, energising morning stroll. The most important walk of the week.