This is the fourth time I’ve visited Park Hill.
Without the sound of music.
I think it may be the last time.
Alone on a hill – two weathered stickers on a public bench for company.
On previous visits, there were a few remaining residents on the western wing.
Now they are gone.
Their homes tinned up, the walkways and stairways too – once these streets in the sky could accommodate a milk float, they now echo emptily, with the sound of a restless wind.
And so, in early sunny Sunday morning light, heavy hearted I wandered the open areas, colonnades, service lifts and terrazzo walls.
A small gift to the families, folks, workers, planners and architects who brought this estate to life – a celebration of the modern aesthetic in clear, broad daylight.