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On the brink of Abbey Wood, before Abbey Road sweeps you along the winding route to Belvedere, you'll find Lesnes Abbey, an eighty-eight hectare stretch of ancient woodland, home to the withering ruins of some long forsaken abbey. By day, the park is riddled with runners and dogwalkers and school kids toting rucksacks in all sorts of shapes and sizes. Its landscaped gardens overflow, bushes of sage burst through the gaps in its railings, tall stalks of the purplest betony dance in sync with the shrubs of hyssop alongside them. Beyond it, the plots of grassland throughout the park lay bare and inviting, tempting its guests with a sun-kissed nap in the grandeur of nature. You're always bound to catch sight of a group or two of boot-clad hikers, who bypass the park's delights and head straight for the arboretum, marvel at the trees, and then press onwards to the shadowed battallion of woodland, marching along the thin pedestrian trails that venture so deep into the forest that they eventually fade into nothing.
By night, Lesnes Abbey is empty. The park's only source of light comes from beyond our atmosphere, so when the sun begins its daily descent, people know to disappear with it. From the roadside, the park is a thick tract of darkness. If you stroll even thirty seconds within its bounds, you can't tell your hand from the rest of your body. And yet, the gates are never closed and no measures to keep anybody out have ever been taken, as if they're daring you to enter. I've never been one for nature or parks or Abbey Wood in general, but from where I stand, body weight reposed against the barriers that encircle the entire park, I can make out the faintest lights below, in the belly of the arboretum. The dull glow of a phone screen, the flickering of a lighter, the unmistakable sound of a hot-blooded tête-à-tête.
