A hundred and fifty. The book marks it, and I remember marking it myself, sat on the stool by the bandstand steps with a Penguin. I'm not one for milestones as a rule — the numbering is for order, not celebration — but ten years of walking had produced a hundred and fifty entries and it seemed reasonable to sit with that for a few minutes before moving on. So I did. Then I moved on.
The shoe itself: child's shoe, left, black, the school sort, buckle rather than laces, upright on the steps below the bandstand. Good condition. Children's shoes turn up regular and I note them the same as any other, though a school shoe with a buckle is a tidier object than most of what the register holds and this one sat very neat on its step.
First proper spring day of the year, mild, and Beaumont Park were busy by ten, so the book notes I were glad of the early start. Half seven pays for itself in a park. By the time the families arrived I'd done the photographing — two photographs — and were onto the sitting, and a man on a folding stool near a bandstand draws no attention at all, which is one of the quiet advantages of parks over moorland. A hundred and fifty. I had the Penguin, thought about it a bit, and went home. The book says no more than that and nor will I.
Written up August 2026, from the notebook.