These shoes have traversed the urban labyrinth of south-east England. They've kept me company on nightly strolls which lasted hours. Two weeks out of the box and they were on my feet as I boarded a plane for a 14 hour flight to Bangkok in January 2007. They've stood on tropical Thai beaches and sheltered sand inside which took weeks to shake out, and allowed me to stand on a warm beach long after I returned home to England. They took me around the streets of Barcelona, following the footsteps of Miro, Picasso and Gaudi. Whatever I wore, these shoes had an uncanny knack for just matching. They visited the land of some of my ancestors with me when I stayed in Krakow for a few days. Across the Golden Gate bridge in San Francisco and somberly walking the eerie cells of Alcatraz...the Rocket Dogs particularly liked San Francisco.
They skipped me over bridges in Venice and twirled with strange Italians to a cafe orchestra in St Mark's Square. They've seen the lofty mountains of Austria and tracked the Moors around beautiful Andalucia. They've pounded the streets of Central London during Christmas mania...and survived.
They've visited Enchanted Gardens, leaf-carpeted forests in the autumn and sat by my side in parks, briefly unused in the first glorious bloom of spring. They've danced atop the battlements of English castles and through beds of bluebells, to emerge pollen-covered and dirty. They've trodden the very same wooden boards walked by Anne Boleyn and a besotted Henry the Eighth and strolled around Los Angeles' star-filled streets. These shoes have lived.
"I think he put them in the wash because he thought they were dirty"
"No, that's just the colour they are now. I've tried to wash them. They just look dirty, that's all."
Dirty with life, a million adventures and a love of walking.
Today, my four and half year old canvas Rocket Dogs finally fell apart.
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