warm summer's afternoon, swans and reeds, valerian in cracked walls, old brick buildings, use long-forgotten, hidden behind banks of pink Himalayan balsam, water becomes sluggish, our way barred by the lock at the entrance to the Olympic site.
No traffic, no canal boats, no sign of anyone, we paddle right up to it, peer over and no-one shouts at us to keep off. Watery wasteland. Legacy?
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