Glenhazel Park: The Little Park That Was

In case you’re new here, let me clarify something upfront: on a normal day, I am essentially Shrek - grumpy, antisocial, and happiest left alone in my swamp.

Fun fact: I do not share my swamp.

Ever.

But put me on a trail - or within a suspiciously small radius of anything scenic - and I transform into Donkey.

Suddenly I’m bouncing, narrating, photographing, and aggressively loving life, nature, and (brace yourself) even myself.

It’s unsettling - for everyone.

Especially me.

Weather Forecast

After the previous day’s triumphant Iron Throne trail, I had plans for an equally epic hike.

The forecast? 100% chance of rain.

Yesterday had promised the same and delivered… a drizzle.

Maybe.

Mostly lies.

Today, though, I was responsible. I postponed. I considered other people. I chose not to drag humans across provinces for soggy disappointment.

Growth? Maybe.

Regret? Absolutely.

The Myth of Productivity

So there I was, trying to see the positives - a rare, unexpected day off from hiking.

A gift, really.

An opportunity to finally tackle everything I’ve been avoiding for… let’s say a year and a half.

Spring cleaning?

Paperwork?

General adulting?

Nope.

I sat in front of my computer tweaking blogs and polishing content while staring out the window like a Victorian widow, silently begging torrential rain to justify my decision.

Nothing.

Clouds just hovered, smug.

Then the sun came out, briefly - just to be a jerk.

The “Fine, I’ll Do Something” Walk

Eventually, I cracked. I grabbed my son, Pepper, and declared we were going on a “default hike.”

Not planned. Not epic.

Just… movement.

We ended up at Glenhazel Park - a place I hadn’t visited in years but knew well from my youth, back when it was called "The Japanese Gardens."

I’d actually driven through the area recently and realised, with all my suburban park visits lately, I’d completely forgotten about this one.

(Apparently, my memory has a strict “avoid nostalgia at all costs” policy.)

Once upon a time, it was beautiful - huge landscaped gardens with streams, little waterfalls, and perfectly manicured grass. Proper Japanese garden energy.

Walking through it now, one thought kept circling (aside from the rain arriving exactly when it was no longer useful) - it's the little park that was, not the little park that could.

The end.

In fairness, this was a gloomy Sunday morning. So yes, the park was completely empty.

Not a soul in sight.

Which… doesn’t exactly help its case.

Because add a few families, kids and fur balls running around - suddenly the whole place would feel alive.

Warmer.

Safer.

And if it’s always that empty, I’ll be honest - I wouldn’t feel entirely comfortable walking there alone.

To be fair, it’s not bad.

It still has everything: benches, picnic spots, play areas, open space.

But it feels… paused. Slightly neglected.

Like it’s waiting for someone to remember it properly.

With a bit of care - especially around the overgrown stream - it could be genuinely stunning again.

Not even with a huge budget - just attention - which, apparently, is the rarest resource of all.

The Unpopular Truth About Community Spaces

We all love saying, “I pay taxes, the council must handle it.”

And yes, same. I also pay taxes.

Against my will.

Bite me SARS.

But here’s the uncomfortable reality: without community involvement, these spaces don’t improve.

They just… plateau.

Slowly decline.

Final Thoughts

Did I get my epic hike? No.

Did I still end up outdoors and slightly less grumpy for about 30 minutes? Marginally.

Would I have preferred a dramatic, rain-free mountain moment instead of being emotionally manipulated by clouds? Naturally.

But here we are.

And for the record, if the weather could stop playing games with my hiking schedule, that would be great - I have very important Donkey business to attend to.

Mostly, narrating everything excessively and bouncing like an idiot.