I cycled to a small town that I knew as a motorway junction and a monstrous snarl of a roundabout. And yet I was riding towards it down pretty lanes fringed with red and yellow leaves that swirled and spun in the wind. It was disorientating not to have thought of this place in this way before. What would I discover on the last of my fifty-two grid squares? 

I had spent an entire year on a small map that I’d feared would be boring and meagre. But I saw now that I was nowhere near to know- ing it fully. I would need to continue at the same pace for another seven years before I even visited every square, let alone travelled around each one in each season, during rush hour or at dawn, by bike or on foot, alone or with a companion. You never pass through the same grid square twice. I can never know even one map, not in all its sea- sons and weather, nor all its harvests and wildlife. And I had barely begun on the countless human stories and history intertwined in my nondescript neighbourhood.