How we lost our cars and found our neighbours

We didn't exactly decide to live a car-free life, it was sort of thrust upon us. We'd had two cars for a year and decided we could manage with one so got rid of the other. And then the remaining car packed up. Permanently. And right now we can't afford to replace it, so we're managing without. It's changed our lives in ways I hadn't even imagined.

The biggest change is that we now have to do the school run on foot - me, my 6-year-old son Harry and 2-year-old Joe in his buggy. Harry's school is apparently 1.3 miles away, which doesn't sound very far, but takes about half an hour to walk. Not only is it great exercise (for me as well as for Harry, particularly since I do it four times each day), but we're also much more familiar with the local environment than we ever were before. Now, instead of driving along the main road in silence (aside from the sound of Harry playing on the iPod Touch), we walk along the canal path, chatting about the weather, the changing seasons, and, more often than not, Harry's dreams from the previous night.

We greet the same people (and their dogs) every day. We stop and feed the ducks. We pop in to the sandwich shop or the newsagents and chat to the staff there. They now know us by name and laugh when Harry helps himself to the same items or when Joe insists on me ringing the ship's bell above the door.

There is a bus we can use, but it doesn't arrive until half an hour after school ends, so if it's raining, we pass the time in the nearby library. The librarians there are absolutely brilliant - they too know the boys by name and along with books, provide toys, colouring, and a quiet space for homework, giving the library a community centre feel. If I try to walk past without going in, Joe cries. (If you haven't read Ellen's wonderful post about the importance of libraries, you really must.) 

Thanks to not having a car, we've also got to know another family who actually live in the next street and also walk, but out of choice. I used to see them striding up the hill in all weathers and feel a bit sorry for them (this was before I knew they actually had a car, but chose to walk). Now we're striding alongside them.

When Harry was born, we lived in a village with a wonderful sense of community. I could walk everywhere and everyone knew us (the local cafe used to start cutting me a slice of chocolate torte as I manoeuvred the pram through the door). I was so sorry to leave. I'm embarrassed to admit it took me almost six years to find the same kind of thing where we live now and all it took was giving up the car.