I catch a reflection of myself in the window, and see a middle-aged woman in a baseball cap, long ponytail flying in the wind, a small backpack perched like a dusty afterthought against her back. She’s dressed for distance – dusty sneakers, long pants, a loose t-shirt that doesn’t say much.

I look a little older than I feel, but that’s ok. It would be worse if it were the other way around.

I overtake two young women, dressed in very short shorts and midriff tops and stifle my instinct to tut tut the amount of skin they’re showing. I laugh at myself for having that instinct – the same one the generation before mine probably had, when they judged the length of my shorts (mind you, I’m pretty sure they ended mid-thigh). It’s a predictable pattern – projecting judgement onto those who now have what we once had, and have since lost to time – tight skin and hopes and dreams. Well, that’s not exactly true. I have a lot of hopes and dreams. But gosh, those shorts look a lot more like underwear than shorts.

I overtake another couple – an old man and woman holding hands. They walk very slowly but with determination, like they have an appointment to keep, and gosh-darn-it if they aren’t going to get there one way or the other. The woman uses her stick to point at something off in the distance, and I hear the man laugh gently – a sweet response to her bid for affection. They look so ‘together’, and I wonder if I will have a man hold my hand like that when I’m that age.

There are those hopes and dreams again. I smile at a young father trying to keep his toddler dry by a fountain. He gives up quickly. By the time I reach them, the boy is soaked and delighted. The scene makes me smile even more, so I stop for a short water break under a tree – an excuse to linger a while longer. A woman joins them, and for a moment the father looks uncertain, until the woman laughs and lifts the dripping child into her arms.

It’s an Australian summer’s day at midday. It’s technically what we call a ‘scorcher’.

A fit-looking man in a singlet and board shorts jogs past, and I pick up my bag to get going again. I can’t imagine anyone doing that for fun in this heat. He’s sweating like a stuck pig – ‘scuse the expression.

A bell rings loudly and the jogger moves quickly to the side of the path, so the cyclist doesn’t run him over. I briefly imagine the mess there would have been, if he hadn’t heard the bell. What if he’d been listening to something through his earphones? Would the rider have swerved at the last minute? Then I realize that the path is quite wide, and he was probably just ringing his bell to be polite.

My mind stays occupied like that for a while – thinking about how quick I was to judge again – as my footsteps continue along the footpath.

I’m in a city. This is not my usual preference, but I had a yearning to be amongst people. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes I’ve been overdosed with nature and actually want to hear traffic again and the busy, important noises that people make when they are together.

I’m really not a hermit. I’m a mum, a friend, a daughter – as well as countless other roles I juggle. I’m an academic at a university, which means I’m surrounded by people a lot. It also means the way I present myself matters. Even when no one is actively watching, it can still feel like I’m on show.

That’s why, when weekends or holidays come along, I head for the hills. I walk – often long distances – carrying everything I need on my back. I love travelling on my own. It feels like stepping out of view, and I’m at ease there. Most of the time, solitude is exactly what I want. And then, occasionally, I want people around me too.

People watching, like bird watching, is best done in camouflage. If you can make yourself almost invisible, it’s like a small superpower. And for some of us, this is one of the quiet gifts of being over fifty and travelling alone: no one is looking very hard. That won’t be true for everyone, of course – and I hope it isn’t, if invisibility isn’t something you want. But for those of us who sometimes want it – it can feel like a reprieve.

You can move through space without attracting much attention, and in return, you get to see things more clearly. There’s just something so beautiful and life-affirming – watching people exist. I just love it so much.

I’ve figured out my invisible outfit. Mine looks just like the reflection I just saw in the window. Everyone needs to find their own.

I’m sure there are others out there doing exactly what I’m doing – moving quietly, collecting moments, noticing things. I might have seen you, even if you thought you were invisible. Come to think of it, you might have seen me too.

Hello, fellow people-watchers. It’s fun, isn’t it?