Why I walk
Putting one foot in front of the other
“Paths are the habits of a landscape. They are acts of consensual making. It's hard to create a footpath on your own...Paths connect. This is their first duty and their chief reason for being. They relate places in a literal sense, and by extension they relate people.”
– Robert Macfarlane, The Old Ways: A Journey on Foot
Recently a friend of mine put on an exhibition paying tribute to the act of walking. The rhythm of her strokes echoes the rhythm of the steps walked in the landscapes she paints. Her beautifully detailed and highly evocative landscapes of local and much loved spots in Cornwall evoke lust and longing. Alongside these stunning paintings Meri published a memoir about walking. And it got me thinking.
For me walking is something so entwined into my daily life that it’s not something I’ve ever really taken much time to consider. It’s so much a part of me that it feels intangible, almost impossible to grasp as a thing separate to myself.
Of course everyone walks, well most people. We are commended on our first steps. Parents elated that their little babies are finally on their feet. I see it often these days with many of my friends having small children - the parents delight when the baby takes their first steps and starts to walk. They cheer them on gleefully and encourage them to walk further and further, to put one foot in front of the other, picking them up when they fall and encouraging them to go again.
So if walking is so much an innate part of all of us then what does it mean to me that it may not to someone else?
For me walking isn’t so much a means to get from A to B but an activity in itself. It’s a place where I can think, I can process the day to come or the day that’s been. It’s a place where I feel almost numb but at the same time completely alive. It’s a place where I feel calm and content.
Sometimes I tune into my surroundings and notice the light cascading through bright green tree canopies, sometimes I pause to hear the inordinately loud song of a tiny wren or the chirping of a chatting chaffinch. I watch my dog running joyfully, sniffing intently and absorbing every part of the landscape as fully as four legs can.
And sometimes I just walk, I zone out, tuning into my internal monologue instead.
I very rarely wear headphones when I walk. I enjoy the hum of the outside world.
I remember when I was writing my thesis and a writing tutor advised us to get out and walk if ever we were feeling stuck. I didn’t have a dog at the time so walking became voluntary. I was also living in the Netherlands where cycling had become an obligatory mode of transport. Two wheels replaced two feet and even late night convoys to clubs and weekend ones to Ikea were taken by bike. Walking became the least part of my life it had ever been.
My tutor told us the reason for walking was because it will make the brain feel good, because it’s something we’re innately good at. We know how to walk. Just place one foot in front of the other and keep going. That sends a signal to our brain that improves our confidence and boosts our mood. We’re good at it. I don’t know where he got this from or if it was scientifically proven but it was enough of a reason for me to get out there and walk. And it worked, without fail, every time. I would return feeling refreshed and rejuvenated ready to begin writing again.
More recently I’ve been enjoying walking alone. It’s a kind of meditation at the beginning, middle and end of each day. It’s the only way I manage to work at a desk and stay sane. But I like to walk with others too for a different reason. To talk side by side without the pressure of being still. Without wondering if you’re making too much eye contact, not enough, smiling, tearing up or giving off the right facial expression. It’s my favourite way to talk. You may have heard the adage “men talk shoulder to shoulder, women face to face.” Personally I believe we all talk more freely side by side.
Recently when struggling with some big changes in my life I reached out to a therapist for the first time. To my surprise I found someone locally offering walking therapy. It wasn’t something I’d ever heard of before and after a brief previous experience in a very clinical white room that I really didn’t enjoy, the idea of being out and about and on the move really appealed to me.
Since the age of 11 when we got our first dog I walked with my Dad, mostly. We would get in the car, drive to a local spot. Him always asking me “where shall we go?”. Me, usually replying, “You choose”. And then we would walk for around an hour, sometimes more, through woodland or open fields. And we’d talk, about the day, about worries, about schoolwork, about friends and as I got older about relationships, about work, about anything and everything happening in my life. It’s the place we would always do our talking and one of the only times I would share what’s really going on.
Fast forward to the recent years, and it was one of the first times in my life I didn’t have close friends or family nearby to talk to. So I began walking with the therapist and this act of walking and talking felt familiar and grounding. It was exactly what I needed. It filled a hole I only now realise was there. It was only through doing this week upon week that I realised how much a part of my life walking and talking has always been. We would meet up and walk the same route each week. Half an hour out and half an hour back along the same stretch of coast path. It became like a sort of ritual.
Whether alone or in company, walking 365 days of the year uncovering England’s web of footpaths, meandering along coast paths, winding through woodlands and along open beaches is how I’ve learnt to notice and connect to the wild world around me.
I pick seed heads mindlessly when I walk, knowing the feeling of a beech tree bud like the feeling of my own fingertips.
I roll conkers in my hands and enjoy the smooth polished surface in my palm.
I collect pocketfuls of shells and pebbles and rocks, and proudly display them at home.
I rub dock leaves on itching nettle stings.
I gorge on blackberries when the season comes.
I make nettle tea and elderflower sorbet.
I forage twigs, feathers and fibres for workshops.
I craft brushes from driftwood.
I don’t know the names of many plants or trees. But for my whole life I’ve played and touched and interacted with wild things. It’s not through books or studying that truly connects me to the land. It’s these unconscious moments that cycle through, year on year, season upon season, that without knowing tie us to a place and give us a visceral understand of the material world.
This gentle passing of the seasons has become louder with age. Each year I notice the changes more clearly than before. Another year of noticing. And I learn a little more about the flora and fauna that signals the shift. The arrival of the swallows, the fall of sycamore seeds and the sweet scent of honeysuckle. No longer drifting into my subconscious but making a gentle imprint on my conscious mind through an increased curiosity and an appreciation that’s matured with age.
It is through walking that I have learnt to value wild spaces, to cling to the meadows and appreciate the less-inhabited places that we often take for granted.
To connect to both the land and to people through the simple act of putting one foot into front of the other.
If you’d like to leave a comment I’d love to hear your thoughts and feelings about walking and what it means to you.