Walking is taking over my life. It has become my default: a source of basic enjoyment, escape and exercise all rolled into one. I’m not alone in that, of course, but the more I do it, and the more I write about it, the more it looms everywhere, like one of those things you see or hear of for the first time, and then realise that it’s been hidden in plain sight all along.
Random conversations at work somehow turn to walking, as if I’ve turned up at the office dressed ready for a hike. I go on LinkedIn, and here’s someone posting about the health benefits of walking and of being in nature – someone’s stolen my ideas and got there first. In a local bookshop, this week’s recommendations: all about walking. The middle of Lidl: walking gear on sale…
It’s probably just the spring weather – those hundred days of sunshine and all that. Most probably those promotions and recommendations and conversations happen automatically at this time of each year, and it’s only because walking has become so front of mind that I’m more conscious of them this time around.
I think there’s something more, though: walking has become a drug for me. I crave the highs of those hours outside, sometimes alone, sometimes with others, sometimes drifting, sometimes marching. When, if I’m low on energy, I can imagine the swaying heads of cow parsley lining the footpaths as the crowds of cheering spectators lining the route of a marathon or cycle race, silently roaring me on towards my goal. Or, I can take the time to enjoy the slow crawl of a hairy caterpillar, the butterflies playing tag, or the constant drone of bees – enjoying what biodiversity we have, rather than focusing too much on what’s been lost.
I try my hardest not to come off that high. I spend too much time flicking through maps, plotting journeys for the future, both near and far, drawing pictures in my mind both of places I’ve never been, and re-drawing those of places I’ve been hundreds of times before.
And then when I get out there, on a walk, or a cycle, or a paddle, or even a drive, I can enjoy the process of seeing how my version of reality matches up to actual reality.
How empty or crowded a landscape will really feel.
Where the trees will be thick enough to protect you from sudden bursts of rain, or where you’ll be left exposed, to be soaked by the rain, or burnt by the sun, sometimes in the same day.
How the light will play on the sea as the wind pushes clouds through the skies above, sometimes creating smooth slicks across the water, sometimes whipping the waves into neat corduroy patterns, sometimes turning the water a dark, almost dirty, blue, and sometimes a gleaming turquoise.
Where I’ll hear, but not be able to see, the ripple of a stream, or passing cars hidden behind hedgerows.
Sometimes these outings are underwhelming – too much time in my maps and in my imagination brings a longing for perfection that doesn’t always materialise. But more often than not, I’ll get something that I’m looking for, and I’ll have my answer ready for if someone asks me if I’ve done something exciting recently, or if I walk much – as they have done.
That without doubt the most exciting things I’ve done recently are walks, at the coast and deep in the countryside, in places I’ve been countless times before but are different and beautiful in their own ways every time I go there. And that, yes, I do walk lots, probably more than you imagine someone with a dull 9-5 job might ordinarily walk, because it does me good, and I get to see and experience the world at my pace and on my own terms.