In search of authenticity

After a couple of weeks of semi enforced day walks, I was yearning to spend a night out somewhere. I couldn't venture too far but I did want to venture somewhere where I wouldn't be too encumbered by human interaction, and where I could connect with myself again.

Heading out rather late I arrived at the start and nestling under the lee of a warm stone church I shouldered my pack, picked up my poles and began to walk, looking forward to the hours ahead. I passed a beautifully tendered cottage, a mature lady voicing good morning to me before I got a chance to say it first to her. I complimented her on her garden and cottage, of archetypal Englishness with blooms abound, bees busy and things very much in their place. Lovely indeed but I was looking for something more haphazard, to escape from rigour and routine, from discipline and structure. That said I had plotted a route to follow, a roughly 21 mile circular trip with a camp at mid point along a stand of trees with a water source nearby.

Onwards! I quickly spied the first of the trail markers I was to follow for most of the first half of the walk, a garish yellow metal sign hammered onto a footpath sign.

Feeling more comfort now I was on the walk proper I started to settle down into my stride. I felt rusty and stiff, partly after the car journey and partly because it had been a while. A farm worker cutting grass gave me a friendly wave from his tractor as I raised a pole at him; a hazard of walking with poles, these movements feel awkward, artificial. The small hills opened up their folds to me, cushions of wooded pockets hugging their periphery. I came upon Castle Farm, easy to see why it was so named with it's crenelations, although I think it was only built in the 1800's.

Skirting alongside a wood diverted me from the farm, the path seeming to go on forever as it disappeared into a green tunnel. Deeper into the wood I could smell the green dankness of sodden, slightly rotting vegetation after the recent rains we've had while the contrast of the farmland to the left of the tunnel, glimpsed through these wooded cages, seemed tantalising in bright sunlight.

I could feel myself starting to relax. Passing through a field of rare breed sheep, which breed I couldn't tell you, I laughed at their huge fleece, making them look like something you'd buy in a shop rather than a living, breathing animal. A different breed looked inquisitively at me as I passed these by in turn, and next a herd of red deer, bred for their venison although they looked too cute to eat with ears wide and alert, tails twitching. Now on the tops of the wold, I walked through a field of beans, slightly surprised to see the dome of the local radio listening tower and then the top of the Rambler's Church of All Saints. I loved the juxtaposition of seeing the top of the tower, did the bean plants know they were this tall?

I was on the edge of the escarpment at this point with a view for at least thirty miles, which steadily diminished in a dark purple haze as clouds swept towards me. I stopped at the church for a brew, using water from a topped up water butt, open to the elements but reasonably clear. The oncoming rain hastened my enjoyment as I could see I had about five minutes of dry weather left. Sorting my pack out took a little time, as I wasn't yet back in the routine of having everything in it's place, and leaving my waterproof out I remembered I had brought along a collapsible umbrella to see if hiking with one made wet weather hiking more enjoyable! The rain was suddenly upon me so I took to the rear of the church for shelter, listening to the sheep starting to bleat with some anxiousness. It hammered down as I hunkered down, enjoying the freshness and the smell of the earth.

The tail end clouds were a sorry comparison to the voluptuous rain clouds, only issuing a bit of spitting when the mood took them. Stowing one pole, using the other and the umbrella I slip-slided my way down the track into the village then through and onto the next band of hills.

I think at this point a feeling of mild disgruntledness crept in. While I enjoyed the prettiness of the villages and countryside I was in, and yes, more fine walking country I had discovered for myself, I felt a sense of weariness, that I needed to really "get away from it all". But what does that mean? I liked walking where I was, but it was just too neat and pretty and, well, I guess that's why so many hanker for the wilderness. Quite what wilderness means to people, I think, can mean quite different things. Some of you may know I've been reading some of Colin Fletcher lately. While I enjoy his prose, one of the great and perhaps unappreciated things I value is how he placed value and meaning on both doing 'hard walking' as well as finding your own space, to go somewhere and to enjoy being in it. So rather than the onus being on walking day after day, what about when you reach that idyllic spot, a place where your soul sings, and you feel as if you've come home. That I guess is what I am actually looking for. It may be a beach on Harris, it may be in the woods of Canada, it may be in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada or it might be in the deserts or in the Grand Canyon. Thankfully I am becoming more confident in that however I find my 'bliss', it is on my terms; I don't have to satisfy others' expectations of me and how they believe I should be spending my time, which people to follow or ideas to adopt. Ultimately that is one of the greatest gifts I can give myself, and maybe that is the biggest journey I made this weekend.

The remainder of my walk was a mix of ancient grassland through chalkland wolds, along the edges of woodlands and across farmland. Passages through tiny villages and hamlets dating to Roman times; I walked along High Street for a time. I appreciate the history of an area, man made or by nature. A land has it's own story, how it was used, abused, discarded, ignored. Much of the predominant, visible history in this area dates from Roman and especially medieval times, and of course many of the place names reflect the Norwegian impact that was made.

Making camp that night I felt that sense of tranquility creeping over me. I'd taken the Shangri-La1 with the nest in case of bugs, though a groundsheet would have done. Having already attached the nest before I put it up it was an easy job, and the elastic I'd added to peg out the corners meant I could use the same pegs as for the fly. Dinner outside always takes on the atmosphere of a feast, and as in my last trip to the Yorkshire Wolds, I'd taken a small pack of wine. Something different for dinner, and a benefit of only doing an overnighter, I cooked some pork meatballs in foil in the ashes of my sidewinder, while I cooked some pasta on top in the minimal amount of water I'd boiled. When the pasta was almost done, and had used up most of the water, I added a Lloyd Grossman "For One" Tomato and Mascapone sauce and gingerly added my meatballs. It was fantastic! After dinner and only 25cl wine I was more than sleepy, my body was achey from the most mileage it had done for about 9 months, and quickly I fell asleep. The blow up pillow I'd bought from the Pound Shop (yes, for £1) was great and I'm sure helped me stay asleep longer than I'd intended to!

It took a couple of cups of coffee to rouse me in the morning and unusually for me took about half an hour for my body to start to feel half alive. I ached more than I'd anticipated but felt sure I'd be fine once on my way. In the meantime bending over to strike camp I felt like a geriatric!

The weather was kind to me though, only the odd spitting shower, and I felt a little more rejuvenated in spirit if not bodily. After five or six miles my feet started to complain, especially as I had a bit of road walking to do. Using poles really helps I've found, and when I had to read the map I noticed the difference in how easily I walked, and the difference it made to my posture too. My feet really started to grumble at me so I took a breather, perched on a huge lump of concrete a farmer had put in the middle of an open gateway to a field. I sat there, feeling the blood pool in my feet, throbbing in complaint until they were fooled into thinking I'd finished. No way Jose! A bit of flapjack, though admittedly not @AstroNick's special recipe, helped a minor sugar rush sweep through my veins. I felt ready to go again. Thankfully it was a bit cooler than the day before but that still didn't stop my mouth feeling parched. I had about 500ml water left and kept an eye out for water troughs, rivulets or even churchyards I might pass through; they often have taps that people use to refill vases they place on graves.

I passed the lollipop on the hill again, with the same smell of creosote I'd had the day before, taking me back into childhood, one of those smells that stay with you, like hot tar being laid on a road. Eventually I turned onto a side road where I was entranced by the Scabious flowers on the verges, and the seedheads of umbelliferous plants, the cow parlsey and other members of the carrot and parsnip family. Their whorls contained such patterns; the contrasts between the still developing creamy white flowers on one stalk and the mature, purple seeds on another with a beautiful green backdrop on another.

Following a footpath to a very old farm I passed a broken down horse cart, half rotten, the other half gone completely. I slightly worried a hen with about 10 chicks, who all tried to hide in some long grass. Turning the corner around the edge of a barn I found a decrepit, mellow stone farm house with all it's original windows. I wasn't sure if someone still lived there or not; it looked like one of those properties where an elderly person has lived there all their lives but who can no longer keep up with it. The wooden porch and wooden framed windows all looked to be rotten, indeed the porch was dilapidated and hanging from one side. But the stone looked mellow and welcoming, and though aged and in want of some care, there was a certain warm spirit about the place.

My path led me over another bean field, a red earthen path leading through in a straight line. After the rain the clay stuck to my feet, feeling heavier and heavier, despite the lighter feeling that I knew I'd be able to take a breather soon. The next field gave me opportunity to clean my boots with the long grass, a curious striation across the field, perhaps marking the edge of a long forgotten boundary with a deeper coloured grass on the far side. More fields, more sheep, I descended over the last of my wolds, the church appearing in the valley. My feet were very sore now but my spirit refreshed, but still with a yearning for more.