Walking Commentary
Thoughts while waiting to walk from Manchester to Rome in 2022
I was sitting by a window, rereading some of the short chapters that make The Hidden Life of Trees so easy to follow and enjoy. It had been raining hard throughout the night. The term ‘pelting’ had come to my sleepy mind as gusts of wind drove the raindrops onto our windows, sounding like the huge hail that sometimes makes us doubt the strength of glass.
I had a bad few days recently. But first, since I’m not qualified to have opinions on why my days were so bad, here are a few weasel words.
Caveat emptor: my musings may not be complete let alone correct.
The full story starts with a fear of failure. It starts with the worry that my attempts to manage my cholesterol with diet were failing. It ended with a realisation that I wasn’t able to finish any of my daily journals.
This isn’t a recipe for a ten leaf salad. It’s just a list of the potential ingredients. It’s what I like to eat after a thirty or forty kilometre hill walk. I’m usually tired and hungry enough that I become lazy, estimating the quantities by bags, half bags or handfuls. I chuck them all into a large mixing bowl, calories uncounted and if eating alone, I eat it all from the same bowl.
Our media are showing restaurants and bars, cinemas and sports. There is an emphasis on we are missing. On the face of it, the global media appear to be pandering to and reinforcing our anxieties.
It’s nearly the end of October and Ireland is back in lockdown. Our 14 day averaged national infection rate has risen to over 300. Our island is divided and the north of the island is reported within the UK national rate which is over 400. But the daily rate of infection (per head) north of the border has been four times higher than that to the south. So I guess the contrast across that border should be a source of concern for health professionals. Yet, the island politics of peace agreements and an imminent divorce has implications for border patrols and isolationist if not exclusionist travel policies.
The global inconsistencies of healthcare reporting make it really hard for the lay observer to know what is happening both locally and at large. You’d have thought the opposite would be true after eight months of ‘concerted’ effort.
Once upon a time, there was a truth to be seen while walking along The Ridgeway among hills in Wiltshire. Night wasn’t falling at all. It was rising. The darkness filled the valleys from the floor up. Another time, after walking 35 km from the White Horse at Uffington, I was collected by my friend who lived locally and told me that everyone knew mobile phones don’t work reliably along the ley lines. Had I only known of the ancient ley lines when I got to Avebury?
