Walk My Way

21Jun08

On how to walk 30 k without really noticing.

The rain was pouring this morning, on the walnut tree and the wilted lilacs and the bluebells, on the windowpanes and the sparrows and the slate grey sea, and on any plans for garden work. So instead of a couple of hours of hard duty on my knees in the weeds I stayed in bed, in bed, with a book, in bed with a book and tea. The best way to do it.

The best way to do it, yes, but only for so long. After a while, appx. three cups and 10 chapters, I started to feel an itching in my feet. The pillows were to warm. And the sheets were all crumpled and crumby. It was time to get up and out. So, digging out the waterproofs and the wellingtons, my mother and I decided to brave the forces of nature and go for a quick stroll.

The quick stroll turned into something more, though, as we meandered through the mist and spray of the sea. Not a soul was out but the gulls, and as the wind died down and the rain let up slightly, we decided to make our way to my sisters newly perfected seafront house, some 15 k down the coast.

Said and done, we stalked of, and arrived some hours later, just in time for that dead hour between tea and cocktails – a dilemma solved amicably by my brother-in-law serving us both cinamon swirls and champagne as we ooed and aahed our way through their fabolous construction of sleek tile, soft wood, kitchen cupboards shutting to contented clunks and windows facing west. We spent a while discussing politics and stereo equipment, and then, just as the discusssion on the latter got a bit too heated, the sun broke trough the heavy clouds, letting ripples play on the waves and the lawn.

It was too tempting to resist: boyed up by bubbles and having given our feet a rest, we decided to decline all offers of rides and walk back. After all, if you’ve gone fifthteen you might as well go thirty, and as long as we kept a good pace we’d be back just in time for dinner…

Well, at least we started out briskly. But show me he who can hurry along a freshly scrubbed shoreline and I’ll show you a blind man. As we went on all thoughts of dinnertime was suspended, we even stopped chatting, and just looked around.

First there where heavy boughs of sweet maple and tangy growths of nettles, then there was the toffee flavoured saltstained pine forrest, and the deep purple layers of seaweed washed up and hung to dry in it. The church chimed in a small village, chalky white planes of rock jutted into the water, the silvery sheep slipping on crushed shells, another village was too small even for a church but where a big-bellied fisherman with a deep cough rowed a dinghy, his boat very like one in the flock of swans or one of the sleepy creamy cows, deep in mud and churning green grass. There were creaky gates to keep things in and steep ascents that gave us a view of the bay, a stream to jump over, a pool of red poppies spilled in a field of rape, and though our feet ached, it was only for the last few kilometers of elderflower and jasmin and white roses over a base note of dry grass we felt any real hunger.

We arrived sated but starving, threw together dinner – liver florentine, new potatoes, cucumber salad, glass of red – and sunk onto the wooden chairs as if they were softly cushioned sofas, and I plan to spend the evening in bed, in bed with a book, in bed with a book and tea will be the sweetest of reliefs.

Tomorrow will start the morning with a quick stroll down the harbour. And maybe do a little bit northward. Nothing much. Just a few k, into town for some bread maybe. A picknick breakfast, perhaps. On a cliff.

Filed under: The Great Outdoors: Hiking, Bathing, Scenery   |  Leave a Comment
Tags: bed, book, champagne, east coast, garden, liver, rain, roses, spinnach, tea, walking