But I used to be a pretty good walker. To me, walking was simple, required little effort and allowed the brain to wander. It is best summed up in the Willie Dixon Song Walking the Blues. Part of me urges you to read no further but just listen to the link and chill. You can of course do both.
In 1982 I walked down the Grand Canyon and more importantly up again in a day, a round trip of about twenty miles. A few years before that, I walked the Lyke Wake walk, a trip of 40 miles from Osmotherly to Ravenscar. That too was done in a day and all I remember is the pain, rain-swept moors and sheep. Winding down, a little later I walked from Liverpool to Preston in a day for a bet. 4
This preamble is not so much boasting but regret for things past. Since Christmas, I’ve suffered from severe muscle inflammation, a by-product of —so far —very effective treatment; so no complaints there, just as I said, a sense of regret for what I can no longer do.
Since Christmas, there have been trips and adventures here and there, but most of my days are limited to getting up and either sitting in front of a computer screen or sitting here in front of a window with tantalising views.
In other words, I’ve become alarmingly sedentary with a view that all the time reminds me of what I’m missing.
In the picture above, the ridge, barely discernible in the foliage, offers brilliant walking. In the dark mornings of winter sans foliage,——
It offers tantalising glimpses of dancing lights—early morning runners with head-torches, though I like to think them goblins up to no good. In summer, if you walk up there, you can find yourself in an ocean of yellow, distant meadows and trees.
If that doesn’t grab your fancy, you can walk the lane instead which winds its way between England and Wales. It winds east and west, up and down, and every approaching turn tempts you to walk on to see what’s around the corner. En-route, there’s a shed that never seems to be in the same place twice. And then at last, you arrive at a natural resting place where once otters were seen playing, unfortunately not by us, though I live in hope.
If you walk that same lane in the other direction you pass Vauxhall Fields just before entering Monmouth.
On November 25th, 1233 (St Catherine’s Day) a great battle took place there between the forces of Henry III. The rebels, led by the Earl of Pembroke, lured the royal garrison out of the castle and slaughtered them.
These photos were taken in November. In the peace and mist it may be hard to imagine the violence that took place in those same fields. At the same time, with a squint and a slant of the head, it is quite easy to imagine it.
And why am I rambling on such things. Recently I’ve been able to move more easily, last week walking three miles to the ‘viewing spot’ and back.
All in training for a Liverpool pub crawl (crawl perhaps being the operative term) in a fortnight’s time with two new American friends. It took some arm twisting but after two seconds thought, I agreed.
Who knows, there may be a blog post in it somewhere.
2 comments:
re: pub crawl
Every good athlete knows you have to train before a competition. How's your drinking stamina? I already know you'd drink me under the table. LOL!
I can commiserate on your regret for things we used to do. My once nimble hands are more like little planks of splintered wood held together by bandages and splints.
I'm impressed by how much you can walk even now. Good on you!
All we can do is keep going.
That’s a wonderfully graphic description of your fingers, Maria, and as you suggest, keep on going is all we can do😎 A side issue, I hope you enjoyed the Willie Dixon track.
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