First Steps for the Wandering Worrier

Where to begin? If walking for well-being is the order of the day, then in many ways there is no better place than home.

Home is that safe place in terms of knowing where we are in the world. But the question to ask is, how well do you really know where you live?

As creatures of habit and through the necessity of busy lives, it would be fair to assume that many of us who like fresh air will have a standard set of routes that we will use from home. Be it the morning dog walk, the after-work destress or the weekend stroll, that sense of autopilot and being somewhat set in our ways will often lead us in the same direction. Of course, only the lucky few can stand at their doorstep and have a multitude of potential routes stretching out in front of them. Nevertheless, after consulting a map or simply showing some curiosity in terms of what road, lane or path goes where, then there are so many new possibilities out there.

I have always known that the outdoors is somewhere that I’d rather be. Whether it’s that sense of freedom, fresh air, independence, or escapism, the outdoors is my safe place. Waking up to the reality that my emotional state was in a bit of a pickle has been a challenge. That acceptance and willingness to reflect meaningfully has not been easy at times. Linking childhood experiences and learned behaviours to how I now function as an adult has felt like a steep learning curve. Nevertheless, the fog is clearing and the realisation that returning to those things that have always helped me, even if I’ve not realised it, is a big step in getting myself back on track.

With these things in mind, I have been increasingly inspired by the writing of authors such as Christopher Somerville, Stuart Maconie, Robert Mcfarlane, Tom Cox, and most recently Alastair Humphreys, to name but a few. It is Alastair’s recent book ‘Local’ that has triggered my desire to keep things close by to begin with. The premise of his book is simple in as much as he felt no real deep connection to where he lives and wanted to discover more. Once a week he chose to select one random grid square on his home-centred OS map and spend time investigating and exploring what he found. What proceeds within the book is a real deep dive into an area that struggles to, at first view, spark his imagination or wanderlust. Despite intentionally never mentioning where this book is set, it quickly became apparent that he was describing where I grew up. This corner of England is a real hinterland between urban and rural, of extreme development in the name of progress and renewal. His perspective of a place I knew so well some 40 years ago was intriguing and nostalgic in equal measure. I was always outdoors having adventures. Where roads, railways, housing, and shopping centres now sit, was my playground. I’ve not returned for many years but can still shut my eyes and be right back there. Memories that are set in concrete.

So, as a first-ever blog post, it feels fitting to lift my head, widen my gaze, and wander around my little corner of Somerset. To follow less-trodden paths and get my cogs turning.

I am an exponent of the notion that a picture paints a thousand words. With that in mind, it is very much my intention to offer photographic views and perspectives from my travels. The trusty iPhone, although something that I am trying hard to use less, is an invaluable tool in cataloguing my daily life. I’m a bugger for stopping to take photos and trying to capture moments in time.

On the morning of this wander, a glorious sunrise beamed a welcome along what is my ‘go to’ lane to walk the dog. Time and conditions conspired together to provide a guiding light and signpost for the way ahead. Flanked by ivy-strewn Blue Lias walls, (a distinctive feature around these parts) I strode on happy in the knowledge that my plan was one of local discovery and a willingness to get just a little bit lost. No map was required today.

It wasn’t long before I was presented with the opportunity to go off-piste. A weathered kissing gate accompanied to my left by signs vehemently declaring ‘Private Property’ led me to a track that immediately allowed me to unleash the dog from the shackles of her lead. A broad and satisfyingly muddy path took us both towards pastures new. Feeling glad I had gone for the wellies, I squelched on merrily through a tunnel of hazel without really knowing what might be around the corner.

Pleasingly the view opened out, enabling me to look across the wet lowland fields towards a somewhat misty view of Dundon Beacon. This is certainly one for another time, as ancient hill forts fascinate me. So often overlooked as they blend into the scenery, these places ooze history in a way that stamps their permanence into the landscape. This hill fort is forested and hides its ramparts and ditches from the casual observer, masking its past long after those who lived there left their ancestral mark. The lane below snaked in a way that drew the eye to its perspective and beckoned further investigation.

Walking into the slight unknown was an interesting thing to do, discovering potential routes and mentally making a note of other paths and tracks to discover at a later date. After a good mile of being shepherded by a newly trimmed (butchered) hedgerow, I found myself at a T-Junction and a 50/50 decision to make. Opting for left, the lane became less winding and offered a chance to climb steeply back towards the direction from which I’d come. The dog was happily oblivious to this change in incline and looked back regularly to check my whereabouts and air her frustration for my lack of pace. It was therefore timely that the lane once again levelled out and took us between two fields, offering a view of the town centre skyline ahead.

With this initial wander closing in on its final stretch, I was met with one of those sights that never fails to stop you in your tracks. It was the dog whose ears pricked first and turned my attention to a group of four deer grazing on the other side of the field. Surprisingly we remained unnoticed, as these creatures are notoriously nervy characters. I stood and stared, unmoving in an attempt to evade detection and prolong the experience. Buoyed, as ever, by being able to witness nature in its surroundings, the deer continued to do their thing and chew on what was some form of winter crop. It only took the dog to momentarily shift her attention from looking at the deer for the group, in unison, to shift their focus towards me. Our eyes met and were locked in silence for what felt like an age, but in reality, it was a mere matter of seconds. Then they were gone, expressing their freedom in a series of leaps, bounds, and mildly comical bounces before vanishing through the hedge.

Today was a dry run. A chance to open my account in terms of the challenge that I have set myself with this blog. To not just help myself, but to also allow my thoughts to permeate into some form of written account. This means stepping out of my comfort zone by doing so. I am, nonetheless, excited to explore, muse and hopefully improve my ability to write engagingly at the same time. Indeed, it has become evident that I have no set style or pathway to follow and am happy for things to adapt and flow in whichever direction it takes me. That is essentially the very essence of wandering.

Making my way back through the sleepy high street, I headed home. With boots off at the door and after the ritual chasing of the dog around with a towel before she spread mud around the house, I got to thinking. And so the Wandering Worrier begins.