Somerton and Beyond: Small Journeys to Steady the Mind.

Walking for wellbeing doesn’t require grand plans or distant horizons. Sometimes it begins by asking how well we really know the place we call home.

As creatures of habit, and through the necessity of busy lives, it’s fair to assume that many of us who like fresh air have a standard set of routes radiating out from our front door. Be it the morning dog walk, the after-work de-stress, or the weekend stroll, that sense of autopilot will often lead us in the same direction. Only the lucky few can stand at their doorstep with a multitude of options stretching out before them. Nevertheless, with a glance at a map or simply a little curiosity, countless new possibilities are waiting.

I have always known that the outdoors is where I’d rather be. Whether it’s the sense of freedom, the fresh air, the independence or the escapism, it has long been my safe place. Coming to terms with the fact that my emotional state was in a bit of a pickle has been challenging. Acceptance and a willingness to reflect meaningfully haven’t always come easily. Linking childhood experiences and learned behaviours to how I now function as an adult has felt like a steep learning curve. Still, the fog is clearing, and the realisation that returning to those things that have always helped me, whether I realised it or not, feels like a significant step towards getting back on track.

With this in mind, I’ve been increasingly inspired by the writing of authors such as Christopher Somerville, Stuart Maconie, Robert Macfarlane, Tom Cox, and more recently Alastair Humphreys. It is Humphreys’ book Local that finally tipped me into action. His premise is simple: feeling little connection to where he lived, he set out to discover it properly. Once a week, he selected a random grid square on his home-centred OS map and explored whatever he found.

What unfolds is a deep dive into a place that initially struggles to spark imagination or wanderlust. Despite never naming the location, it quickly became clear he was describing the area where I grew up. This corner of England is a hinterland, caught between urban and rural, shaped by development, progress, and renewal. Reading his perspective on a landscape I knew intimately some forty years ago was intriguing and nostalgic in equal measure. Where roads, railways, housing and shopping centres now sit was once my playground. I’ve not returned for many years, but I can still close my eyes and be right back there. Some memories are set in concrete.

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

I’m a firm believer in the notion that a picture paints a thousand words. With that in mind, it’s very much my intention to share photographic perspectives from these wanderings. The trusty iPhone, despite my efforts to use it less, remains an invaluable tool for cataloguing daily life. I’m a bugger for stopping to take photos, trying to capture moments before they slip away.

On the morning of this particular wander, a glorious sunrise beamed a welcome along my usual lane for walking the dog. Time and conditions conspired to offer a guiding light and a signpost for the way ahead. Flanked by ivy-strewn Blue Lias walls, a distinctive feature around these parts, I strode on, content in the knowledge that today’s plan was simple: local discovery and a willingness to get a little lost. No map required.

It wasn’t long before the opportunity arose to go off-piste. A weathered kissing gate, flanked by signs vehemently declaring ‘Private Property’, led onto a track that immediately allowed me to unleash the dog from the shackles of her lead. A broad, satisfyingly muddy path carried us towards pastures new. Glad of my decision to wear wellies, I squelched merrily through a tunnel of hazel, unsure of what lay around the corner.

The view soon opened out across wet lowland fields towards a misty Dundon Beacon. Ancient hill forts fascinate me. Often overlooked as they blend into the landscape, these places ooze history, stamping their permanence onto the land long after their inhabitants have gone. This one, forested, hides its ramparts and ditches from the casual observer. Below it, a snaking lane drew the eye and beckoned further exploration.

Walking into the slight unknown proved quietly satisfying. I found myself discovering potential routes, mentally bookmarking paths and tracks for another day. After a mile of being shepherded by a newly trimmed (borderline butchered) hedgerow, I reached a T-junction and a clean 50/50 decision. I chose left. The lane straightened and began to climb sharply back towards where I’d started. The dog, oblivious, kept glancing back to air her frustration at my slowing pace. Mercifully, the incline eased, and the lane slipped between two fields, opening a view of the town centre skyline ahead.

As the walk drew towards its final stretch, the landscape seemed to pause.

It was then that I encountered a sight that never fails to stop me in my tracks. It was the dog whose ears pricked first, drawing my attention to four deer grazing in the neighbouring field. Remarkably, we remained unnoticed. I stood still, hoping to prolong the moment. Buoyed by the quiet privilege of witnessing nature undisturbed, I watched as they fed on what appeared to be a winter crop.

It only took the dog to glance away. In unison, the deer lifted their heads and met my gaze. We stood locked in silence for what felt like an age, before they bounded away with a sequence of leaps and comical bounces and vanished through the hedge.

This walk was a dry run. An opening gambit. A way to help myself, but also to let my thoughts settle into written form. That, in itself, is a step beyond my comfort zone. Still, I’m excited to explore, to muse and, hopefully, improve my ability to write engagingly along the way. I have no fixed style or prescribed route, and I’m happy to let things adapt and flow wherever they lead. After all, that’s the very essence of wandering.

Boots off at the door, dog chased around the house with a towel before she redecorated the place with mud, I found myself thinking.

And so The Wandering Worrier begins.