It’s as inevitable as
it is ironic: since embarking on a PhD research project looking at, amongst
related themes, walking and landscape phenomenology, I’ve spent more time reading
and writing about walking than engaging in the act of walking itself. There’s
been times when I’ve been worried I’ve my priorities all wrong but returning to
academia after a break of thirteen years was always going to take its toll and
November and December seem to be the best months to hibernate behind a laptop
and a girt, humungous pile of books.
But
the project has legs, literally and metaphorically. In June I’ll be back on the
Camino(s) and in August I plan to walk the first half of Hungary’s Blue Trail; before
then I intend to walk to the 100 km to school (aka Exeter University) because I’m
tired of making the journey by car. All well and good but for a while there’s
been something troubling me about this modus
perambulare: the linear walk.
Not
that there’s anything intrinsically wrong in walking the line. We might think
of it as a phenomenological transect, an arbitrary but systematic sampling of
the landscape which, in the case of the Camino
Francés, leads us over mountains and Meseta, through cities and suburbs and
pitches us into the thick of the pilgrim experience: we have the human, the
physical and the spiritual, all rolled into one.
But
it struck me, crossing the Meseta and gazing lovingly at the Cordillera
Cantábrica, some 100 km to the north, that walking the line has its
limitations. The trajectory of the path dictates and dominates, the hiker becomes
its passive victim; we see only what it wants us to see, and from its
perspective.
But
the circle serves us little better, nor the figure of eight. If I walk the
perimeter(s) I never get close to the centre; the path keeps us at a distance –
never the twain shall meet. True, there’s a greater variety of perspective but the
hub remains infuriatingly elusive and all the while I want to get intimate: up
close and personal.
So
in between walking the lines I’m going to move in ever-decreasing circles – in spirals,
to be precise; starting on the outside and moving inwards until I reach – or rather,
until I want or I’m ready to reach – the centre. The plan is to experiment by
applying the theory to the market towns of Somerset and Dorset: their innards
and outskirts; their good, their good, their bad and their downright ugly – because,
surprise, surprise, not all is bucolically rosy amongst the rolling pastures and
quaint quarters of Wessex.
Moving
inwards, not just literally but metaphorically, too. An exploration of internal
and emotional geographies, landscapes of the mind and the soul. Trying to work
out where and when this infatuation with the Wessex landscape began where it
might eventually take me. What happens when, like a lover, I get to know it too
well; when we begin to bore one another and spend more and more time apart.
When we finally come to blows and one of us packs our bags and walks away. And
where better to start than the place I now call home: the cathedral city of
Wells.
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