Thinking about
walking, reading about walking, writing about walking; sometimes it all gets
too much and I just want to walk. Walking as an end in itself rather than a
means to an end.
Would
it were that simple. One cannot just
walk; once you put one foot in front of the other all manner of permutations and
possibilities come into effect.
Take
last Sunday afternoon, for example. After a chilled Saturday evening in
Weymouth – and yes, I know that’s a tautology, that all Saturday evenings in
Weymouth are invariably chilled – I took a detour from the A37 and ended up in
Chetnole, a dispersed village on the southern fronds of the Blackmore Vale. It
was grey, universally and unrelentingly grey, as if all other colours had
ceased to exist. Pasture and sward a dull, green-grey, the trees a lacklustre
brown-grey, the scudding clouds a muted silver-grey; a landscape with its joie de vivre smothered under a sodden
blanket of indeterminate hue.
Enough
with the melancholy already! All I wanted was a brisk and bracing walk, to
clear the cobwebs and stretch my legs. As if it were ever going to be so simple;
no sooner had I forded the River Wriggle than reflexion set in. Isn’t it ever
thus, you build up a pace and rhythm and before you know you are, to paraphrase
Rebecca Solnit, a mind moving at four point five kilometres an hour.
But
I’d finished Ms Solnit’s Wanderlust –
for the second time – and started on a paper by Dr Tim Edensor: Walking in the British Countryside:
Reflexivity, Embodied Practices and Ways to Escape (Body & Society 2000
6:81). As Dr Edensor notes, ‘walking is informed by various performative norms
and values which produce distinct practices and dispositions’ – that bracing
stroll soon takes a moral tone and says more about you than perhaps you’d like
us to know.
As
my PhD research is intent on exploring the liberating aspects of walking –
walking as a seditious activity, walking as a theology of liberation – I have a
soft spot for the Early Romantic ramblanistas
who ‘were apt to champion specific personal qualities: detachedness, dynamism,
passion and difference from the crowd’ (Edensor 2000:89) and ‘intent on
asserting their individuality and autonomy through walking, partly as a means
of rebellion against the bourgeois norms’ (Jarvis 1997:28). Rather the dilettante
than the didactic hikers of the inter-war years whom David Matless describes as
being ‘concerned to pursue moral and physical achievement through the ‘art of
right living’, a set of working-class, leftist concerns which extol the virtues
of spartan discipline and the pleasures of hard physical exercise’ (Edensor
2000:94)’
Too
many people telling you what to do; too many walkers telling you how to walk: ‘The
body should lean slightly forward to offset the weight of the rucksack. There
is little movement of the arms and the hands are kept free. The legs are
allowed to swing in a comfortable stride.’ (Williams 1979:94)
Ah,
the hands. What the f*** to do with one’s hands? I don’t know about you but
mine go all over the place. There’s more to walking than legs and I like to
throw my whole body into the act. Indeed, last Sunday, as I negotiated a track
hemmed in and choked by scrub and brush, I was more arms than legs; emerging
from a fantastic little arboreal derive
with swathes of scratches and cuts and just a little blood. Here I’m with
Richard Sennett who writes that the ‘body comes to life when coping with
difficulty, is roused by the resistance which it experiences. Moments of
confrontation, of self-displacement, are vital to preserve openness to stimuli,
to awaken the senses, and an acceptance of impurity, difficulty and obstruction
is part of the very experience of liberty.’ (Sennett 1994:309-10)
Too
many people telling you what to do; too many walkers telling you how to walk
and the vast majority of them men of a masculine persuasion. But what does it
mean to walk like a man or walk like a woman when we’ve kicked off our brogues
and heels and shod ourselves in ubiquitous, almost unisexual hiking footwear. I
suppose I, of all people, really ought to know but to be honest it’s one of the
few areas of my life where gender doesn’t enter the equation. It’s a bit like
the way I feel when entering a church, I leave my sex and sexuality outside the
porch to become spiritually and materially amorphous. Sometimes, just
sometimes, it doesn’t matter whether you’re a man or a woman, both or something
in between.
You
get into the rhythm, get into the groove and after a while that divide – the tension
– between the walker and landscape begins to break down. After five or six
kilometres I managed to see beyond the grey, to discern a more dynamic palette of
rippling shades and gathering gloom. I’d put in the effort, enacted the ritual
and the landscape began to perform. It doesn’t always work, there’s no guarantee
it always will. Sometimes the landscape seems to hunt you down, forces you to
turn tail and run. Sometimes it seems determined to evict you from its shady
bowers and intimate nooks and crannies.
You
are the land, the land is you; we are embodied within each other and ourselves.
Doesn’t mean to say it’s always sweetness and light.
References
Rebecaa Solnit: Wanderlust Verso (2001)
Tim Edensor: Walking in the British Countryside:
Reflexivity, Embodied Practices and Ways to Escape Body & Society (2000)
Richard Sennett: Flesh and Stone Faber (1994)
David Matless: The Art of Right Living: Landscape and
Citizenship 1918-39 in Steve Pile & Nigel Thrift (eds) Mapping the Subject Routledge (1995)
Robin Jarvis: Romantic Writing and Pedestrian Travel
Macmillan (1997)
Peter Williams: Hill Walking Pelham (1979)
No comments:
Post a Comment