The Guardian Weekend | 27 February 2021 The Guardian Weekend | 27 February 2021 21 21There are lots of things about the British I do not understand: the national
compulsion to clap along, in unison but off the beat, to any music; Mr
Blobby’s Christmas N o 1 ; the use of “quite nice” to mean “really not very nice
at all”; bread sauce. Being a Canadian living in this country is a never-ending
cycle of getting confused, asking for clarifi cation, understanding, and then
ending up somehow more confused.
In the heady days of our bubbled summer of 2020, when such a thing was
possible, I went on holiday to Sussex with my Canadian partner and three of
our oldest friends, all Brits. Having met in our early 20s, we had always been
too broke to holiday together. Now we were in our 30s and affl uent enough to
split a cottage fi ve ways for four nights; this was a landmark moment. Look,
I could spend a lot of time setting the scene, or cut to the chase and tell you
that we were there for fi ve days and went on long, aimless walks every single
day. This was how I discovered the British Walking Sickness.
I had always thought I was all right about walking – liked it, even. But what
I understand, after almost a full year of rotating lockdowns, during which
I have gone on a little mental health stroll almost daily, is that I actually
just like having somewhere to be, and walking is often the nicest way to get
there. Touring a new city on foot? A joy. Walking to the bus in the mornings?
A lovely private moment before the day’s work begins. Strolling to dinner
with a friend on a summer evening? I can think of nothing better. But
joylessly trudging around the same bit of my neighbourhood, for the fourth
day in a row, in the interests of scavenging a crumb of mental health? Thanks,
but no. The other day, on one such trudge, I saw a woman fi nish a lap of the
park, then turn to her friend and suggest, audibly bored, “What do you think,
should we have a go round the cemetery?” That is how destination-free
walking feels to me: going around a cemetery for no reason.
It is precisely this kind of aimless wandering that my friends – and, I have
come to understand, a great number of their countrymen and women besides
- considered a key draw of our holiday. I have known these men for a decade,
and had no idea the mere act of renting a cottage would turn them all into
Tennysons. The rumblings had begun in the car, when several mentioned
some “popular walks” they had “read about” in the “area”. No sooner had we
put down our bags and had a welcome G&T than we were off , the fi ve of us
simply picking a direction , the forecast of heavy thunderstorms be damned.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “On a walk!” they replied.
The days passed in a fl urry of walks, on all of which I wore the wrong
shoes: a half- hour jaunt on a public footpath across a gated, excrement-
riddled fi eld; an hour’s tour of a birdless bird sanctuary we discovered on the
drive home; an off -piste ramble through the tall, dry grasses surrounding
a stately home. To me, a holiday is best defi ned as “woman lies down in
the sun with wine and a book, gets up four to seven days later ”. But my
travelling companions felt diff erently, using the time we were not actively
on walks to discuss and plan more walks. They were men possessed: a walk
could start any time, anywhere. One moment you were simply walking, the
next you were “on a walk”. Unlike a hike, which involves the stimulation
of challenging terrain or a fi nal destination , walks were aimless, unguided,
unending. Nobody was in charge, we were headed nowhere. Sometimes
there were animals or interesting leaves, but they were not the goal. The goal
was only to be walking, or to make sure a walk was being planned. At one
point we got into the car and drove – I hoped to some kind of non-walking
activity, but we were merely seeking out new, f urther- fl ung places to walk
around. There was no destination, only journey.
I believe I can blame the Romantic poets for my friends’ ambulatory
frenzies. Wordsworth, Keats and their contemporaries’ fondness for walking
was matched only by their passion for writing about it, beginning a tradition
of walking literature carried on by Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens,
Nan Shepherd and others, which continues to this day. (The Guardian
published 14 diff erent pieces about walking in January alone.) Perhaps as
a result of these paeans, walking has become what wild swimming is to
a particular kind of British woman: a spiritually important activity, in which
everyone should take part. Failure to enjoy it takes on a moral tinge. But just
as I have never had a profound awakening at the Hampstead Heath ladies’
pond in London, neither do I suspect I will fi nd one tr amping through →
Rambling on: walkers on
the South Downs on the
joy of getting out and aboutLaura, 40, with Justin, 43, Hattie, 8,
and Jackson, 9, near Ansty (top)
We’re a “put our wellies on and go for
a stomp” type of family, but we’ve
especially needed it during lockdown.
The Downs are on our doorstep, so
when the weather’s good we’re out
pretty much every day. Sometimes
the kids are up and r aring to start
home schooling at 7am, which can
be slightly horrendous. But it does
mean we’re fi nished by lunch time,
so can pack a picnic and go. At fi rst
the kids would moan, but they’ve
come to see it as a treat and are
itching to get out. We’ve two new
additions to our family: twins born
earlier this month. As soon as it’s
warmer, we’ll be throwing them on
our backs and taking them with us.Abel, 37, on Ditchling Beacon (above)
I work in IT for the NHS, so I’m
mostly working from home at
the moment. I live alone in a one-
bedroom fl at without any garden,
so the fi rst lockdown was very
limiting, only being allowed out
for an hour a day. Gradually I’ve
found myself exploring my area
more and discovering new places.
I hadn’t realised there was a nature
reserve about fi ve minutes away ,
and now I go pretty much every
day. You sometimes take what’s
right in front of you for granted.
Having a walk is a great way to clear
your head, and provides a bit of
escapism. Lockdown has made me
realise that I enjoy walking more
than I thought I did. I’d defi nitely
like to keep it up.Previous pages: walkers at Beacon
Hill nature reserve, Rottingdean