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IAt 7:30pm on April 29th, I stood alone on the highest mountain in this area of Cornwall. The sun was shining and eager, dancing on the waves heading west to Newquay. But I was wrapped in everything I had–two pairs of thick socks, tights, pants, T-shirts, two long-sleeved T-shirts, pullovers, cardigans, jackets, scarves, hats–the wind was still blowing on it Slender fingers grabbed my spine along my neck. One degree above freezing; less than a week, Dartmoor will snow.
In fact, this is more than just a hill. This is Castle an Dinas, which is one of the fortresses of the Iron Age, and the pupils are flooded by ditches and mounds. The dog walkers who came earlier were not intimidated by ancient times: everyone made a mess of their charges and their tongues wobbly. Watching the sediment stir up something in my heart that I depress. During the four days I was on the road, the public toilet was there when needed. A threshold is about to be crossed.I’m going wild
I chose a place in one of the ditches, with good coverage and few problematic thorns. When the sun was swallowed by clouds, I used the screwdriver I brought for the mission to kneel and dig. I crossed the hillside for one last inspection, and was horrified to see a man striding towards me. Wearing his sturdy sneakers and wrap-around sunglasses, there were some teachers on his field trips, and some of my remnants felt a kind of blame. I will imitate tying shoelaces and then stuff a screwdriver into my pocket.
“Have you seen Roger’s Castle?” he said. I hesitated and looked around. We check for a yellowed sign. there is nothing. His frustration made his chin turn pink and his teeth protruded to the side. He showed me a Google picture on his phone—it was obviously a sand castle. Someone built one here on the mountain and used rough perspective techniques to make it look like a stone and turret fortress. “In the parking lot below, there is an ancient monument on it. This is very strange.”
Very, I said.
I’m not very clear yet. He went on to tell me that he uninvitedly ran a half marathon for the rhino and wrote an autobiographical novel about his travels in South Asia. He said that the pandemic is very good for sales. He urged me to buy two of his books and pay attention to the work of the third one. Then he left.
Alone, I do what needs to be done, bury it, and then set up the tent in a sanitary place. The sun broke through the bottom of the clouds and poured molten gold on the sea. It flows inland along rolling hills, illuminating some yellow and green fields, while others are black and gray. The steeple of St. Columbus is backlit in the fog. Sheep are yawning, farm machinery is yawning, wind turbines are sentry on the northern horizon, I will be there soon. I was standing in a place where the nobles of the dark ages might be standing, eating an apple, and staring at the farmers and fishermen below. I feel huge, strong, and fresh, growing from the ground. Then the hail came, making me scurry in the canvas like a frightened mouse.
Walking Land’s End to John o’Groats was not the original plan. All I want is freedom. I worked as a civil servant for three years, first in the central government’s efforts to deal with Brexit, and then in response to the new crown pneumonia after the pandemic hit. In the commotion, my colleagues are very happy and supportive, and my material environment of life has not changed. However, when I did a burnout questionnaire, I checked every box: tiredness, numbness, irritability. I am usually a stupid person. But I don’t laugh much. I am usually a creative person. But nothing happened in my mind. I feel white.
I found a respite on a long and sunny Sunday, walking from my apartment in Holloway Road, London to Hampstead Heath and surroundings, through the suburban bushes. There, I could feel my breathing slow, and my ribs released my heart. I want more. Over time, I began to study how long it would take to travel around the UK: around 15 months, it turns out. When I discussed this with a friend, he reminded me of the dance of St. Vitus, a craze that was common in medieval Europe, in which the affected people danced until they collapsed. . The American physiologist Hans Zinsser writes that its relationship with national trauma: “In addition to the pain of continuing war, political and social disintegration, it also adds to the terrible torture of inevitable, mysterious, and fatal diseases. For those who collapse under pressure, there is no escape except the inner sanctuary of insanity.”
The similarities made me pause. It may be too long to complete the whole thing. When I’m on track, life changes. My niece and nephew will be shy. My relationship with my girlfriend will die.
However, what about the end of John O’Groats’ land? Two and a half months is enough to walk 1,200 miles. This seems to be correct. When people ask why, I occasionally quote the naturalist John Muir: “There is no incurable grief on the earth.” But in fact, this line feels greasy. I am cautious about patronizing nature and having any trading expectations. Thorns and thorns do not owe me; I cannot ask for anything. But I can’t ask for anything.
All I want is freedom. There are no emails, goals, and obligations. These will only disappoint, with clear and quantifiable goals. I want to enjoy in pure freedom, walking in wild, blank spaces. If our indicators, goals, and progressive culture are more receptive to meaningless views, I might quote another naturalist, Henry David Thoreau. He wrote that creative ideas are like birds that only come to us when they have branches to settle. “If the groves in our minds are abandoned-sold to encourage unnecessary ambitions-they will no longer build or reproduce with us.” I just need to walk and roll in the swamps and bone marrow, let the trees heal, Let the birds come back. Walking has more to do with this.
I started this journey on April 26th. I spent a few weeks in a tent that was blown by the wind and frozen, and my sleep time was short. My feet are hard and old, and my hips are scarred by the weight of the backpack. I smell bad. But I feel childish, sober, and alive.
Memories are strong, rich and vivid. The exotic bays of Cornwall—South Gizal, Prussia, and Bessie—have steep caves, and hot cliff flowers stretch out into the mirrored water, bathing themselves. The woody and windy swamp of Nancegollan where I was camping for the first time: there are flamboyant pheasants everywhere, strewn with tape recorders, Sebo vacuum cleaners and a Converse. The ferocious cows near the Stithians drove me away from their calves through barbed wire and stood watching, smoking, until I moved for an hour on the high damp grass. The pure chaos of the Dartmoor sky, black rain, gray fog, blue sky and golden baby sun share the sky with the straight rainbow and pudding cloud carousel: meringue, whipped cream, Vienetta.
In most cases, it is people. When you take your time, people will be keen to talk. Not everyone is like the guy on Castle an Dinas. On a lake in Launceston, I met Steve in his fifties, who learned to fish in the same place as a teenager. When he got involved in a twisting carp, he told me that in the past year, he had lost his job as a powder painter and five of his friends: one came to the bar because of an aneurysm. This is the way he wants to go, he said, “a pint in hand”.
Others want to vent. When I cleaned up the tent at Bodmin Moor at 7.30 in the morning, the first words Ranger Miller said to me was: “You are breaking the law!” The night before was high magic, eating and drinking with two old friends, gossip, comfort and joy. , The stars dotted the icy sky. Nevertheless, as one of the two volunteer rangers, Miller in his seventies is still worried about parties, Covidiots from Plymouth, dry peat, lambs, longhorns, ponies and foals that came to greet us the night before . He asked me where I came from. I’m from Devon, I said. He did a mental calculation and thought it was almost no problem. If I say that I live in London, I am not sure if he will be satisfied.
I am now seven weeks pregnant and I can feel my body getting stronger and stronger. By June 12th, I should be in Bernays, this is the last stop in England. At a certain time every day, my mind and body are connected, and walking becomes breathing, subconscious and rhythmic. I walked my legs and back back and forth, looking for tingling. My thoughts became orderly, patient, and discrete.
I just arrived in Midlands. But soon I will climb Pennine Way, then drive west to Glasgow and West Highland Way, and then a straight northeast line from Fort William to the last one in the UK. I simply talk about the future-because I don’t want to seduce fate and sprain my ankle, but mainly because I don’t want to think about the ending. That’s too much of a purpose. This walk is not to accomplish anything. This is about the bird coming back.
“I only brought two pairs of pants”
Serious planning means difficult decisions
The great trek in the world is defined. The Camino in Spain and the Appalachian Trail in the United States are clearly marked trails with designated refuges in the middle for pilgrims to rest and share wine.
Land’s End is different to John o’Groats: there is no one way. Many people have already set foot on this land, and most people will complete it in a unique way. This flexibility attracted me, but at least without prior consideration, it was easy to walk along the A30 at dusk, wet and without hope of a bed.
First, I need a route.I subscribed Ordnance measurement application with Long Distance Walkers AssociationAmong the many charms, it provides members with the ability to download GPX files for the established paths in the UK, whether they are well-known or unknown. The difficulty lies in stitching them together.Blogs have been helpful, especially Mark Moxon’s landsendjohnogroats.info. His route became my basic skeleton, and I performed minor operations on it.
The next question is where to sleep. I started walking in late April, when most campgrounds were only open to caravans. Airbnbs are available, but expensive. This means a lot of wild camping, which is illegal in most parts of England; but I am late, stay away from sight, leave early and leave no trace, which offends some people. I learned to reduce the pressure of staring in the haze to find favorable places by searching for favorable parks or woodlands in advance on the operating system applications.
Finally, the kit. Except for the absolute necessities-bags, boots, tents, sleeping bags, anti-roll cushions-everything else is tried out during the packaging process. I leaned on the stove and found out: I will eat hot food when I have the opportunity, and snacks at other times. Other gadgets received probation: Sawyer filters to purify water, and Goal Zero Nomad solar panels to charge my phone. But without the shoulders of the Marine Corps, my backpack would not exceed 10 kg. I only brought two pairs of pants.
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