Walking in the UK

Shivering from the wind and likely bronchitis, I clutched the ferry balcony railing and watched north-west France disappear as it was swallowed into night. Staring at the last squints of the cliffs of Dieppe, I pondered what I hoped to gain from this road trip across the channel.

We were figuring out our next move and wanted to see if the UK might be it. My other half and I could get visas, there was potential career advancement, and we spoke the language. But this moment of reflection solidified what had been on the tip of my brain – could we connect to the landscape?

Growing up in Australia, I connected with nature through walking in places I perceived as removed from humankind. I struggled with the liveability of a place in which humans had comparably dominated nature for so long.

Looking at the now solid black sky, I realised our trip was to find out if we could feel at home in human shaped nature.

ENGLAND 

Our first destination was the Lakes District National Park in northern England, made famous by various British writers that holidayed here or called the area home. These included authors like Beatrix Potter, who - though loved ‘wild’ nature - had always epitomised the quintessential man manicured British landscape to me.

It was Kerri Andrews’ ‘Wanderers: A History of Women Walking’, rugged portrayal of the Lakes District that had pulled me here. Her book on how female writers love of hiking had been pushed from history had inspired me to try to see the UK landscape as more than just human moulded.  

Andrews’ description of women walkers traversing across dangerous and largely unexplored mountains, forests and coastlines encapsulated the raw natural beauty I thought had long left the UK. Her description of poet and author Dorothy Wordsworth’s determined passion for walking the grey and rain swept land was particularly compelling.

Wordsworth’s account of climbing Scafell Pike - the highest mountain in England and the centre of the Lakes District - with painter and poet Mary Barker in 1818 described a scene of otherworldliness, full of smooth rock covered expanses and dramatic valleys.

This is what I found when we arrived to climb Scafell Pike. The way the mountains surrounded us from where we parked in the valley felt as though they were leaning in on us, their stature somehow reminiscent of a canyon in the Utah desert.

We hiked a less travelled path, that wasn’t really a path at all, first through farmland and then directly up at a dizzying incline before reaching ridgelines of boulders. A moon like scene of scattered shallow pools sitting in smooth rock guided us to the top, from which views of seemingly endless mountains and lakes made wilderness feel possible here.

We descended and of course found a pub at the end. Sitting next to the fireplace we watched the mountain through the rain spattered window, deciding that Scafell Pike’s undoubtably rugged beauty meant that the first foray into answering my questions was encouraging.

Next door to the pub I found a copy of The Living Mountain by writer and teacher Nan Shepard. The book is a philosophical meditation of the Cairngorms mountain range, the biggest National Park in all of the UK while accounting for one quarter of Scotland’s protected forest.

Shepard’s writing has immortalised the mountains, lochs and ‘elementals’ of the Cairngorms, its power clear when after reading a few pages I was convinced to set off for them the next day.

SCOTLAND

After a stopover in Glasgow, we headed north, quickly and increasingly feeling the isolation of Scotland as the car chugged headed towards the tip of the UK. Rolling hills spattered in stone passed by, apparently absent of homes or industry.  

Entering the Cairngorms National Park, we were greeted by burgundy mountains spotlighted yellow when streaks peaked through the clouds. After a long time driving alongside them through tourist towns, we turned right and drove through forests of pine before finally beginning the ascent up the mountain.

 In the carpark of a closed ski lift I attempted to open my door but was pushed back by the wind. I watched other hikers set-off unflinchingly – calmly stepping out from their cars, efficiently putting rain clothes on, and going on their way without looking back as wind howled sideways.

I couldn’t be the silly Australian afraid of a bit of bad weather so powered on. We walked alongside quaint green and yellow heathland and a bubbling underground stream for a beautiful, miserable, measly 45 minutes before turning around. 

Of course, back at the carpark we found a lodge with hot coffee and warmed our bones by a fireplace. I wondered if this is what the beauty of nature in the UK was all about – getting cold, wet, and windswept so you can appreciate the warmth of inside? The respite from the elements is what sticks in the mind after a day outdoors perhaps.

We drove back to the bottom of the mountain and set up by a lake. I lay in the back of the van reading Shepard’s writing, occasionally peering out our yellow and white check curtains to watch the yellow autumn pine branches dip with the wind to almost touch the lake.

Shepard described windswept open plains that she found as equally breathtaking in times of snow, drizzle and blue skies. Her love for this place made me see that it wasn’t just the respite of getting back indoors, but that ‘UKers’ see the beauty of nature in all weather and seasons.

The rain and grey accustomed to the UK make it difficult for visitors to appreciate what’s magic during these times, rather than just waiting for the spots of sunshine. While those that live here love nature for all that it is, rather than just when it’s most convenient for humans.

I kept this in mind, hoping thought would turn into feeling as we made our way back down south and boarded the ferry to Belfast.

IRELAND

We drove through Ireland in a wet blur. I tried to do as the UKers do (and ‘EUers’ as we went south), appreciating nature in all its weather. But in my Australian naivety had not thought packing our water proof pants was worth taking up the space in our tiny Renault Express. So in unrelenting rain we started some impressive hikes, only to eventually succumb to short walks here and there.

It was in this pattern that we ended up spending a day in Cork in southern Ireland. I was thrilled to find warm book shops with incredibly impressive nature writing sections. Here I bought Rebecca Solnit’s, now outdatedly named ‘Wanderlust’, a reprint of her history of walking originally published in 2000.

Among many other meditations and research on walking, the book provides context for what it has meant to walk in the UK and Ireland for the last couple hundred years. Solnit explains how ‘English gardens’ went from manicured geometric hedges admired from afar, to walls coming down in order to enjoy rambling explorations of landscape when nature became in vogue.

Solnit sees this as a transition to a democratic principle implicit in the way trees, water and land were then allowed natural contours. What followed was the working-class demanding rights to walk through land deemed private to get to work, rambling groups to escape the atrocious conditions of factories, and eventually street marches to reduce mandatory hours and days of labour.

This history guided my thoughts and conceptions as I drove up the east coast and went to Dublin. Watching the tamer countryside go by and walking through the city streets, I gained an appreciation for the power of walking, its diverse forms, as well as how this can inform how we connect or separate spaces.

HUMANS WITH NATURE

I had always been a walker when living in cities, preferring to use my feet than get a tram or train. I found it to not only be a form of meditation, but also a way to fill the spaces that connect our home, work, and play.

Solnit explores this idea when framing our modern relationship with walking, explaining how we can create a sense of place that can only be gained through walking. On foot everything stays connected, as we occupy the space between interiors the same way as the interiors themselves.

Watching UK hikers giddily ascend into sideways wind or Dublin dwellers casually walk from park through city in rain, I thought that perhaps this concept can be applied to how those that live in Ireland and the UK inhibit the spaces of both nature and human-made.

The extensive history of Western settlement here means the two are rarely found apart compared to more recently colonised places. Human and nature bleed into one another, blurring what the spaces connecting and the interiors are. UKers may love nature in all that it is -  biting cold and bright sun - in part because their separation from it isn’t as pronounced.

Sure, they’ve had to get used to the gloom. But rather than staying inside by the warm fire waiting for the moments of clear, many enjoy a walk under grey skies as much as blue, appreciating the beauty in both. Many also enjoy a walk through their cobblestone streets as much as the countryside, appreciating the beauty in both. 

So could I do as the UKers do, appreciate it all?